The Trade

Elena stood in the bathroom, her fingers tangled in the long copper strands that used to cascade down her back. The scissors glinted under fluorescent light. Five years of growth, gone in twenty minutes. She'd promised herself she'd do it when the radiation started, but the chemotherapy had claimed it first.

"You look like a different person," Mark said from the doorway, his voice careful, measured. He was always careful now. Since she'd stopped treatment two weeks ago, their apartment had become a minefield of unspoken things.

"I feel like one," she said, touching the stubble. It felt foreign, like someone else's scalp.

Their basement held the last of the unpacked boxes from their move three years ago. Mark had been the one to suggest it — a fresh start after his promotion, after her diagnosis. Now she knelt on concrete, sorting through baseball cards from his childhood. Nolan Ryan, 1985. Reggie Jackson, 1977. A pristine collection worth thousands, meticulously preserved in plastic sleeves.

"What are you doing with those?" Mark appeared at the top of the stairs, Buster following at his heels. Their golden retriever had been Mark's thirtieth birthday present, a joint decision before everything changed. Now Buster was hers — she was the one home, the one with energy for walks, the one who'd taught him to balance a treat on his nose.

"Remember that collector in Denver?" Elena didn't look up. "The one who offered you eight thousand for the Ryan rookie?"

"Elena..."

"I'm selling them," she said, her voice steady. "And the car. And the timeshare your parents gave us."

"Why?" He descended slowly, the dog's nails clicking beside him.

"Because I'm not going to the hospice facility," she said. "I'm going to Italy. I want to see the Amalfi Coast. I want to drink wine in Cinque Terre. And I want you to come with me, or I want to go alone. But either way, I'm choosing how this ends."

Mark stood silent for a long moment. Then he knelt beside her, wrapped his arms around her newly bare head, and buried his face in her neck. Buster pressed against them both, warm and solid and alive.

"Italy," he whispered. "I've never been."

"Neither have I," she said. "But I hear the lemons are the size of grapefruits."

They stayed like that on the basement floor, the priceless baseball cards scattered around them like fallen leaves, while somewhere above them, the morning light grew stronger, illuminating everything they were about to leave behind.