Miguel exhales, "Doctor, let me just explain something to you, okay? I'm forty years old. I have a wife. I have three children. I have a house that is not paid for. I have a mother who has a house that isn't paid for. I have a lot of responsibilities. So I need to know -- I need to know what you think." Susan refuses to commit herself: "I think you should regard your condition as very serious, but should await a final determination." Miguel, getting impatient: "I don't understand the problem. Is it so hard -- are you afraid to tell me the truth?" Susan relents: "Your history of coughing blood, weight loss, and this x-ray is [sic] suggestive of cancer. But the diagnosis has not been confirmed, and it may very well be something else, and none of us should jump to any conclusions until we know. That's what I think." Miguel blinks, and finally sighs, "How long do I have?" Susan looks back at the x-ray for a moment, and quietly tells him, "Six months to a year." Miguel nods, looking stricken, and asks, "Do I have six months for sure?" Susan tells him, "No, not for sure." Miguel seems to gather himself, and then says, in an offhand way, "Okay. Yeah, I was just wondering, because I always wanted to take my wife to Nassau. We talked about it a lot -- it's all we talked about -- but we never did it, so I just figured, spring's coming, it's getting too late to go to Nassau, and she always wanted to suntan in the winter, show off to the neighbours and stuff." Susan smiles gently and says she understands. Miguel wistfully says, "Yeah. Yeah. So I guess I'd better go. Summer's going to be here before you know it, so I guess I'd better go pretty soon." Miguel takes Susan's hands and adds, "Doctor, I want to thank you. I want to thank you for your help, and thank you for being straight with me. I really appreciate it." He sighs deeply, and then jokes, "I guess I don't have to quit smoking." He turns to get his coat off the bed and then breaks down, with his back turned to Susan. She softly says, "If there's one thing you learn in my job, it's that nothing is certain -- nothing that seems very bad, and nothing that seems very good. Nothing is certain. Nothing." Miguel takes this in, his back still turned, and then picks up his coat, turns to her, and falls into her, pulling her into a rough hug. He holds her for a moment, pressing his mouth into her shoulder, and then apologizes, lets her go, and walks out. Susan presses her hands to her hairline, sighs loudly, and then snaps Miguel's film off the light box and hurries out of the room. Miguel Ferrer is such a good actor. He's like the white Don Cheadle.