Then she reached for the mystery novel on her bedside table.
“Chapter twelve,” she said quietly.
So I read.
The surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday.
In the days leading up to it, Sophie grew quieter. Not distant exactly, but inward. She listened to doctors, signed forms, and accepted visitors with a kind of composed politeness that worried me more than tears would have.
The night before surgery, a storm moved over Chicago.
Rain streaked the hospital windows, turning the city lights into long, trembling lines.
Linda had gone back to Sophie’s apartment to shower and sleep for a few hours. I stayed, sitting beside the bed while Sophie picked at a cup of gelatin she clearly didn’t want.
“You can stop pretending that tastes good,” I said.
She glanced at me. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”
“That dessert has no relationship with optimism.”
“It’s cherry.”
