He had terminal cancer.
He was thin, exhausted, and far too young to look as tired as he did.
He was also a widower.
His wife had died while giving birth to their daughter, Lily.
Lily was six years old.
Every afternoon she appeared at the hospital carrying a backpack almost as big as she was.
One morning, I found her standing in Daniel’s doorway holding a hairbrush.
Her hair was completely tangled.
Daniel sat propped against his pillows trying to help her.
His hands were trembling too badly.
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