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LUDWIG GETS RIGHT TO it, telling me that the chemo hasn’t worked the way they’d hoped it would, which means that my prognosis hasn’t changed.

The only thing that has changed is the size of the metastasized tumor in my neck.

The pictures they took yesterday show that it’s bigger, not smaller.

Not what any of us were looking for, or even close.

I know what Ludwig is really telling me: that barring a Fiona-like miracle, I am still at four months, or thereabouts, and counting. Give or take a few precious days. Or weeks.

My mind wanders back to the old line about how what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Unless of course it does kill you.

But even in here, even with what Dr. Ludwig has just told me, I’m still crazy enough to be thinking about the upcoming trial, and if I might be able to make it through a fast one.

I haven’t told Ludwig about my client being charged with another triple homicide, and the speedy court date that I myself have requested.

I tell the doctor now.

“Out of the question,” he says. “The only trials with which you need to be concerning yourself are the ones we will be trying here.”

“I’m a multitasker,” I say. “I can do both.” I shrug. “Just watch me.”

He turns back to the screen. “You must be talking her out of this,” he says to Sam Wylie.

“I haven’t been able to talk her out of anything since she wanted us to sneak cigarettes behind the gym in high school,” Sam Wylie says.

“Unless some of what we are about to propose works, and works quickly, she is going to get weaker and sicker,” Dr. Ludwig says.

“My body, my choice,” I say. “Well, in this case, doc. That concept isn’t exactly working the way it used to back in the States.”

Neither Ludwig nor Sam says anything right away.

“So what are you proposing, doctor?” I say to Ludwig.

Then the two of them start speaking doctor to each other in a rapid-fire way.

About how if they go ahead with their new treatment plan, I need to call off the next round of chemo and start kinase inhibitors, either oral or intravenous, immediately.

They go back and forth until they finally settle into agreement about what they call ADC: antibody drug conjugates.

I think I hear them call it “odellamab.”

“That sounds like an old Giants wide receiver,” I say. “Used to make some amazing one-handed catches.”

I sit and listen while they talk more doctor, Ludwig telling Sam about how they will initiate the treatment schedule.

At last, the office is quiet.

Too quiet, I’m thinking.

“Are you telling me you think all of this might save my life?” I ask.

From across the world my best friend says, “We’ve told you what we think. But in the end, the decision is yours.”

Good lawyer that I am—no, great lawyer that I am—I don’t hesitate before telling both of them that I’ll take the deal.