“She never told me.”

“She might have thought you’d turn it into a spreadsheet,” Clara said.

“I absolutely would have.”

And for a brief moment the air in the room changed.

It wasn’t cheerful.

It wasn’t the sort of relief that came when a diagnosis improved.

It was something else: Hannah existed in memories I hadn’t been present for.

She had managed a friendship, jokes, small adventures, despite spending so much of her last year between medical appointments.