The floor falls away, but my house is small, and a chair is close. I fumble the envelope open.
My sister's neat, round writing blurs.
Mom has cancer. It's pancreatic. They're starting treatment right away, and they speak in hopeful voices, but I don't think she has much time. I'm sorry to send this news in the mail. Please come home soon.
The day stops. And isn't this what I feared--another bad thing?
I'm still shaking, but I reach into the cookie jar and pull out my cash.
It's time to see the Chief.