“Because dying women shouldn’t have to rent dignity.”
The kitchen went silent.
My mother covered her mouth.
My father looked away.
And I hated Owen a little less.
We drove to the appointment in his old black truck.
Not glamorous.
Not actor-ish.
The passenger seat had receipts in the door and a tiny plastic dinosaur taped to the dashboard.
I pointed at it.
“Yours?”
“My niece’s.”
“Does she know you kidnapped it?”
“She says it’s not kidnapped if it’s guarding me.”
I looked out the window.
The morning was too bright.
That felt offensive.
When your life is ending, the world should at least have the decency to dim the sun.
Owen handed me the coffee at a red light.
“I didn’t know what you drink.”
“What is it?”
“Coffee.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is if you’re emotionally exhausted.”
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