Desi woke, feeling as though she’d fought a ship battle at sea.And lost.But there was no time for self-pity, no time for heartache, no time to remember a past she felt was more real than life itself.She had a business to rebuild and a sister to care for—her sister being her number one priority of the day.Though in real time, she’d only just seen her a few days ago, it seemed an eternity, and Desi was desperate to check in on her.
Downstairs, the phone’s ring echoed through the store that was still draped in darkness.Dropping her pack, Desi darted to answer it just as the key clanked and Camila swept in through the front door.
Desi picked up the receiver.“Ocean’s Echo,” but only a dial tone answered.
“Where’s that girl?”Desi slammed down the phone.
Camila flipped on the lights.“You mean Nova?”
“Is that her name?”Huffing, Desi glanced at the clock on the wall.9:15.For all Silvia’s faults, she’d always arrived on time to open the door, turn on the lights, and set things up for the day.
“Ah, she comes in later.”Camila sipped her coffee.“Besides, there’s no dives scheduled for today.”
Desi clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.“But there’s phones to answer, and who knows if a customer won’t walk through that door?”
Camila shrugged.“What can I say?”
“I’m heading over to my sister’s,” Desi announced.“Can you man the desk and—she glanced over the shop—tidy up the place, maybe sweep the floor?”
Camila’s eyes sharpened.“You didn’t hire me to be a maid, remember?”
At the moment, Desi was wondering why she’d hired her at all.And this Nova girl, too.
Rounding the counter, Camila plopped onto the stool.“Did you say your sister’s?As in her apartment?”
Desi picked up her pack.“Yes.”
“We moved her out of that place two weeks ago, remember?You still having brain problems?Maybe you got the bends from your dive.”
Blood raced from Desi’s heart.“Moved?Where to?”
“To the hospital.”Grabbing her phone, Camila began tapping on it, completely oblivious to the horror raging through Desi.
“Why?”Desi dared to ask.
“Because she’s in kidney failure.”
“I thought the dialysis was keeping her alive.”Desi had cornered Daria’s doctor as he exited her sister’s room at the ICU.
The corridor throbbed with noise and motion—nurses calling out vitals, monitors pinging, wheels squealing over linoleum.The air was sharp with alcohol and bleach, undercut by the metallic tang of iodine and something darker—decay, despair, death itself.It clung to her tongue until bile rose in her throat.
The doctor, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close and a neck too narrow for his head, studied the chart in his hand without looking at her.“Yes, it can prolong her life for years,” he said, voice flat with fatigue, “but I’m afraid your sister developed an infection.”
“What sort of infection?”
“A line infection.”He finally looked up, and the heaviness in his eyes snuffed out what remained of her hope.
“What line?”
“Most likely a staph infection from her dialysis catheter.”
Huffing, Desi glanced through the glass at her sister’s still form, barely a rise beneath the sheets, wires, and tubing snaking from her arms like cruel vines.“So, from your dialysis?”
The doctor pressed his lips together and nodded.“It happens more than you think.We’ve got her on antibiotics now.Unfortunately, we had to bump her down the transplant list.”
A nurse rushed up, shoving a clipboard into his hand.He signed without looking, his pen scratching like a verdict.Desi clenched her fists, forcing her tears back through sheer fury.
“You bumped her because of an infection your hospital gave her!”Her voice cracked as it rose, drawing startled glances from passing nurses.
