One floor below, but in close enough range to hear every spin and every shriek, a different Game of Life is playing out. SPIN “You got Fanconi anemia!” SPIN “You got throat cancer!” SPIN “It’s inoperable!”
We are in an especially heinous type of purgatory at the moment. We know the cancer is there. We have shiny pictures to prove it. We don’t yet know how extensive its reach is. We don’t yet know the plan How fiery the hell we’re about to walk into will be.