"Mr. Chamberlain, I'm sorry." The doctor slid the lab report across the desk. "Brain cancer. Late stage."Oscar Chamberlain stared at the doctor for several seconds, then lowered his gaze to the two words on the page. The paper was still warm from the printer. The sharp, chemical smell of ink hit him, and his stomach tightened.The doctor continued in a careful, practiced tone, "In the best-case scenario, you have about two years."Oscar did not respond. He folded the report with steady hands and slipped it into the deepest pocket of his jacket, as if hiding it there could buy him time.Outside the hospital, the sun burned white. People streamed past him in both directions, occupied with errands and lunch plans. No one knew his life had just begun counting down.His phone rang."Ozzy, add a few extra dishes tonight," a bright voice said. "Your sisters are all coming home."The nine sisters were always busy, always away. It was rare for all of them to gather at once.Oscar swall
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