Page 141 of The Route to You

The room seemed to come to a stop, and Sloan gripped the cushion beneath her.

Out of remission?

Wait.

How long have Penny—and Dad—known about this?

“When . . . did she get diagnosed?” Her voice was tight. Scraped. Her knuckles hurt from clutching the chair.

Dad adjusted his glasses. “She was first diagnosed three years ago—around the time you were in the hospital. I think that factored significantly into her decision not to tell you.”

Sloan felt the blood drain from her face.

Oh no.

No, God, no.

And then a memory, long meaningless and inconsequential until now , resurfaced. Penny calling and asking her to lunch because she wanted to talk to her about something in person. A lunch that had never happened, because instead Penny had arrived at the house and called the ambulance to take Sloan to get her stomach pumped.

Sloan covered her face with her hands, her heart slowing, all her anger at Penny melting away.

This . . . was why Penny hadn’t told her.

I’m . . . awful.

The worst sister in the world.

Tears swam in her eyes, and she brushed them away with the backs of her knuckles. “Is she okay?” Sloan asked, voice trembling. “If she’s out of⁠—”

“The doctors are optimistic. Unlike your mother, who had acute myeloid, she has chronic myeloid. The rates of survival are much higher.”

Sloan clasped her hands in her lap, letting the tears flow freely down her cheeks now.

Mom.

Penny.

. . . why?

Dad shifted on the couch. “The reason I’m here is because the doctors told me yesterday that the best chance Penny has is a donation of stem cells. Other treatments aren’t working. And if she can get a donation from a good match, she might even be cured. Siblings, it turns out, are often the best match. So, I’m here on her behalf to ask you to come to San Francisco with me and get tested. See if you can donate stem cells to your sister.”

Now she understood why he’d come in person.

Not just to tell her about the situation . . . but to ask for her help.

He blinked at her as she stared at him, trying to process everything.

“. . . is that something you would be willing to do?” Dad finished.

Sloan’s throat went dry. “You want me to donate stem cells?”

“Well, you’re young and healthy. And you take care of your body. You don’t have any tattoos or use drugs. And you’re her sister—potentially the best match.”

Tattoos. Sloan closed her eyes.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Are tattoos . . . not good for donors?”