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She nudges her food around on her plate again. “Dad’s sick.”

“Shit.” I sit back. It’s hard to imagine Frank Jackson sick. He’s nothing but a pillar of strength and stability in my mind. “Like, the flu or what?”

She shakes her head. “Like, sick sick. He . . .” She draws in a ragged breath, as if she needs to fortify herself, and I know what’s coming. “Cancer.”

That news is a punch in the gut