We met because she was using the one working vending machine on our floor, and I accused her of buying the last chocolate cookies.

She said I was too slow.

I said she was a criminal.

We became friends that day.

I made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Hannah had loved chocolate cookies.

I had spent months persuading her to eat anything, and I could picture her standing beside a vending machine, mock-offended by a stranger’s snack.

Sometimes we sat together and played cards.