Sarah had always been beautiful in an unpolished, radiant way.

Dark hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that made her fifth-grade students trust her instantly.

But the frail, skeletal woman lying in the hospital bed looked as though the world had erased her with a dry, abrasive brush. Her cheekbones protruded sharply.

Her skin was the waxy, translucent color of old parchment. An oxygen cannula rested beneath her nose, and a cardiac monitor ticked out a fragile, failing rhythm beside her head.

I dropped my heavy bag onto the linoleum and crossed the room before my brain consciously registered the movement.

“Sarah,” I whispered, my voice breaking into a jagged sob.