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When Rose got to work on Monday, Tonya gently broke the news that one of the guests, Mrs. Pincher, had passed away in her sleep.

On the days guests died, things worked differently at the Hospice Care Center. The place buzzed with more activity—family who had to fill out paperwork and collect personal belongings; the funeral home people, obviously; staff working overtime to keep the other patients distracted and happy.

Tonya explained all this to Rose in the lounge area by the front desk. They sat side by side on the love seat, which was patterned with flowers in muted colors. Tonya patted Rose’s knee, her gel-manicured nails painted lilac and rounded at the tips. Tonya was nice. Instead of telling Rose to get back to being useful, she was trying to soften the blow about death and how it was a normal part of life.

“You know, I have mixed feelings about you young kids workin’ here. Sometimes I think, well, you really shouldn’t have to deal with a dead body right in the middle of a perfectly fine summer day.” She let out a tight breath. “But then again, I think maybe this is exactly what young people need from time to time. To be confronted with difficult things, to be better prepared to deal with them in the future.”

Cindy, the supervisor, stood in the hallway, giving an orderly directions, and a few of the staff hovered around the front desk, busy with documents and phone calls. But it was a subdued kind of frenzy. Just another death day in a place where death was par for the course.

“Mrs. Pincher was a nice old lady, and believe you me, she was ready to go,” Tonya said. “But days like these, I get a little jolt of a reminder to appreciate life.” She had to get back to work, but she told Rose she could have as much time as she needed to process her emotions. She probably thought Rose was shell-shocked about Mrs. Pincher’s death. But actually, the thing that pinned Rose to her seat with a clammy coldness was that she’d been told about Mrs. Pincher’s death days ago.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rose could see Heather down the hall, carrying a stack of laundered sheets in her arms like this was an ordinary day. Since she’d met Heather, Rose hadn’t known what to make of her. But at that very moment, everything inside of Rose told her to stay away from Heather Hargrove. And she really did try to. Until later that day, when Rose walked by the open medicine closet and peeked inside to find Heather, elbow-deep in meds.

The two girls froze, staring at each other. Rose’s mind pounded with questions. Primarily, why was Heather stealing drugs? And also, how had she bypassed the security measures that kept the controlled substance closet locked? Candy stripers were not allowed to administer medication. Meanwhile, Heather seemed only mildly annoyed at having been caught. “What? I’m grieving,” she said, as though that was all that needed to be said to explain her being here. “People love to forget about that. I’m all out of sorts, et cetera, et cetera.”

Rose stepped inside quickly and closed the door behind her. The closet was the same size as the guests’ rooms, filled with freestanding shelves that held bins and trays of medicine. Each tray belonged to a different guest. Rose’s eyes grew wide when she saw whose tray Heather was filching from. “Mrs. Pincher just died.”

“Which means she’s not gonna miss these.” Heather was only unscrewing the caps, pinching a few pills from each, then replacing the bottles. She hid the pills in different spots—a pocket, her purse. She even tossed one into her mouth. All told, it seemed like a lot of pills for just one girl.

“Aren’t you afraid of, I don’t know, dying?” Rose asked.

For some reason this made Heather laugh—an ugly wet snort—and she swiped the back of her wrist across her nose. “Dying’s not in the cards, sweet pea.” She spoke with the pill between her teeth like it was a piece of hard candy. Then she swallowed it dry. “I’m gonna live forever. I’m like a vampire that way.”

Rose increasingly wondered what Lowell saw in Heather. Stringing together a coherent conversation with her was a fool’s errand. And yet. Rose was a fool.

“You told me Mrs. Pincher was going to die,” she said. “How did you know that?”

“Uh, look around. Everyone here dies.” She dug into the shelves again, sticking her head in as far as it could fit to better read the labels. “Why do you think we call them guests? It’s ’cause they’re not staying long.”

When Heather pulled back from the shelves, her elbow clipped a vial and it crashed to the floor, splintering into a mess of glass shards in a clear liquid puddle. Rose reached for the stack of rags on the opposite shelf, grabbing one off the top. “Let me—”

“I don’t need your help,” Heather said, crouching down to pick up the pieces.

“You shouldn’t touch—” Rose began, but her words were cut off by the hiss Heather made as she winced. A streak of blood beaded across her palm. So she was mortal after all.

Rose pressed the rag into Heather’s hand. A brittle breath left Heather’s lips, and Rose was sure it wasn’t from pain but from frustration, Heather being hard on herself for doing things too rashly. But when Rose looked up from the bloody rag, she was shocked to see Heather’s eyes brimming with tears.

“Hey,” Rose said softly. “It’s okay.”

Heather bent her head, her hair falling over the sides of her face, blocking Rose’s view of her. She shook her head without saying anything, but the tears were coming in earnest, flowing out of her. And Rose realized that maybe Heather hadn’t been exaggerating earlier. She was grieving. She was all out of sorts. And if she needed to have a good cry, Rose was going to let her. She turned Heather’s hand up, lifting the rag to check on the cut. It wasn’t bleeding as much anymore. Rose stretched the fabric so she could more properly wrap it like a bandage. And Heather watched without a word. She lifted her head and sniffed, wiping her wet face with her other hand. “This always happens,” Heather murmured.

Rose tried not to show any judgment or alarm, but she couldn’t help wondering just how many times Heather had stolen medicine from work, breaking vials in the process. “It’s okay,” she said, trying to calm her. “It’s just a scratch. We’ll clean this up.”

“You always do this,” Heather said, chin quivering, trying to hold back an onslaught of new tears.

Rose was confused. “I always…?”

“I do something stupid and I hurt myself and you help me,” Heather said, tucking her chin low, trying to hide her glassy eyes. “I cut myself and sometimes it’s a scratch and sometimes it’s a bloody shitshow and you patch me up. Every time. Even now. Even when I’m so mean to you.”

Her words died in her throat, replaced by a sob. Rose wasn’t sure how to react. All she could do was press the rag into Heather’s palm and hold her hand. Clearly, the drug Heather had swallowed had already taken effect. And it had obviously been a downer.

Rose helped Heather up, but before she could say anything, Heather, seeming embarrassed, shouldered past her and got out of the closet, leaving Rose totally dazed and with a mess at her feet.

It had been a strange day. And by the end of it, when Rose went to get her stuff, she spotted Heather’s phone in the adjacent cubby, forgotten. Despite it being a new model, its screen was shattered. Slotted in the back of its case were Heather’s license and a credit card. Which meant Rose held just about all the things Heather probably couldn’t live without. And there was no way to call her and let her know to come pick it up.

Rose could’ve just left the phone there. Pretend she hadn’t even seen it.

But she let out a long sigh. “Damn you, Heather Hargrove.”