"Does it hurt?"

"What? Dreaming?"

"Yes."

"No. Not unless you let it."

"If I want it to . . . ?"

"I suppose . . .  it can hurt you as much as you like. It can be whatever you make it."

"My mother used to say that to me as a child. About life. 'It can be whatever you make it.'" She laughs weakly. Her cheeks flush pink, small flowers up-thrusting in the dead garden of her skin. "She stopped after the first time  . . ."

"The first time?"

"That the cancer tried to take me." Her hand moves on the pillow. So pale against the dyed fabric. Everything beneath her is silk, soft and supple against her fragile skin. The lamp in the corner is a dying coal.

"Maybe you'll beat it this time too."

"That's kind of you to say, but I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"It wants more from me. It won't be appeased by such a simple sacrifice this time."

"You make it sound like it is alive."

"Isn't it? It is eating me."

"That isn't a very scientific phrase. I doubt that is what your doctors tell you."

"My doctors are terrified. They're afraid it will eat them too."

"Carnivorous parasitic cancer. Is that what it is?"

She nods. "You should be careful."

I touch her hand. Her fingers twitch, both straining for and avoiding my touch. "I will be, Nora."