Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1 Liam Hirsch never seriously contemplated dying before his forty-ninth birthday--until today. As he lets his electric Ford F-150 coast down the long driveway on this gray, drizzly Tuesday--a typical January afternoon in Seattle--he''s struck by the sheer size of the house he''s called home for seven years. It''s strange, this fixation on something so mundane. Am I still in shock? he wonders. Liam grew up in a cramped rental on a cracked street lined by patchy lawns. He never imagined owning a house like this--a hundred-year-old Tudor Revival fully refurbished with white oak floors, Carrara marble, a chef''s kitchen, and three fireplaces--let alone living in Broadmoor, a gated enclave designed to keep people like him out. But none of it matters now, he realizes with a shiver. He won''t be living anywhere much longer.
He remembers the day they moved in. The twins, Ava and Cole, just eight years old, swarmed the house as though on an Easter egg hunt, their laughter echoing through the empty rooms. Celeste joined in, launching a pillow fight before helping Ava pin up posters of Ariana Grande and Shawn Mendes. Even after the kids fell asleep, his wife was still buzzing with excitement. They lay together on the living room couch, surrounded by empty boxes, her legs tangled with his as she eagerly detailed the renovations needed to put "the Hirsch stamp" on their new home. But now the memory sours. Liam, preoccupied with a glitch in his company''s app, barely registered Celeste''s words or appreciated what the house truly represented: the security he had always sought for his family. Liam parks in the four-car garage''s only empty stall and sits there, staring at the bikes, skis, kayaks, and camping gear--each item a trigger for memories of family adventures that now feel like someone else''s.
He''s going to have to avoid music, he realizes, or he won''t be able to hold it together. His hand hovers over the door handle. He wrestles with the same questions that have dogged him since leaving the doctor''s office: What do I tell Celeste? How do I break it to the kids? He wonders if he should be as blunt as Dr. Hudson Chow was. Liam hadn''t gone to the neurologist expecting good news--he knew the muscle twitches in his legs, shoulders, and, of all places, his tongue were worrisome signs. But the grim look on Dr. Chow''s face told him everything before any words were spoken. "Mr.
Hirsch. it''s not good," Dr. Chow said. "We didn''t expect good, did we?" Liam replied with a forced smile. "True, but we didn''t expect it to be this severe," Dr. Chow said, his eyes unwavering. "The MRIs, the EMG, the biopsy--they all point to the same diagnosis: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. ALS.
" The words knocked the breath out of him. "Like Stephen Hawking," he whispered, visualizing the famed scientist slumped in his wheelchair, his head and neck contorted, reliant on a robotic voice to communicate. "Yes, but like any disease, ALS has an unpredictable course," Dr. Chow said. "Stephen Hawking lived for decades with it." "I won''t?" "Your condition has progressed significantly since your last appointment." "You''re saying I don''t just have run-of-the-mill ALS, I have the aggressive form?" "We never classify ALS as run-of-the-mill, Mr. Hirsch.
But yes, ''aggressive'' would be a fair description." "And there''s no treatment?" "There are two new medications that can sometimes slow the progression or lessen symptoms. I''ll prescribe them today." "They''re not cures?" "No. At best, they might prolong functionality. Delay the onset of more symptoms." "Delaying it is the best I can hope for?" "There are experimental therapies emerging. We could look for a study.
" The hesitation in Dr. Chow''s voice was enough. "But they don''t work, do they?" "Not so far, no." Liam''s head spun. "So, I have months, at best?" "In terms of functionality, yes, probably." "Functionality?" Dr. Chow finally looked away. "If the disease continues to progress at this pace, you will likely lose much of your basic motor function within the next six to twelve months.
" Liam''s hands sat still in his lap. His calmness astounded him. Would it last? Could it? "You''re telling me I won''t be able to speak, walk, or even swallow in six months? Or sooner?" "It''s impossible to predict with certainty, but. yes, there''s a good chance of that kind of progression." Dr. Chow sighed, his expression so strained that Liam couldn''t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for him. "At some point in the near future, Mr. Hirsch, you''ll need to think about life support and how you feel about being placed on a ventilator.
Perhaps you could come back with your wife." The shock must have set in then because the rest of their conversation is a blur. Stunned, Liam wandered back to his truck, sinking into the driver''s seat and staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror. The man looking back seemed much older than he felt. Anger surged--rage at the injustice, at his body''s betrayal, at the world for spinning on while his life unraveled. He wanted to scream, to hit something, to release the pressure building inside him. But all he could do was sit there, silent, as the weight of his diagnosis pressed down. The next thing he remembered was driving home, his legs heavy, his thoughts spiraling.
He imagined his kids'' faces--their tears, the disbelief. He still had so much to teach them: how to drive, manage credit, and spot red flags in relationships. He needed to get Ava focused on a college major, help Cole build confidence. How could he be strong for them when he himself was crumbling? Now, parked back in the garage, the dread of facing his family immobilizes him. He tries to coax himself out of the truck, to at least go tell Celeste. Don''t wallow , he tells himself. You''re a doer. Get moving! But instead, he unlocks the glove box and pulls out a manila envelope he''s kept hidden for weeks.
He slides out the thin stack of photos. Despite their painful subject matter, the gritty, sticky feel of the photo paper and the faint vinegary scent take Liam back to another time. His detractors--and there are a few--would relish the irony of a two-hundred-year-old analog technology upending the life of an AI pioneer like him. Liam can''t ignore it either. As he stares at the second photo--the one that never fails to gut him--his hand trembles. He quickly tucks the pictures away before the involuntary spasms worsen. He watches helplessly as his fingers twitch--as though someone else''s brain is using them to mold an imaginary chunk of clay. Even worse, there''s no pain.
No sensation at all. After the episode passes and he regains control of his fingers, he leaves the truck and walks to the house, careful to lift his feet with each step, rehearsing a few lines in his head. They''re truthful but gentler than the grim words he just heard from Dr. Chow. Inside, he finds Celeste at the front closet, slipping on her running jacket. "Hi," she says, turning with a tentative smile. "What did the specialist say?" Liam had told her about the symptoms, downplaying the worst of them. He couldn''t hide the tremors while they still shared a bed.
But now he regrets mentioning the appointment. How many lies can this marriage take? The words won''t come. He just stares into her eyes--those stippled cinnamon swirls that once spoke volumes but have lately gone silent. What he wouldn''t give at that moment to be snuggling with her on the couch again, sharing everything like they once did. "What is it, Liam?" Her expression clouds with concern. "He thinks it''s stress, right? You told him how much you''re working on your new app? The sleepless nights?" His mind flashes to the second photo in the stack. It''s not the raw nakedness or the single bead of sweat between his wife''s breasts that haunts him. Not even the other man''s tattooed shoulder.
It''s the look on Celeste''s face--the pleasure, the playfulness, the vitality lighting up her delicate features. He hasn''t seen that in a long time. He would kill to see her look at him like that again. All the rehearsed lines fly out of his head. "The tests were inconclusive. He thinks it''s probably stress-related.".