When I last spoke with Brian, you were still out of town. In case you are checking your mail, you should know that Win is still with us. Fading, unresponsive, but here.
I think she’s waiting for you.
Let me know when you’re back.
X
Abigail
I look at the date of the message: this was sent two hours ago.
I stand up so abruptly that both Meret and Wyatt turn in unison. “Everything all right?” he murmurs, getting to his feet.
“I need to go see someone. A client.”
“Now?” Wyatt looks down at Meret. “Don’t cheat,” he says, and he pulls me into the hallway. “Someone who’s dying?”
“Yes,” I reply, impatient. “That’s what happens to my clients. I need to sit vigil.”
“Olive, is that really a good idea? You’re barely out of surgery—”
“I’m not dying,” I say simply. “She is.”
He nods. “All right. Get what you need and I’ll take you.”
It never occurred to me that he would think to come. But there are things I have to say to Win, confidences that can only stay between us.
“I need you to stay here,” I say gently. “To babysit till Brian gets home.”
Wyatt rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not babysitting when it’s your kid,” he replies.
—
THEUBER DRIVERdrops me off at Win’s house and I find the key that they used to leave for me under a flowerpot to let myself in. “Hello?” I call out. “Felix?”
The rooms are dark, musty. But the kitchen is clean and the dishes are all rinsed on a rack. It’s clear that Abigail has been taking care of them, as the inevitable hurtles closer.
“Dawn?”
Felix has gotten so thin that his clothes hang from his shoulders and hips. His hair is matted down on his scalp, and I would guess that he hasn’t had a shower in a couple of days. His eyes are red, with weariness and tears.
I fold him into my embrace, feeling him shudder against me. “It’s going to be all right,” I murmur. “I’m here to support you both.”
He draws back, as if he hasn’t trusted his own eyesight. His gaze locks on my scar and the shaved swath of my head. “What…what happened to you?”
“It’s a very long story and it’s not important right now,” I tell him. “You are.Winis. I’d love to see her, if that’s all right.”
Abigail is sitting beside Win when we enter her room, reading aloud from a novel. Her eyebrows fly up to her hairline as she looks at me, at my angry red wound, but she is a professional. Instead of making this about me, she says, “Win, Dawn’s come to see you.”
She puts the book aside and stands up, relinquishing her chair to me. A host of unspoken communication passes between us—gratitude, curiosity, and acknowledgment. I reach for Win’s hand, which is a canvas of skin stretched over bone. Her eyes are dark hollows, her cheekbones are blades. We are the same age, but she looks double her years. Her breathing is erratic and soupy. “Cheyne-Stokes?” I murmur.
Abigail nods. “All morning. She’s been unresponsive about twelve hours now.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m glad you made it.”
Because there isn’t much more time.
She turns a soft smile on Felix. “Why don’t you freshen up, and I’ll make some fresh coffee while Win and Dawn visit?”
He nods, grateful to be told what to do. Following directions is so much easier than staring the unknown in the face.
