Chapter 8: Spare Part

Verity was wearing a white wool coat with the collar turned up.

Her hair was loose and pale and perfect.

She'd lost weight since the dinner. I could see it in her wrists.

Moira stood in the doorway in her robe with her arms folded, blocking the house.

"She says she's your sister," Moira said. "I said I'd heard."

"It's okay," I said. "I'll talk to her."

"I'm staying right here."

"I know."

The kid's face appeared at the front window behind her, nose pressed to the glass.

Moira pointed at him without turning around, and he vanished.

I came out onto the porch in my socks.

The wind chimes knocked together over our heads.

Verity looked at the peeling paint, the plastic chairs, the recycling bin with a shark sticker on it.

"So this is where you live now."

"Top floor."

"Mom said you were in some kind of shelter."

"Mom says a lot of things to the radio."

Verity's eyes filled.

She was always good at that.

When we were little she could cry on cue for the nurses and get an extra popsicle, and I'd get nothing because I'd never learned how.

"I'm scared, Clare," she said. "My fistula's clotting. They might have to put a line in my neck. I can't sleep."

Her voice broke on the last word.

For one second I was nine again, in a hospital bed, wanting her to be okay so they'd stop needing me.

"I'm sorry it's clotting," I said, and meant it. "Have they talked to you about a graft?"

"I don't want a graft. I want my sister."

"You want my kidney."

"It's the same thing."

"It's not."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her silk sleeve.

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