Chapter 72: One Month to Live

I buckle my seatbelt before the flight attendant walks the aisle and my mind wanders back to my earlier conversation with my father. I can't remember anything concrete after he said my mother, the woman who brought me into this world, had thirty days to live.

I brought a bag on the plane with me, but I'm clueless to what's in it. Hopefully clean underwear or socks, maybe some pants. I move a hand to my temple and push on the space in frustration at myself. Isn't it amazing that in a time of turmoil my damn brain is worried if I packed clean underwear? Is it my feeble attempt to try and keep it together?