As we sat in Mama’s kitchen, watching her prepare dinner, I grasped Colin’s hand under the table.
His clammy hand.
After the visit to the doctor—which hadn’t been as bad as I’d expected—we’d headed over to Gracie’s. She’d insisted on showing Colin her studio apartment on the fourth floor of the old building. She paid an excessive amount for rent every month, but she was also central to much of LA and only about a mile from the restaurant where she worked. I’d given her my old car when I’d upgraded to the SUV, knowing I’d be driving around a lot more than before.
Colin had made all the right noises about Gracie’s eclectic design choices, but I saw his mind was still back at the doctor’s.
Getting better. When it clears, we’ll get you on the transplant list.
Getting better. When it clear
