If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. (John Green)

As my body began to turn on me, Uncle Tony was having a rendezvous with Scotch of a similar nature. She visited him most weeks, at least once a month. If I could have seen past myself and my own problems I would have been curious as to whether or not their relationship would last.

“Tony,” she said softly and seriously, breaking his lighthearted banner, “we need to talk.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“You know.”

“Okay, I didn't but I'm not surprised.”

She looked a little perplexed. “Tony, I think you should see the doctor.”

“What?” Now he was perplexed.

She took a deep breath. “Tony, baby,” she stalled, “I'm HIV positive.”

He made a noise that was a combination of “Whoa” and exhaling dramatically.

“So... okay, that's like... wow. Does that mean you're dying?”

“Not yet, not really.”

“Scotch,” he breathed her name with pain, “I'm sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry,” she said, “I may have passed it on to you.”

He felt like he should have been mad, maybe not “should have” but definitely “could have”. But there's something about a dying woman that makes her too sad to deserve ridicule even if she put him in the same position.

Tears started to drip from her eyes to pool on the table.

“Don't cry.”

“I'm going to die.”

What was he to say to that? He put his hand over hers, even though it seemed poisonous now. He wanted to pick her up and hold her and make her feel like everything would be okay. He wanted to pretend, just for a moment, that he could protect her from the disease already destroying her from the inside out.

“I thought I was careful,” she said. “I thought this was the disease of gay men and drug addicts. I can't believe it happened to me.”

Uncle Tony swallowed his worries before they slipped out of his mouth. The pit of his stomach pained with the possibility that he had done this to her. The thought of Vincent gave him a chill.