PRETZEL

I called him a liar because what he’d just told me was impossible.

“You can’t smell cancer,” I said.

“You don’t want to believe me—who would?—but it’s true.”

The waitress came over with a fresh round of drinks, bumping her hip against his shoulder. That’s another reason I hated him. He could have any woman he wanted. In this bar, in our office. He was tall and had blue eyes and a bright smile that charmed everybody instantly.

“It’s not impossible. They’ve shown dogs can do it. Why not me? I don’t know if it’s the cancer itself or maybe something the body produces in response to it, but I’m never wrong. I smell that smell and without fail, that person…well, you know.”

I stabbed at the ice cubes with my drink straw. “Why would you even say something like that? It’s sick.”

He pulled out his phone and set about clicking and scrolling. The flashy device was one of his perks for making junior partner. Never mind that I’d been with the firm five years longer but was still stuck downstairs with the associates and contracts.

“Remember Cheryl Mayer?”

He knew I did. Cheryl and I had worked on a big oil spill case together. She’d died a few weeks ago, after only a four-month battle with cancer. At first everyone thought it was an intestinal parasite, something she’d brought back from her trip to Thailand.

“What about her?”

“Look here,” he said. On the screen was his email, the Drafts folder. He clicked on one of the messages, something written but never sent. The subject said NOT A PARASITE. The body said CHERYL MAYER HAS CANCER.

“So?”

“So look at the date.”

I squinted. The email was time-stamped late April, weeks before Cheryl had shown any sign.

The waitress came over, hip against his shoulder again, and asked if there was anything else we needed, even though we’d barely touched our drinks. He beamed up at her. “Maybe in a few minutes. I’m Jack, by the way.”

“I’m Melissa, but my friends call me Missy.” She set a folded slip of paper—her number, just like that—in front of Jack and walked away.

“Well?” he asked.

“This doesn’t prove anything.”

But of course it did. It proved everything. Could he have faked that timestamp? The phone’s date/time settings were controlled by satellite. Even if he could, would he?

“How could you know?”

He pulled the phone from my grip. “Cheryl had the smell. It’s like cabbage, chopped up for cole slaw. With a little note of decay. A little sour, you know?”

“You didn’t tell her? You didn’t say anything?”

“No. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. By the time I can smell it, it’s too late, too advanced. Metastasized. She was a goner.”

I sank in my chair.

He looked at me. “I’m sorry, that was a careless thing to say. It’s just that we’re friends, you and me. You’re one of the nicest people in the office. Everyone else is so aloof and self-involved. You’re easy to hang with. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” I echoed.

The waitress came again, all bright and sparkly. When she saw my face, her smile dropped. “Not the best time,” Jack told her, and she left.

I pulled the drink straw from my glass and twisted it into a loose knot, a candy-striped pretzel. “So, how much time do I have? Can you at least tell me that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d need to ask a doctor.”

I nodded and untied the straw. I tried to make it straight but it was bent now and would never be straight again.

by Andrew Dugas