Page 196 of The Dixon Rule

Dying.

The word lingers in my head. It thuds inside it. Like a drum beat. Dying, dying, dying. My dad is dying.

Mom keeps talking. She says Dad went in for a checkup when the pain persisted. The doctors ran a bunch of tests, and then—surprise. Stage four pancreatic cancer. It’s metastasized. Spread beyond Dad’s pancreas.

“So what are we doing?” I ask hoarsely. “What can we do?”

“All we can do is manage the symptoms.” She reaches for my hand again. Our fingers are frozen. We’re like two ice cubes touching each other. “Sweetheart, we’re talking end-of-life care here. We don’t even have time to prep the house for home hospice, so he’ll be here until…” She trails off.

“Hospice?” I echo with a strangled groan. “It’s that serious?”

She nods.

How is this happening? And why is it happening to him? My father is the best man I know. He puts everyone else first. His kids. His wife. His employees. Even strangers he meets on the street.

Fuck cancer. Fuck this thing that’s trying to steal my dad. I refuse to believe there’s nothing that can be done.

“There has to be something,” I say out loud.

“There isn’t. It’s in his organs. It’s widespread.” She lets out a ragged breath. “The oncologist gave him a few days.”

I stare at her in shock. Anger rises up again.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us earlier?”

“Because he didn’t want to,” she maintains, her tone firm. “He didn’t want his kids to know that he was dying. He didn’t want you to treat him any differently. He didn’t—”

“No, I’ve heard enough.” I stand abruptly. “I want to go see my father.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

SHANE

The bad stuff

MOM BRINGS ME UPSTAIRS TO THE CANCER WARD. WE STOP IN THE waiting room, briefly, so I can see my sister. Maryanne rushes up to me and hugs me tight. She’s not crying, but she looks afraid as she tilts her head to peer at me.

“Daddy’s going to die,” she says, and I almost break down in tears.

“I know,” I tell her, kneeling to hug her again. “I’ll be right back, squirt, ’kay?”

Mom leads me down the corridor and stops in front of a closed door. “This is him. I’ll give you some time alone.”

Nodding, I push open the door. The room is white and sterile, filled with a hum of machines punctuated by occasional beeps and the muffled sounds of footsteps from the hall. The blinds are closed, and the fluorescent lighting instantly hurts my eyes.

I force myself to focus on the bed. On my father lying in it.

I can’t believe I saw him only a few days ago. He has dark circles under his eyes now. The lines on his face, etched by years of laughter, appear deeper now. It looks like he’s lost fifty pounds overnight.

How on earth did this happen? How did he deteriorate so fast?

“Hey, kid.” His voice, although soft, doesn’t waver. He sounds the way he always sounds. Like my dad.

“You should have told me,” I say dully.

I stop at the foot of the bed. I can’t bring myself to go to the chair at his bedside. I glance at his hands, his arms, the IVs, and the tubes. Mom said he’s on a lot of painkillers, but his eyes are alert.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

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