I stared at the crisp black words on the screen.

A second notification chimed right after the first.

Thirty individual portions of the layered lemon dessert, the next text read.

Melissa wants them assembled in small glass jars by four o’clock Sunday afternoon.

My thumb froze over the screen.

I read the line three times, waiting for the words to turn into something that made sense.

She knew I was sitting five floors away from my kitchen with an IV still taped to the back of my hand.

She had stood outside my daughter’s unit less than twenty-four hours ago.