Page 45 of Rhythm and Rapture

I can't call him. Can't be the friend who ruins his moment of triumph with my tragedy.

But then I picture Kael that morning, drowsy from pain meds, asking if I could bring his dinosaur pajamas from home. "The T-Rex ones, Mama. They're brave."

Three years old and fighting something that would terrify a grown adult. That terrifies me. If he can fight, then so will I.

My thumb hits call before I can stop myself. The phone rings once, twice—it's 2 AM where he is, I realize with fresh guilt?—

"Sab?" He answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"

The familiar sound of his voice makes the words stick in my throat. I can't do this. I can't?—

"Sabina. Talk to me."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know it's late. I know you've spoken to me every time I call you. I know you're on tour. I shouldn't have?—"

"Sabina." His voice cuts through my spiral, firm but gentle. "Breathe."

But I can't. The air won't come. My chest is too tight, the walls closing in. I slide down the waiting room wall, phone pressed to my ear, gasping like a fish out of water.

"Sab, listen to me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Come on, with me."

I can hear him breathing slowly, deliberately, and somewhere in Portland or Seattle or wherever Grimoire is playing tonight, my best friend is coaching me through a panic attack from a hotel room.

"That's it. Again. In for four..."

It takes five minutes before I can speak without gasping. Five minutes of Kade's steady voice, of him sacrificing sleep before a show, because he's been on the phone with me almost non-stop.

"The finance department cannot come through, Kade. Kael needs surgery," I finally manage, words slurring and raw. "The tumor's pressing against—" My voice cracks. I'm so grateful he already knows all of this, and yet the word vomit bursts out, ugly and relentless, my tears warping everything into a slurry of sounds. "It's been growing while I thought he had the fucking flu, Kade. I thought he was just tired from preschool. But it was reduced blood flow. What kind of mother am I?"

"Stop it. Do you hear me?" His voice is sharp, almost a snap. "This isn't your fault. Not even a little." And then, softer, "You know that, right?"

I try to nod, but it comes out as another strangled sob.

"They want forty-seven thousand up front," I gasp. "Insurance is 'processing' but the tumor could compromise his kidney function and—" My throat closes. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sab, listen to me. Don't talk, just listen," he says, every syllable like a lifeline. "Do you remember freshman year when I was so broke I was stealing protein bars from the campus market?"

"That's different?—"

"You fed me for three months. Bought my textbooks. Never asked for anything back. Never made me feel like I owed you. So shut up and send me the fucking wire information."

"I'm asking for too much. This is your dream, Kade. Grimoire just got the advance?—"

"My dream includes my nephew surviving cancer," he says, as if that's the most obvious thing in the world. "Wire info, Sabina. Now."

The sob that escapes me comes from somewhere deep, somewhere I've been holding together with duct tape and desperation.

"He's so small, Kade. There's this thing inside him, growing, and I couldn't protect him from it."

"I know. But he's tough. He's got you."

"I can't lose him, Kade. What if?—"

"No what-ifs. Treatment first, worry later. Let me help." I hear his voice break and I realize that just like me, he's picturing Kael. The kid who calls him Uncle Kade on FaceTime, who insists on showing him every new dinosaur fact he learns, who fell asleep on Kade's shoulder last Thanksgiving while Grimoirepracticed in my garage. This isn't just my loss to face—it's his too. Kael is the closest thing to family either of us has left.

"You love him too," I whisper.

"Of course I do. He's my nephew in every way that matters. So stop trying to protect me from this and let me help save him."

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