And this is when I resolve the cliffhanger! Please like this! Please enjoy!

Dr. Jones closes the door to the office. There are two chairs on one side of the desk. One chair on the other.

Dr. Jones takes a seat, he clears his throat. His hands are clasped together on top of the desk.

Joanna takes a seat, she notices his hands tightly woven together. She pulls Logan down into the chair next to her, he's not moving.

And she holds his hand, she can feel his fingers twitching. He doesn't want to hold her hand, and she knows that.

But she needs to hold his hand.

"Hey," she whispers to him. "You're okay. It's going to be okay."

They're not okay, either of them, not until Dr. Jones unclasps his hands and tells them.

"Mrs. Mitchell," Dr. Jones says, "unfortunately—"

Joanna squeezes Logan's hand, even as he tries to pull away.

Logan needs his hand to stop shaking.

"The skin biopsy results came back indicative of what I had suspected."

Joanna braces herself. Maybe he hadn't expected anything at all. Maybe he expected Logan to be perfectly healthy.

"What did you suspect?" she whispers. She wants to speak louder, she should be better at this.

She knows Logan isn't scared about this, Logan probably knows what the doctor is going to say.

But Joanna is scared, because she doesn't know what the doctor is going to say.

She doesn't know anything.

"I suspected Logan was exhibiting symptoms of Niemann-Pick disease. Specifically type C."

Joanna nods. Suspicions don't mean anything concrete. Logan could be exhibiting symptoms, that doesn't mean he has whatever this is. She's never even heard of it.

"And?" she prompts Dr. Jones to go on.

""Logan's skin cells are not properly transporting cholesterol."

She knows he's not trying to be evasive or vague. But he can't seriously expect her to know about this.

"Which is indicative of Niemann-Pick disease type C."

"So, he has this disease?"

"We can discuss treatment options—"

"I don't want to know about treatment options!" Joanna shouted at him.

Dr. Jones didn't seem bothered by the outburst. He waited for her to exhale and mutter out an apology he didn't know she didn't mean, before continuing.

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Mitchell, even with the extensive therapies, drugs and support we can offer here at the clinic, NPC—that's what it is commonly referred to—has a one-hundred percent fatality rate."

Joanna shook her head. "No."

She rubbed her thumb over Logan's hand. He didn't flinch away, he didn't move.

"Most of the cases are diagnosed and treated during the neonatal period or early childhood. Logan's case is unique—"

"Am I supposed to find that comforting?" she was once again shouting at him. "You just told me my son is going to die."

Dr. Jones looks up at her, there might be hurt in his eyes, or sympathy, but she can't see it.

"Cases that go undiagnosed until adolescence and adulthood have a longer life span."

She doesn't ask how much longer, she can't handle this. She's already screamed at a medical professional twice, in front of her unresponsive child, and nothing can make this any better or worse than it is.

She is going to outlive Logan.

She is going to have to bury him into the ground, because of this disease she never knew she carried, or that he had. Completely out of nowhere.

And now everything feels fake, Logan is dying right in front of her, even now, even though he looks alive.

Don't shoot the messenger, she thinks. That's a stupid, awful saying.

Why wouldn't you shoot the messenger? The messenger is the one delivering bad news. Whoever sends the messenger is just a coward.

She should shoot the coward that sends the messenger, too.

—

Logan has been sitting in the same position since Dr. Jones told them the news.

He's laying in the hospital bed, like he had been for six days. Only now, he's awake.

But now he's moving, he's walking out of the clinic.

"Logan, where are you going?"

He doesn't respond, his hands have started shaking again, as he opens the door out of the room. As he presses the button for the elevator. Joanna grabs his arm, but the doors have already closed on them both.

She notices he has the car keys in his hands, which she tries to take from him, but the keys are firmly enclosed in his fist.

The elevator descends.

They're in the parking lot.

Logan walks to the car that's been parked in the same spot for six days. He opens the passenger side door with his hands, still shaking, and closes it. He sits in the car.

Joanna watches him, she tries to open the door, but he must have locked it.

From the window, she can see him crying, a seat belt strapped over himself. He's practically throwing himself against the seat as he sobs. She can hear him. The door is locked. She can't get in.

He just cries in the car.

And she stands and watches.

For an hour.

Then, he opens the door. He pinches the bridge of his nose, wiping off tears. In his other hand are the car keys, which he lets dangle from his fingertips. They fall to the pavement.

Joanna reaches for the keys. Then she looks back up at Logan, who doesn't look sick, who looks perfectly healthy.

But he's not.

He's dying.

"Logan—"

He's ignoring her. He doesn't wait for her to get to the elevator, he takes it alone.

When she does finally get up to the hospital room, Logan has migrated to her usual chair. He's got his laptop out.

So, for the next hour, he sits there, researching. Unmoving, with the exception of his fingers, flying across the keyboard, each key pounded one after the other. He doesn't take his eyes off the screen.

Joanna turns her phone on. She doesn't take her eyes off the screen.

She's had five missed calls. Two from Jennifer, two from Sylvia, and one from Brooke.

With a quick glance at Logan, she steps outside, phone in her hand.

She's about to call them back, she really is. But her finger hovers above the call button.

She shuts off her phone again before she loses her nerve.

And cries in a bathroom stall.

She's lost her nerve, she's losing it. Just like Logan in the car.

Then, finally, five more missed calls later, she texts Jennifer that they have the results.

Her finger hovers dangerously close to the delete button.

Before she can stop herself.

SEND.

—

James didn't want to go back to the Mayo Clinic. He wouldn't have, his mother had work, and he didn't feel like driving all that way. Two hours for nothing. And, hadn't the test results come early? Logan would be fine.

But, somehow, he finds himself squished between Carlos and the window in the back of Kendall's car.

Even though there's an open, empty seat on the other side of the car, Carlos insisted on taking the middle seat.

"Are you sure you can drive for two hours, Kendall?" Carlos asks. "Rochester is far away."

"I know that, man. We've been going for the past week. I can handle it."

But Katie is on Carlos's side too. "Are you sure you don't want to have Mom drive us?"

"Mom went with Mr. and Mrs. Garcia."

"We could still ask—"

"I can drive, Katie!"

After a moment, Katie nods. She doesn't say anything.

James knew Kendall still wasn't talking to him, which was fine. Kendall was overreacting. Logan would be fine.

The testing came back early. They had celebrated at a restaurant.

Of course Logan was fine, why else would they have had a whole celebration dinner?

"Aren't you excited Logie will be driving home with us?" Carlos asked. "We could take him home today."

"His mom drove him up there. She can drive him back."

Carlos frowned at him. "Yeah, but—don't you want to see him? Now that he's better, not sleeping all the time?"

"We don't know that he's better, Carlos," Kendall chimed in from the front seat.

"Why else would they have gotten the results early?" he asks Kendall, who clenches tighter to the steering wheel.

"I don't know, Carlos."

Katie must have seen Kendall tense up at the wheel, too. "Kendall, maybe you should take a break."

Kendall scoffed. He honked the horn, some guy in front of them ran a red light. "Like I'm letting Carlos drive."

"I can," Carlos protested. He would be safe, this was important. They were bringing Logan home. And anyway, he had a helmet for a reason.

He leaned forward in his seat. "Katie's right, you look tired."

Kendall's eyes flashed. "I'm fine."

"I'm a good driver, Kendall," Carlos insisted. He wasn't awful. And he didn't have road rage like Kendall or James or Logan did. Kendall had the worst road rage.

"You are not driving."

Carlos rolled his eyes. Kendall had the worst regular rage, too. And Carlos hadn't even done anything. Kendall was tired, so he offered to drive.

Kendall got angry over the stupidest things. Even when people were just trying to help.

But Katie wouldn't drop the subject this time. "James could drive."

"James is not going to drive."

Kendall was right, there was no way James would drive. Not that Kendall would let him touch his car, not that James would want to.

"You're falling asleep!" she insisted. "Kendall, what if we crash?"

Kendall's hand barely flicked the radio dial. Katie flicked it off.

It had been Confetti Falling, James could recognize it from the first note. The song started from the middle.

Then bliss. Katie turned it off before it finished.

Jame knew it was Logan's verse.

"We're not going to crash." Kendall continued to argue.

"You don't know that." Katie argued back.

"Shut up, Katie."

Katie opened her mouth to retort, to yell that he was being stupid again. Because even James knew he was being stupid. But she kept quiet.

—

Everyone was quiet in the waiting room.

Everyone was silent in the doctor's office.

Carlos hated silence, everyone had been too quiet lately. And what was the big deal? Why couldn't they just take Logan home? He was done with testing, Carlos had been counting the days.

The doctor waited for the door to shut behind them. Then, he broke the silence.

"I'm sorry to say that Logan has Niemann-Pick. The disease seems to be progressing—"

Niemann-Pick doesn't sound like a disease, Carlos thinks. Logan hasn't even talked about it before, and Logan knows about all these weird diseases.

This one doesn't even sound real. Logan can't have a fake disease.

"It's fatal," Logan informs them, cutting off the doctor. He's talking weirdly again, like how he talks when he's talking about real diseases. Like a textbook or some boring science video. "NPC has a 100 percent fatality rate."

Fatality is a real word. Fatal. Fake diseases can't be fatal.

"Shut up, Logan," Kendall mutters, shoving his shoulder forward, turning him back towards Dr. Jones. "Listen to the doctor."

"It is fatal," Logan insists, turning the opposite way, over his chair, staring right at Kendall. "I know that already."

"Listen to the doctor," Kendall repeats. He pushes Logan's shoulder forward again.

Dr. Jones nods at Kendall. "Unfortunately, yes, NPC is always fatal. Logan's case has been abnormally aggressive, but with medication and treatment, we aim to slow down the progression of the disease."

Progression of the disease. It's going to get worse?

Worse than the concert?

That had been the worst.

Logan couldn't get worse.

"You're going to die?" Carlos whispers. His mother squeezes his hand when Logan doesn't respond.

Logan couldn't die.

—

There was no way Logan could die, James thought. This isn't even real. Nothing's been real since they left the Palm Woods. Nothing since they disbanded Big Time Rush. This is a dream.

"What's—" Katie speaks slowly. "How long does Logan have?"

"The adolescent and adult onset cases usually ensure a longer life expectancy."

"How long?" Carlos asks.

The doctor shook his head. He didn't answer. He didn't know. "My team and I will be doing everything we can in order to help care for Logan. Right now, that's all we can do."

Everyone is in a daze. Everything feels fake. Because, Logan's standing right there. His legs are shaking as he walks maybe, and his arms, but he's alive. There's no way he could die, he's only eighteen.

James is done. James bolts from the hospital, not daring to deal with all the conversations behind him.

Maybe it's Carlos that is shouting his name, but he doesn't care. He can't be in that hospital anymore.

So, he escapes to the parking lot. He sees Logan's mother's car first. And then Kendall's.

Shit. Kendall drove. James can't get home without him.

He reaches for his phone. He's not going to consider going home with Kendall. He can't.

Who is he supposed to call? He wouldn't call his mother, she's working. He wouldn't call his father, he wouldn't do it.

Certainly not his father's wife.

The next best option isn't even a good option at all. His father's wife's kid.

Megan Richardson. She takes classes up in Rochester, or she works in the area. Something.

She's close enough. She's tolerable enough.

Not tolerable enough to sit in a car for two hours back home.

But his father's house is only thirty minutes away.

He places the call.

"James?"

"I'm at the Mayo Clinic. Could you come and get me?"

A pause. "Um, sure."

"Thanks."

He hangs up.

His phone buzzes again.

It's Kendall.

He declines the call, silently slipping his phone into his pocket. He waits in the cold summer air as Megan pulls up. He gets in silently. They drive off.

No way Logan is going to die. No way.

But then again, he's driving with Megan to his father's house.

And he thought he was done doing that a long time ago.