I injected my voice with tones of anxiety and concern, even though those feelings didn’t quite reach my face. “What did the doctor say, then? Have you gotten a report yet?” After a pause, he sighed theatrically. “The doctor says I should prepare for surgery, as soon as possible. After that, chemotherapy might also be needed. The estimated bills for surgery and hospitalization… it comes up to an incredible figure…” And then he stopped, waiting for me to step in here—to volunteer something. He was waiting for me to offer up bold promises about stopping at nothing to make sure he was cured, even if it meant selling my house, my car… I scowled to myself, and then began wailing in feigned anguish, sobbing incoherently, barely able to draw breath in ragged gasps. Ultimately, he was the one who had to console me instead, in spite of himself. The conversation wasn’t going the way he wanted. Soon, he made up some reason to end the call. I put my handphone away, and dismissed the
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