“Did you tell anyone she wanted to stop treatment?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Then:
“Did you use her full name?”
“Yes.”
“Hospital?”
“No.”
“Diagnosis?”
“Just cancer.”
“Photos?”
“Only old ones she had already posted.”
Still not enough.
He was fourteen.
He had done something generous and dangerous at the same time.
That was the difficult truth.
I took his hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His face crumpled.
“Because you’d make me stop.”
That hurt.
Not because he was wrong.
I probably would have.
“I was trying to help.”
“I know.”
“No,