But he didn’t put on his walking shoes. He wore his good jacket—the one for important occasions.
As soon as he left, I got dressed and followed him, keeping my distance.
He didn’t go to the park.
He went to a private neurology clinic.
My heart began to race.
Inside, I slipped past the receptionist and down the hallway. A door stood slightly open, voices drifting out.
I recognized Henry’s voice.
The doctor spoke first. “Henry, her condition is progressing faster than we hoped.”
Her condition?
“How much time do we have, Doc?” Henry asked.
“Three to five years before significant deterioration.”
“And after that?”
“She may not recognize her children. Or her grandchildren.”
“What about me?” he pressed.
The doctor hesitated. “Eventually… possibly…”
I heard Henry struggle to breathe.
“There is an experimental treatment,” the doctor continued. “Expensive. Not covered by insurance. But it could slow things down.”
“How much?”
“About $80,000.”
