CHAPTER 4
All the rest of the weekend, Breanne waited for Nick to call, but he didn't. On Sunday, rather than sit around ruminating, she took the bus to The Hospice of St. Francis to see her foster mother, Joyce Miller.
Walking through the attractive lobby, made cozy with blue flowered sofas, she headed down the hall to the row of rooms where terminally ill residents lived out their final weeks in comfort. She knocked and entered the familiar room, to see Joyce sitting up in her chair, looking out the window at the garden and inhaling the fragrance of flowers through the screen.
Her poor hair, Breanne thought, grieved as always at the sight. I remember when it was long and glossy and dark brown, rather like my own.
“Joyce?”
The woman turned slowly, as though the movement hurt. “Hi, ho
