Content Disclosure: Terminal Illness
Lorraine finally calls after three hours at the animal hospital.
“The X-ray doesn’t show the color of the plastic.”
“It was the frisbee. I’m telling you.” Our son, eight years old, is pantomiming a ball. “Max thinks it was a tennis ball.” I shake my head, wave at him to leave it. “I knew he was too quiet back there.” I cover the receiver and whisper, She says it’s plastic. “What’s the prognosis?”
“That’s the bad news.”
“What was the good news?”
“That it was plastic and not metal. Or a battery. Or glass.”
“Not sure that qualifies as good—”
“Eight hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
