"He's what?" demanded my mother, her voice full of panic. "He's not going to be a vegetable, is he? Oh, God — my poor Cliff. Oh, Jesus God…"

I looked at my father, and I did something I hadn't done for five years. I started to cry. My vision began to blur, and so did my mind. As the doctor continued to talk to my mother, I heard the words "severe retardation," "total aphasia," and "institutionalize."

He wasn't coming back. He wasn't leaving, but he wasn't coming back. And the last words of mine that ever would have registered on his consciousness were—

"Jake." Dr. Thanh was calling my name. I wiped my eyes. She had risen and was looking at me. "Jake, how old are you?"

I'm old enough, I thought. I'm old enough to be the man of the house. I'll take care of this, take care of my mother. "Seventeen."

She nodded. "You should have an MRI, too, Jake."

"What?" I said, my heart suddenly pounding. "Why?"

Dr. Thanh lifted her delicate eyebrows, and spoke very, very softly. "Katerinsky's is hereditary."

I felt myself starting to panic again. "You — you mean I might end up like Dad?"

"Just get the scan done," she said. "You don't necessarily have Katerinsky's, but you might."

I couldn't take it, I thought. I couldn't take living as a vegetable. Or maybe I did more than think it; the woman smiled kindly, wisely, as if she'd heard me say those words aloud.

"Don't worry," Dr. Thanh said.

"Don't worry?" My mouth was bone dry. "You said this — this disease is incurable."

"That's true; Katerinsky's involves defects so deep in the brain that they can't be repaired surgically — yet. But you're only seventeen, and medical science is galloping ahead — why, the progress we've made since I started practicing! Who knows what they'll be able to do in another twenty or thirty years?"