Chapter 3
The infusion room at Memorial Hospital was designed to feel less clinical—plush recliners instead of beds, warm lighting instead of fluorescents, and windows overlooking a small garden. But nothing could disguise the plastic bags of chemicals dripping into my veins or the nauseating smell of antiseptic that clung to everything.
"How are you holding up today, Ms. Harris?"
I looked up to find a pair of kind gray eyes studying me with professional concern. Dr. Erik Wagner was not my usual oncologist. According to the nurse, Dr. Reynolds was out for a family emergency, and Dr. Wagner had taken over his cases.
"About as well as anyone getting poison pumped into them," I answered, attempting a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
Instead of the perfunctory nod I expected, Dr. Wagner pulled up a stool beside me. "Chemotherapy does feel that way sometimes. Mind if I sit with you for a moment?"
Something in his quiet attentiveness broke through the defensive wall I'd been building. Before I could stop myself, tears welled up.
"It's not just the chemo," I admitted. "My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—he..."
"You don't have to explain," Dr. Wagner said, handing me a tissue from his pocket. "But sometimes it helps to talk to someone who isn't involved."
So I told him—about Liam, about Monica, about the canceled credit card and the "substitute" comment. About facing cancer alone after planning a future with someone who had already replaced me. Dr. Wagner listened without interruption, his expression shifting between compassion and something harder to define.
"That's a tremendous amount to process alongside your diagnosis," he said finally. "Do you have support? Family? Friends?"
"My friend Sarah. She's letting me stay with her until I figure things out."
"Good. You shouldn't be alone through this." He glanced at my chart. "Your blood work is concerning. We need to monitor you closely. I'd like to see you twice weekly."
For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt truly seen—not as a problem to be solved or a burden to be carried, but as a person worth caring about.
Three treatments later, Dr. Wagner had become a steady presence—checking my vitals personally, explaining side effects with patience, and sometimes just sitting quietly while the chemicals did their work. He'd ask about my day, recommend books that might distract me, and once even brought me chamomile tea when I mentioned trouble sleeping.
"You don't do this for all your patients," I observed one afternoon.
"Some need more support than others," he answered simply.
I was contemplating this when a familiar voice sent ice through my veins.
"Shelby, what a coincidence!"
Monica Tucker stood in the doorway, one manicured hand clutching Evan's shoulder. The boy looked uncomfortable, fidgeting under his mother's grip.
"Monica," I said, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I looked—pale, thinned by treatment, attached to an IV pole. "What are you doing here?"
"Evan's school physical," she answered, steering the boy closer. "We had no idea you'd be here." The lie was transparent in her predatory smile.
"This is a chemotherapy unit," I pointed out. "Not pediatrics."
Monica's eyes narrowed slightly. "We got turned around. This hospital is so confusing, isn't it, Evan?"
The boy nodded, but his eyes darted nervously around the room.
"Don't get too close," Monica told him loudly. "We don't want to disturb Ms. Harris. She looks... unstable."
I noticed then that Monica was holding her phone at an odd angle—recording. This wasn't a coincidence. This was a setup.
"Is there a problem here?" Dr. Wagner's voice cut through the tension as he approached from behind Monica. "This is a treatment area. Only patients and authorized personnel are allowed."
Monica turned, clearly startled by his authoritative tone. "We were just saying hello to a family friend."
"Ms. Harris needs rest, not visitors," he replied, his voice polite but firm. "The pediatric wing is in the east building."
Monica's smile faltered. "Of course, Doctor. Come on, Evan." She tugged the boy's hand, but not before I saw her slip the phone into her purse.
After they left, Dr. Wagner checked my pulse. "Your heart rate is elevated. Do you need a moment?"
"She's planning something," I whispered. "That wasn't an accident."
"I'll make a note in your file. No visitors without prior approval." His hand rested briefly on mine—warm, steady. "You're safe here, Shelby."
I wasn't sure I believed him, but for that moment, I let myself feel protected.
Two days later, Liam called. "We're going to Aspen this weekend. I want you to come."
"What? Why would I—"
"For closure," he interrupted. "We ended things badly. I owe you that much."
"Liam, I'm in treatment. I can't just—"
"It's important, Shelby. Please. For old times' sake."
Against every instinct, I found myself agreeing. Maybe it was the loneliness of Sarah's empty apartment or the desperate hope that Liam might finally acknowledge what we had been real. Whatever the reason, I was walking into Monica's next trap with my eyes wide open.
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