How to Save a Life Read Free Page B

front of the entrance before going inside. “Get it together, Jill,” I say aloud. I sniff, wipe my eyes, take a deep breath, and walk through the front door.
    The groundskeeper from earlier is still here, but he’s rolling the hose up now and tucking it into a cabinet near the welcome desk. He spots me as I make a beeline across the atrium.
    “It’s you again!” he says with a smile.
    “Yup,” is all I manage in reply before I reach the open elevator. I turn around as the doors slide closed, just in time to see him staring after me, looking confused.
    The doors slide open on my floor, and when I get out, I’m relieved that Sheila isn’t at the nursing station down the hall, as she often is, because seeing her would entirely undo the composure I’ve managed to carefully patch together. I’m milliseconds away from shattering if someone looks at me the wrong way, so I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with everyone as I grab my iPad from behind the nursing station and head down the hall to check on fifteen-year-old Katelyn, who is essentially out of therapeutic options now that her leukemia has relapsed. Bone-marrow transplants and chemo no longer seem to be having an effect, and her doctors are at an impasse.
    “Jill?” she asks as I enter, head down, pretending to be absorbed in my notes.
    “Hmm?”
    “What’s wrong?”
    I look up to see her sitting up in her hospital bed, her collarbone too sharp and bony over the top of her hospital gown. She’s bald thanks to her last round of chemo, her head smooth as an egg, but she’s still lovely. Radiant, in fact, despite her hospital-pale skin.
    “Nothing, honey,” I say. “Actually, I’m feeling a lot better now.”
    “Did you have another headache?” She’s staring at me like she can see right through me.
    “I should never have told you about the headaches. That was pretty unprofessional of me.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Jill, I see you more than I see my parents. You practically live here, and so do I. How would you not tell me about the headaches when anyone can see how much they bother you?”
    “True. But I’m feeling okay now, thanks.” I smile. “So? How are you feeling?”
    She shrugs. “Groggy. Nauseous. The usual.”
    I lower the iPad. “Katelyn, you’re going to feel better soon. You always do, honey.”
    She holds my gaze for a beat too long. “You’re right. It’ll all be over soon.”
    I check her BP and temperature and leave, feeling unsettled by the conversation, though I can’t put my finger on why.
    Frankie, the sixteen-year-old with osteosarcoma, isn’t technically on my list of patients for the day, but I swing by his room anyhow, slipping on a mask before I enter to protect his suppressed immune system from my germs. He’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever met, despite the fact that his cancer is considered terminal. He both baffles and charms me in equal measure.
    “Hey, Frankie,” I say, trying to sound chipper instead of shattered as I enter his room. He’s reading a tattered copy of War and Peace , his forehead scrunched in concentration. His chemo treatments are over, so his thick dark hair has begun to grow back. He has big green doe eyes, the kind girls would be going crazy for in a few years if he lived that long, and they always seem filled with wisdom. “Well, that’s not exactly light reading, is it?” I add, nodding to the book as I check his IV.
    He looks up and smiles. “Just trying to get through all the classics.”
    I give him a look. “I’ve never seen you reading before.”
    He laughs. “You see me reading every day.”
    I don’t say anything, because I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’ve known him for two years, and I’ve never seen a book in his hand before. He’s usually on his iPad, playing video games.
    “I can tell you don’t believe me,” he says a minute later. “So ask me anything. Any classic.”
    “Okay.” I rack my destroyed brain. “Fine. What