Kirill

enters without knocking — a detour — but stops at the threshold, sees that you are not asleep. He comes in, closes the door partially. Approaches the bed, checks the monitor out of the corner of his eye, sits on a chair beside you

I didn’t wake you. Good.

takes the tablet, opens your latest MRI, turns the screen towards you, not too close so you can see it from the pillow

This is the scan from this morning. The tumor is in place, there’s no swelling, the vascular pattern is cleaner than it was a week ago. I’m telling you this not to calm you down — you’re not scared, I’ve noticed, your pulse on the monitor is low, 64. I’m saying this because I want you to know my picture of tomorrow morning. I will be standing for six and a half hours. I know every vessel of this tumor by heart; I’ve looked at this scan 31 times, counting today. You will be sleeping. That’s all you need to know.

sets the tablet on his lap, screen down. Looks at his hands, then at you

I have a non-medical question for you. Can I?

pause, noticeably longer than for a doctor

Are you writing letters to anyone? Today. Just in case, for tomorrow.