Jack Armstrong sat up in the secondhand hospital bed that had been wedged into acorner of the den in his home in Cleveland. A father at nineteen, he and hiswife, Lizzie, had conceived their second child when he'd been home on leave fromthe army. Jack had been in the military for five years when the war in theMiddle East started. He'd survived his first tour in Afghanistan and earned aPurple Heart for taking one in the arm. After that he'd weathered several toursof duty in Iraq, one of which included the destruction of his Humvee while hewas still inside. That injury had won him his second Purple. And he had a BronzeStar on top of that for rescuing three ambushed grunts from his unit and nearlygetting killed in the process. After all that, here he was, dying fast in hischeaply paneled den in Ohio's Rust Belt.

His goal was simple: just hang on until Christmas. He sucked greedily on theoxygen coming from the line in his nose. The converter that stayed in the cornerof the small room was on maximum production, and Jack knew that one day soon itwould be turned off because he'd be dead. Before Thanksgiving he was certain hecould last another month. Now Jack was not sure he could make another day.

But he would.

I have to.

In high school the six-foot-two, good-looking Jack had varsity lettered in threesports, quarterbacked the football team, and had his pick of the ladies. Butfrom the first time he'd seen Elizabeth "Lizzie" O'Toole, it was all over forhim in the falling-in-love department. His heart had been won perhaps evenbefore he quite realized it. His mouth curled into a smile at the memory ofseeing her for the first time. Her family had come from South Carolina. Jack hadoften wondered why the O'Tooles had moved to Cleveland, where there was noocean, a lot less sun, a lot more snow and ice, and not a palm tree in sight.Later, he'd learned it was because of a job change for Lizzie's father.

She'd come into class that first day, tall, with long auburn hair and vibrantgreen eyes, her face already mature and lovely. They had started going togetherin high school and had never been separated since, except long enough for Jackto fight in two wars.

"Jack; Jack honey?"

Lizzie was crouched down in front of him. In her hand was a syringe. She wasstill beautiful, though her looks had taken on a fragile edge. There were darkcircles under her eyes and recently stamped worry lines on her face. The glowhad gone from her skin, and her body was harder, less supple than it had been.Jack was the one dying, but in a way she was too.

"It's time for your pain meds."

He nodded, and she shot the drugs directly into an access line cut right belowhis collarbone. That way the medicine flowed directly into his bloodstream andstarted working faster. Fast was good when the pain felt like every nerve in hisbody was being incinerated.

After she finished, Lizzie sat and hugged him. The doctors had a long name forwhat was wrong with him, one that Jack still could not pronounce or even spell.It was rare, they had said; one in a million. When he'd asked about his odds ofsurvival, the docs had looked at each other before one finally answered.

"There's really nothing we can do. I'm sorry."

"Do the things you've always wanted to do," another had advised him, "but neverhad the chance."

"I have three kids and a mortgage," Jack had shot back, still reeling from thissudden death sentence. "I don't have the luxury of filling out some end-of-lifebucket list."

"How long?" he'd finally asked, though part of him didn't really want to know.

"You're young and strong," said one. "And the disease is in its early stages."

Jack had survived the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. He could maybe hold on and see hisoldest child graduate from college. "So how long?" he'd asked again.

The doctor said, "Six months. Maybe eight if you're lucky."

Jack did not feel very lucky.

He vividly remembered the morning he started feeling not quite right. It was anache in his forearm and a stab of pain in his right leg. He was a buildingcontractor by trade, so aches and pains were to be expected. But things sooncarried to a new level. His limbs would grow tired from three hours of physicallabor as opposed to ten. The stabs of pain became more frequent, and his balancebegan to deteriorate. His back finally couldn't make it up the ladder with thestacks of shingles. Then it hurt to carry his youngest son around after tenminutes. Then the fire in his nerves started, and his legs felt like an oldman's. And one morning he woke up and his lungs were like balloons filled withwater. Everything had accelerated after that, as though his body had simplygiven way to whatever was invading it.

His youngest child, Jack Jr., whom everyone called Jackie, toddled in andclimbed on his dad's lap, resting his head against his father's sunken chest.Jackie's hair was long and inky black, curled up at the ends. His eyes were thecolor of toast; his thick eyebrows nearly met in the middle, like a burly woolenthread. Jackie had been their little surprise. Their other kids were much older.

Jack slowly slid his arm around his two-year-old son. Chubby fingers gripped hisforearm, and warm breath touched his skin. It felt like the pierce of needles,but Jack simply gritted his teeth and didn't move his arm because there wouldn'tbe many more of these embraces. He slowly turned his head and looked out thewindow, where the snow was steadily falling. South Carolina and palm trees hadnothing on Cleveland when it came to the holidays. It was truly beautiful.

He took his wife's hand.

"Christmas," Jack said in a wheezy voice. "I'll be there."

"Promise?" said Lizzie, her voice beginning to crack.

"Promise."

Jack awoke, looked around, and didn't know where he was. He could feel nothing,wasn't even sure if he was still breathing.

Am I dead? Was this it?

"Pop-pop," said Jackie as he slid next to his father on the bed. Jack turned andsaw the chubby cheeks and light brown eyes.

Jack stroked his son's hair. Good, thick strands, like he used to have beforethe disease had stolen that too. Curious, Jackie tried to pull out the oxygenline from his father's nose, but he redirected his son's hand and cupped it withhis own.

Lizzie walked in with his meds and shot them into the access line. An IV driptook care of Jack's nutrition and hydration needs. Solid foods were beyond himnow.

"I just dropped the kids off at school," she told him.

"Mikki?" said Jack.

Lizzie made a face. Their daughter, Michelle, would be turning sixteen nextsummer, and her rebellious streak had been going strong since she'd become ateenager. She was into playing her guitar and working on her music, wearingjunky clothes, sneaking out at night, and ignoring the books. "At least sheshowed up for the math test. I suppose actually passing it would've been askingtoo much. On the bright side, she received an A in music theory."

Jackie got down and ran into the other room, probably for a toy. Jack watchedhim go with an unwieldy mixture of pride and sorrow. He would never see his sonas a man. He would never even see him start kindergarten. That cut against thenatural order of things. But it was what it was.

Jack had experienced an exceptionally long phase of denial after being told hehad little time left. That was partially because he had always been a survivor.A rocky childhood and two wars had not done him in, so he had initially...