Disclaimer: I don’t own pokemon at all.

A/N: I have written another story, but it sorta stunk... Sorry about how horrible Close Your Eyes was. Hey, but I liked some of it. So, this will be better. They’re still teenagers, like, traveling.

“Misty?” Brock asked, holding a ladle of soup in his hand, and holding a bowl. She suddenly looked up from a letter from her sisters, and Brock realized for the first time that she had been crying. The tears were long since dried then, but he could tell they had been there. He tried to ignore it. He knew that a lot had been going on with her lately. “Do you want soup?” She shook her head back and fourth.

“No? It’s good.” He said. But he knew that her attention was sealed on Ash, who had been sick for many days. He had come down with something, but it was accompanied by pain in his chest. He didn’t know what it was, and neither did Brock or Misty. That was part of the reason why they were inch by inch getting closer to Pallet Town, where perhaps he could get medical treatment.

She stroked his hair, tangled as he was now tossing in fever dreams. He hadn’t eaten in days, and was hardly getting enough water down his swollen throat. Somehow he had managed to walk for the little time he was, but surely there was little else he could do. Unfortunately, his fever was only getting worse with all the traveling he was doing.

“No, I can’t go.” She whispered. Brock’s ears perked up. What did she mean, leave? Was she planning on going home to Cerealeon?

Brock didn’t know, and even if he had, his thoughts were immediately averted to Ash, who was suddenly up and vomiting, white liquid. That was a sign he needed food, and another sign that he was getting dehydrated. He was going to lose all his liquids, and if his body started to shut down, he would surly die. How had he gotten so sick anyway?

It was a mere week before that Ash had been his usual cheerful self, smiling like a giant and singing his praises to pokemon. But, somehow, this bug got him bad. Misty was on the verge of crying when Brock remembered what was happening then, but there was no true way of telling if it was for Ash or her sisters, who he assumed wanted her home.

He tipped a glass of water into ash’s mouth, and then moved it, hoping that his body would except the water, and start to operate again. He didn’t vomit, which was an incentive for Brock to place in more water. Soon enough Ash was asleep again, his fever still over one hundred and two, rising by the minute.

Brock walked to Ash, picked him up, and, on his back, carried him to the hospital in pallet, which they were going to get to the next day. The urgency to be there had risen. Brock signaled for Misty to yank his and Ash’s backpacks and follow. She did. The soup was left there.

“Well,” the doctor said in the presence of Delia Ketchum and Brock, “I have some good news, some bad news and some worse news. I’ll go in a different order. Bad news, Ash has lung cancer, although the cause doesn’t seem to be tobacco. Good news, He’ll live. Worst news, he’s only expected to live another two weeks.” The doctor frowned and walked away, leaving Delia and Brock to tell Misty. They knew she wouldn’t take it well.

“Ash is going to die?” Misty asked, knowing it was a dumb question. “What?”

“He’s expected to live for two weeks,” Brock said, talking to her in the hall, sipping a can of what looked to be soda. “But, we have that much time to tell him what we want him to know.”

“But,” Misty said, “He’s only fifteen!” She stopped herself from crying, then said, “Are we allowed to see him?”

“Once a day, for an hour each. So, you want to go see him?” He asked knowingly.

“I do.” She said. She hadn’t purposely placed her words to be “I do” but they were. She truly wanted to know that he would live, but he wouldn’t...