Chapter 7: The Stairwell

I took the stairs because I could not stand the elevator.

I made it down two flights before the room started to tilt.

The chemo had left me with a hum behind my eyes all week, and the speech had used the last of what I had.

I sat on a concrete step, put my head between my knees, and breathed.

The stairwell door opened above me.

Quick footsteps came down, and a hand touched my shoulder.

"Willa? Oh my gosh. Are you okay?"

It was Tatum, with her pink dress and her clip and a cup of water she must have grabbed from the cooler.

She crouched in front of me and held it out.

I took it.

I drank half and she waited, her brown eyes wide and kind.

"You scared me," she said. "You went white at the front of the room. I thought you'd fall."

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that." She sat down on the step beside me, close, with her knees pressed together. "You're not fine, though. Are you?"

I didn't answer.

She looked at the cap, and then down at the scarf.

"My aunt wore one of those," she said. "For eleven months."

"It's cold in the office."

"Willa. It's okay."

Her voice had gone quieter and lower.

It was still sweet, but the sweetness had come off the top of it, and what was underneath did not sound anything like a girl of twenty-two.

"I've known since August," she said.

I set the cup on the step.

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