Breathless Read Online Free PDF

Let’s be safe.”
    He gives Mom a wilting look. “I want to walk into the house.”
    Dad offers his arm for support, but Travis ignores him.
    Cooper, Darla, and I stand on the porch and watch Travis slowly maneuver up the walk. My brother’s lost a ton of weight and his skin is sallow-looking from the chemo. His empty pants leg is pinned up so that he won’t trip on it. Darla grips my elbow, and Cooper slides his arm around my shoulders. We all hold our breath.
    At the bottom of the porch steps, Travis looks up at us and asks, “How would you score me?”
    It takes a second for his question to sink in.
    “Ten,” I say. “A perfect ten.”
    Once we get Travis settled in, I corner Darla and Cooper before they can leave. “We need to help him.”
    “How?” Cooper asks.
    “He shouldn’t spend too much time alone. His shrink says he’s depressed.”
    “Go figure.”
    “I’ll do anything to help,” Darla says.
    “What do you have in mind?” Cooper wants to know.
    “Make sure he has plenty to do all summer. Games, DVDs—just hanging out with him between chemo and physical therapy. If we’re around him, if he’s not alone thinking about what’s gone, it’ll make him feel better. That’s what Mom says. Positive attitude, you know.”
    Without a second’s hesitation, Darla says, “I can be here most days. Until I have to go to work.”
    “I’m good for the night shift,” Cooper says.
    “And I live here,” I say. “I’m available anytime.”
    This makes Cooper laugh and I blush. Why do I feel like a little kid whenever I’m around him? “Okay, then. We have a plan,” I say, sounding like a social director. Awkwardly I hold out my fist the way I’ve seen Travis and Cooper do. Guy code. The three of us tap our fists together, sealing our pact.

C OOPER
    T he last time I cried, I was eleven. Watching my best friend struggle up his front porch with a missing leg is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I want to seize him around the middle and haul him up. But of course, I can’t.
    Once we are all inside the house, he drops the crutches, leans on me, and hops to the sofa. “Crutches bite,” he says. He’s sweating from the exertion.
    Darla scoops up her plate of cupcakes and presents them to Travis. “Hope you like chocolate and white icing.”
    “You bake these, babe?”
    “In my Easy-Bake Oven,” she jokes.
    He pops one into his mouth. “Yummy.”
    She blushes, and I get that they’re not talking about cupcakes.
    Travis looks around. “My new digs?”
    “Just until you can get up the stairs,” Mr. Morrison says.
    “Yeah, just until I get your room repainted bubble-gum pink,” Emily says.
    He pokes at her with his crutch. “Watch it, Em. My arms are five feet long these days.”
    “Just until you get situated,” his mom says.
    Darla snuggles next to Travis on the sofa. They look cozy, like they always look together. The crutches could be a prop if you don’t notice the gap on the floor where Travis’s foot ought to be. And no one’s even mentioning the elephant in the room—the cancer that’s still inside him. I say, “I need to split. I’ll be back tomorrow after my shift ends.”
    Back home, I pound on my punching bag until my arms ache. And I cry like a girl.

Travis
    M om picks me up from outpatient, where I’ve had chemo dripped through the shunt in my chest for an hour. I go to chemo twice a week and get hooked up to IV bags, and the port in my chest takes the poison slowly into my body, where it hunts for cancer cells to destroy. Trouble is, it’s destroying other cells too. The chemicals they’re giving me are so strong that if they leak onto my skin, I’ll need plastic surgery to repair the damage. The poison sucks my energy. In mirrors I look wasted, like a meth addict, but chemo is no recreational drug.
    I hunch down in the car, pick up a plastic bowl, and hold it under my chin.
    Mom glances at me sideways. “Do you feel sick?”
    “A little.” The