The stitches have been snipped and tweezered, and I am more-or-less healed—once again. The popular term is NED, but these intervals between mets have a gloomy predictability that wreck my peace. Alas, what’s past is prologue. They’ve come once, twice, 15 times now. Like a panther, melanoma lurks in the shadows. I watch for the flash of its eyes, and sense its movement even when it can’t be seen. I'm hunted. Danger causes sinew to tighten and puts every nerve on end. I exhale, and am the better for not forgetting the cunning of my foe.