On the back, faded handwriting read:
For the days when neither of us feels brave.
“Grandma wrote that for Meryl,” Skyla said.
“She used to go with her to appointments and write down whatever the doctors said. Meryl told me she couldn’t make the illness disappear, but she could make sure her friend didn’t have to remember everything alone.”
She looked at me.
“I thought maybe I could do that for you.”
I couldn’t answer.
She touched the papers.
“I don’t have the money you’re asking for. But I found people who might help us understand what comes next.”
I looked at the worn recipe card, then at her ink-stained hands.
Five days of work, all because she’d believed me.
I tried thanking her, but my voice broke.
I covered my face and began sobbing.
Skyla moved closer.
“Archie?”
I shook my head, unable to stop crying.
“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
