in soft creams and blues, with fresh peonies on the ni

ravel grime. She stood under the water, letting it was

aced by a creeping chill that had nothing to do with temp

of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the dark g

t. It was thinner, paler, hooked up to mach

e memories hit her like a phys

ting by the bed, his handsome face twisted in a mask of guilt an

take. But she's sick now. Aplastic anemia. S

he wanted to prove she was the better person. She had let

e. The infection that set in after the harvest. The fever that wouldn't brea

the photos on Instagram. Gorden and Bettye, healthy and tanned, sipping cocktails on

until her throat bled. But no one came. The nurses though

of marrow, discarde

the floor, her knees pressed to her chest, her n

r. She pressed her hands against the cool glass,

ered to the woman in t

ed like ash in her mouth. They were nothing. Th

s too good for them. It required energy

the man who had earned it. To

through her contacts until she found Dalton's name. She star

lay down, forcing her breathing to slow. Sh

to be perfe