Page 215 of Devil’s Disciples

After I buried my mother, I shut down. My seventeen-year-old heart was broken. I became numb to life and all things in it. I was convinced I didn’t have the ability to let another human being into life, much less my heart.

There were four people left on earth I that cared about. We’d been friends since kindergarten. We were inseparable hooligans who had managed to stay one step ahead of the law as juveniles. As soon as we turned eighteen, the five of us moved – as a group – away from Great Falls, Montana, and far from the memories of what cancer had taken from me. We settled in San Diego, California.

Certain that I was destined to one day die from the same dreaded disease, I spent every day as if it were my last.

Intimidation had always worked for me in the past, so I loomed over the desk and flexed on the old man. “No treatment. Period. End. Of. Story.”

“Considering your background, I can understand your reservation,” he said dryly. “But there’s no shame in receiving treatment for cancer. Men do it every day. Men just like you. Big men. Tough men.”

Apparently, his hearing was as bad as his comb over. I locked eyes with him and crossed my arms. “I don’t have reservations. The answer’s no.”

Unfazed by my tactics, he leaned against the back of his chair and cocked his head to the side. “Why are you here, Mister Reeves?”

“I need that prescription refilled so I can live with these headaches.”

“Very well,” he said, his voice monotone. “Be forewarned, the pressure against your skull will increase as the tumor grows. Your vision will likely blur. Eventually, you’ll lose many of your cognitive skills. You’ll be reduced to using a wheelchair, and you’ll certainly die. All of this may be able to be prevented. The first step is a biopsy.”

“Not. Going. To. Happen,” I said though clenched teeth.

Truthfully, I was no different than anyone else. I didn’t want to die. Yet. My time had come, and there was nothing I could do to change it. Accepting it was a different story altogether. I expected my remaining days on earth would be spent angry and alone.

His jaw tightened. He studied me for a moment. His gaze fell to his desk. He scribbled something down on a pad of paper and then tore off the sheet.

“Here,” he said.

“Thank you.”

I glanced at the scribbled note. It wasn’t a prescription. It was an address and a phone number. I looked at him and arched an aggravated eyebrow.

“It’s a meeting you’ll need to attend,” he said. “An oncology social worker runs it, and she’ll be able to help you with coping. I’ll reserve hope that your attendance will open your mind to proceeding with treatment.”

I tossed the note in his direction. It fluttered onto his desk like a leaf that had fallen from one of the thirty-foot-tall oak trees along the river of my home town.

He picked up the sheet of paper and stretched his arm over the top of his desk. “The meeting, Mister Reeves, is mandatory.”

My eyes thinned. The only mandatory meetings I planned to attend were with the motorcycle club. Sitting in a room filled with strangers and discussing my life wasn’t something I was willing to do.

“It’s required by your insurance carrier,” he explained. “It’s considered mental health treatment. If you don’t attend, your insurance company will not pay your bills. Treatment, or no treatment, the bills will likely exceed half a million dollars.”

I took the note from his grasp and gave it a second look.

He nodded toward my hand. “All you must do to comply with your insurance carrier’s requirement is attend. I’ll ask that you do so with an open mind.”

“I’ll attend,” I said. “But you’re not drilling a hole in my head. Not now, or ever. There’s no one in your little meeting that’ll change my mind about that, either.”

83

Abby

Because of their ferocious nature during the Battle of Belleau Wood, the Marines were called Dogs from Hell by the German soldiers who fought against them. The Marines proudly embraced the moniker. Soon, Devil Dog became a nickname for all Marines.

Upon retiring from the Marine Corps, George opened the Devil Dog Diner. His entire staff was an assembly of veterans who had chosen to serve meals after retiring from serving their country.

I initially favored the restaurant because they bought fresh local produce and used organic meats, fruits, and vegetables in making their meals. Knowingly introducing chemicals into my body wasn’t something I would ever do.

I later grew to admire George, his staff, and his way of conducting business. He wasn’t getting rich running the deli, but he gave back to the community, nonetheless. On the last Sunday of every month, he held The Flapjack Flashback, an all-day pancake extravaganza and fundraiser.

Pancakes, eggs, and a side of meat were all that was available during the fundraiser, and they were sold until the restaurant closed at ten o’ clock at night. For that day, breakfast was priced at a dollar and fifty cents per plate. Most of the customers left huge tips, but George didn’t expect it. He said he wanted to turn back the clock to a time when breakfast was affordable.