Chapter 2:

Daphne hadn't believed it the second it fell on her ears.

"Back."

Could anyone think of a scarier word?

Daphne was used to bad stuff happening to herself-- "danger-prone" and everything. But she was accustomed to a very different type of danger. "Danger" as she knew it simply meant being tied up for a few hours until her friends found her. It was sort of fun, even, in a roller-coasters-and-ghost-stories kind of way.

But "danger" as it happened to Velma was not fun. It was not adventurous. It was not a quest, from which she could emerge as a hero and meet her friends at the Malt Shop. This was not the kind of danger that fought you tooth-and-nail. This was the kind of danger that attacked you from within, weakening you at every moment.

Danger-prone though she was, Daphne hated the thought of being weak. So did Velma.

Finally Daphne worked up the courage to speak.

"Velma? Are... are they positive it's really back?"

Velma nodded solemnly. Her glasses were fogged from her tears landing on the lenses. Somehow, for the first time, Velma seemed not to even care about her inability to see.

"They want me to go in tomorrow. To discuss treatment."

Daphne shuddered. She remembered last time of what "treatment" referred to. True, it referred to the healing of her friend. It should have made her happy.

But there was more to it.

Treatment referred to several weeks of hospitalization. Treatment referred to Velma having to miss school, one of her favorite things next to solving mysteries. Treatment referred to the chemo causing Velma's hair to fall out. Treatment referred to Velma getting sicker, all in the name of helping her get better, as her friends could do nothing except visit and watch.

Now would they have to go through that... again?

"I... I really hoped that last time wouldn't have to happen again." Daphne knew it sounded lame. The truth was, after four years, she had practically forgotten it existed. Or maybe she hadn't forgotten. Maybe she was just basking in the fact that everyone could pretend it really didn't.

Velma breathed and fell back against the green-tiled wall. She sat down, and Daphne kneeled next to her.

"Daphne... it's not going to be like last time."

"I... I'm sorry?" Daphne didn't like the sound of what Velma had said.

Velma picked a fuzzball and dropped it on the floor next to her. "Daphne... even with the best treatments, my best bet at survival is 25 percent with standard chemotherapy."

Survival. How Velma could discuss that about anyone-- let alone herself-- in mere percentage-wise statistics, no less-- was astounding. Daphne ignored the figure. She didn't like to think about "25 percent."

"So... you're not going to even try to cure it?" Daphne felt naive, somehow. This was not happening.

Velma looked back. "I am." It was a small relief, although Daphne wasn't sure if she could have handled any other answer.

"So what--?"

"My oncologist wants me to try something different. Something that would probably work better than more chemo, at least..."

"What is that?"

"A bone-marrow transplant."

Daphne looked at her friend blankly, pretending to understand. Velma knew she didn't, but she also knew that Daphne probably didn't want the technical details.

"So then you'll get better?" Daphne asked hopefully, practically begging her friend, even though she knew Velma couldn't guarantee anything either way.

Velma looked away. "It's... possible."

"Possible?"

"Daphne, it's not that simple... I don't know if I even want this yet."

"But you have to!" Daphne almost shouted. It was a miracle nobody else heard, even though the bathroom was empty except for the two girls. Velma shrank back.

"I... I'm sorry, Velma," Daphne told her, recollecting herself. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just... I want you to live. Please, Velma..."

Velma blinked and sighed. "Daphne, there is no miracle cure for leukemia. Or any other cancer. I'm no exception."

"But you said--"

"I know, Daphne." Tracing her finger along the little cracks in between the tiles, Velma continued. She started crying again, slightly. "But you realize that if everything works-- if they find a donor and perform the operation on time and don't make any mistakes-- even under the best conditions, my odds--"

Here again she quoted another cold, desolate statistic.

"My odds are about fifty-fifty."