Dear Tom Batiuk;

Tom, we know. We know that Lisa's dying. We know it's cancer, and we know it's awful. We understand that life is hard, and capricious and unfair. We knew that when Lisa got pregnant in high school. We knew that when you took Becky's arm, hit Funky between the eyes with the booze and a failed marriage and walloped Lisa with cancer the first time. We knew it too when Wally got shot down in Afghanistan and then nearly blown to bits by a landmine. We know that you're on a mission to tell it like it is. But this is enough. Let her go. We have learned all there is to learn here and the rest is just piling on.

Of course, I'm going to read right through to the end of the week. This looks like the end, and I know enough about the structure of the weekly comic to know that the punchline will be on Saturday. Only none of us will be laughing. You could have faded to black and no one would have accused you of blinking. But I guess we're in for it. You could have spared us the bitter end. We would have known.