Second Opinion

Bob stared up at Dr. Hamilton in disbelief. Then he scrubbed a hand over the bruises on his arm self-consciously. “What? No - the tests are probably wrong. These bruises - my brothers and I all do karate, and we rough-house a lot. I’ve just been tired, and with all the flying we do, changes in elevation often lead to nosebleeds --”

Dr. Hamilton smiled gently and placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right - this form of leukemia is entirely treatable, and you have the advantage of a twin brother for a bone marrow transplant. Some of the treatments might be painful, but there’s no reason you can’t live a full and energetic life. You’ll be able to make music for years --”

Bob shrugged the doctor’s hand aside and backed toward the door. “No. You’re wrong. I’m fine. I’m completely and utterly fine. Shelley’s just being overly-protective. Sometimes I think she overcompensates because she’s not our real mom.” He attempted to smile, but the expression turned bitter midway through. “I’m going now.”

Dr. Hamilton caught Bob’s wrist before he could touch the doorknob. “Robert, I’ve known you since you were two years old. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I ran the tests myself. Twice. And you have leukemia.”

Bob jerked free and whirled around. His dark eyes sparked with fury. “Stop saying that! Why are you lying to me? I am completely and utterly one-hundred-percent as healthy as a horse.”

“Bob, you’re in denial, it’s the first stage of grief --”

“Grief? Who said anything about grief? Nobody died. And I’m certainly not going to die.” Bob tugged the door open. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Hamilton, but I’d like to get a second opinion.”



Dr. Hamilton’s expression was pained. “Bob, please --”

The world went white. Just before Bob hit the floor, it occurred to him that maybe Dr. Hamilton was right.

(319 words)