Harper's hands were shaking so badly that they had to sit down. The chair scraped against the linoleum floor with a sound that seemed too loud, too final. Marcus stood by the kitchen counter with his phone still in hand, waiting with the patience of someone who knew they'd already won the argument.

"I can't," Harper said. "Not tonight. Not like this."

"You can," Marcus said gently. "You're just scared. Those aren't the same thing."

Harper covered their face with their hands. The pressure behind their eyes felt immense, like something was trying to claw its way out. They'd spent the entire drive home holding it together, and now Marcus was asking them to crack open in front of their family, to say the words out loud to the people who had always seen Harper as the competent one, the reliable one, the one who fixed things.

Their mother had called twice this week asking how the appointment went. Harper had let both calls go to voicemail.

"I don't know what to say to them," Harper whispered.

"You say what you told me," Marcus said. "The truth. The whole thing. The diagnosis, the surgery, the isolation, the fear. All of it."

Harper dropped their hands and looked at Marcus. His expression was serious but not unkind. This was the Marcus who'd held Harper's hand in the emergency room when Harper's father had a heart attack five years ago. The Marcus who showed up at three in the morning when Harper's ex had gotten ugly during a breakup. The Marcus who understood that sometimes love meant pushing someone toward something they were terrified of.

"If I call them now," Harper said slowly, "it becomes real. Right now, it's still something that happened at a doctor's office. Something abstract. Once I tell them, it's real. It's happening."

"It's already happening," Marcus said quietly. "The only thing you're deciding is whether you face it alone or with people who love you."

Harper stood up and walked to the bedroom, Marcus following at a respectful distance. Harper sat on the edge of the bed, the same bed where they'd slept through countless nights without worrying about metabolic cascades or organ involvement or isolation protocols. The mattress dipped under their weight.

Marcus sat beside them, not touching, just present.

Harper reached for their phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with notifications—text messages from coworkers asking about the appointment, an email from the surgical center's scheduling department, a reminder from the electrical supply company about an outstanding order. The normal debris of a normal life that was about to become very abnormal.

Harper's finger hovered over their mother's contact. Rosa Romero, who had raised Harper and their older sister on a nurse's salary after their father died. Rosa, who'd always had an opinion about Harper's life choices but had also always shown up. Rosa, who deserved to hear this from Harper directly, not through some chain of family gossip.

Harper's finger trembled as they pressed call.

The phone rang once. Twice. On the third ring, their mother answered.

"Mijo? Is everything okay? You didn't call me back." Rosa's voice carried the particular texture of maternal concern—that blend of love and exasperation that had been the soundtrack to Harper's entire life.

Harper opened their mouth. Closed it. The silence stretched between them like a chasm.

"Mom," Harper said finally. "I need to tell you something about my appointment today. And I need you to listen without interrupting until I'm done."

Marcus squeezed Harper's shoulder once, then quietly left the room, pulling the door mostly shut behind him. Harper heard the television turn on in the living room—Marcus giving Harper privacy while staying close enough that they weren't truly alone.

"I'm listening," Rosa said, and Harper could hear the shift in her voice, the way a mother's instinct recognizes when the world has tilted on its axis.

Harper took a breath and began to speak.