Cancer-associated fibroblasts are like the overgrown bunds around my field that hide the pests—they wrap the tumour and call out wrong signals to the immune cells. They tell the soldiers to stand down, so the bad thing grows safe. But from this hospital bed, the doctors say my immunotherapy is *breaking* that call—so my life says they can be made to stop. The scan last week showed my tumours shrinking, like seeing the first good rain after a long summer.
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