Instead, the first line read:
Mark, before you tell them I disappeared completely, count how many months I’ve been gone.
Weeks, Not Months
I sat down at the kitchen table and kept reading.
I have stage-four pancreatic cancer. My doctors believe I have weeks, not months. I know how that sounds. I am not asking you to feel sorry for me. I gave up any right to that a long time ago.
I read the sentence twice. I waited to feel something – triumph, grief, pity. What I felt was mostly exhaustion, as if someone had handed me one more heavy thing to carry after I’d finally set the last one down.
Then came the line that made the room go quiet.
The boxes are not gifts. They’re receipts.
Open yours first. There is a fourth box. Check the van.
I ran out the front door. The courier was still parked at the curb, filling out paperwork on a clipboard. When I asked, he frowned, then leaned across to the passenger seat.
