Borrowed Time

I pack the last of my belongings into the red duffle and fling it into the back of Scott’s ancient Jeep.

“We’re doing it.” I grin, my eyes large with excitement.

And I won’t be coming back.

“California and Oregon, here we come,” he exclaims.

On the day he asked if my cancer had returned; I couldn’t tell him the truth. My only goal now is to live near the beach and bask in the winter sun the Midwest never sees. As we drive west, Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” blares and I close my eyes living on borrowed time.

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