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I roll my head around my shoulders, trying my best to loosen the knot beneath my skin. My spine pops. I feel like I’ve aged ten years in three days.

I grab my backpack from under the seat and sling it over my shoulder. My shirt is wrinkled, my deodorant is wearing off, and my face feels greasy. I walk down the corridor, nodding at one of the nurses, the one with the braids who keeps asking me if I’m okay. She gives me a soft smile, and I continue on my way.

In the bathroom, I pull out my Dopp kit and get myself cleaned up, changing out of my clothes and making myself presentable. Every day, I’ve been saying to myself that I need to look presentable in case Sable wakes up. And then, nothing.

My eyes are bloodshot. I have a mean five o’clock shadow. Bags are puffing up under my eyes.

And I don’t care about any of that.

I just want to see her.

I step out and follow the smell of coffee to the Starbucks on the bottom floor. I order coffee for everybody—Mila, Ebony, Mr. Andre, Sable’s stepfather, her aunts Tangie and Kim, and her uncle Ronnie. I gleaned those names through my research, and I know their coffee orders from listening in on conversations.

And then I order Sable’s.

A venti matcha latte. Oat milk. No foam. I get a straw, too, because she always stirs it with a straw before she takes a sip.

I carry the trays carefully back to floor eleven, where her people are still half-asleep, slumped in the waiting room chairs, shoes off, exhaustion on every face.

I set the drinks on the table and retreat to my corner of the room. Back to my post.

I place her cup on the table and stare at her name scrawled across in sharpie.

I reach for it with both hands. It’s hot against my palms. I lift it to my lips and take a small sip, just enough to taste what she tasted every morning, something that calmed her and gave her the energy to start her day. It’s sweet. Familiar.

And that’s all it takes.

My chest caves in. It’s like that one sip split something wide open inside me before I could stop it.

Now, I’m crying.

Hard.

The cup shakes in my hands. I drop my head, ashamed of the way my shoulders keep jerking. I feel like I’m gasping for breath. Like I’m drowning.

The last time I cried was when she sang to me, then held me in her arms. But those tears were happy. These are something so much worse.

I hear footsteps.

I glance up and see Ebony’s face.

She doesn’t say anything. She just sits in the seat next to me, hands folded in her lap. After a few minutes, she places one palm gently on my back.

I wipe my face quickly, trying my best to get it together.

“I…I didn’t realize you cared about her this much.”

I stare straight ahead. “Neither did I.”

She blows out a sigh. “I didn’t know who you were or what you were to her. That day y’all picked up the girls, I made some assumptions about you. I honestly thought the worst. So, I apologize.”

“To be honest, your assumptions were probably right.” I sit up straight, stretching my legs out in front of me. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’ve done some shit I’m not proud of. She knew, and she cared about me anyway.”

Ebony chuckles. “I’m not surprised.”

“She means a lot to me,” I admit. “In just that little bit of time we had together, she…she changed me. She showed me what it means to…” I trail off. “I don’t know. She’s warm. Her spirit is just so—“

“Preaching to the choir,” Ebony says. “I get it. But you know what they say about oldest daughters.”