Austin was at a coffee shop with his cousin Jenny on a Saturday afternoon. She'd called and said she wanted to spend time with him, and he'd agreed, grateful for the distraction.
They were sitting at a small table by the window, and Jenny was telling him about her soccer team, about a girl who'd been mean to her, about the drama of being twelve years old.
"You're not listening," Jenny said suddenly.
"I am," Austin said.
"No, you're not," Jenny said. "You're doing that thing where you're looking at me but thinking about something else. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Austin said.
"You're coughing," Jenny said. "Like, a lot. More than you were last month. And you're tired all the time. I've noticed. Mom's noticed. Clara's noticed. Everyone's noticed except you keep saying you're fine."
"I am fine," Austin said gently. "I'm just working a lot."
"You're sick," Jenny said, and it wasn't a question.
Austin looked at this twelve-year-old girl who saw too much, understood too much. "A little," he admitted. "But it's under control."
"You should tell everyone," Jenny said. "Keeping secrets makes things worse."
"Sometimes secrets keep things better," Austin said. "Sometimes the truth hurts more than the not knowing."
"That's sad," Jenny said.
"Yeah," Austin said. "It really is."