But Amy didn't buy the data. She almost jumped off the sofa that night as the tired couple unwound before heading upstairs to bed. Her gaze was fixed on the lesions and black-and-blue marks, her greenish-blue eyes aflame. She took a closer look and began to tremble.
The knowledge she'd gleaned from her young career as a physician assistant, the miles walked through the corridors of the Comprehensive Cancer Center at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center, the immediate assumption of the worst possible outcome that had coursed through her blood since a childhood guided by caution: It all bellowed from within her. Those spots were not sun rashes or bug bites or cardboard cuts. They were not the laughable soon-to-fade products of an active Southern lifestyle. No, she knew too well what they were.
"Dave, those are petechiae and purpura," she said. "You could have ... "
She couldn't take her eyes off his legs. He couldn't keep her from crying as she said it.
You really should read the whole thing.