Page 19 of Hidden Nature

“I pointed that out to myself, which is why I’m not bitching. But—”

“Here it comes!”

“Not a bitch, just a fact. I still feel so wrong. Drea, I feel so wrong.”

“Here’s more fact.” Reaching down, blue eyes on Sloan’s green, she took her sister’s hand. “You look tired, and you’re pale, so you’ve done enough. So go in, do your breathing exercises, take a nap. Then get up and do it all again.”

“Bossy pants.”

“Worn with quiet pride and innate style. Come on.” Drea hooked her arm through Sloan’s and gave her little choice.

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Maybe.”

The answer made Sloan laugh. “Just talk them down from worrying about me when you can. It’s a weight. I don’t want to tell them it’s a weight. They’ll just worry more and try not to show it.”

“When they see you following doctor’s orders, they’ll worry less. And I’ll talk them down when I can because you’ll follow doctor’s orders.”

“That’s not a favor, that’s a deal.”

“Take or leave.”

“Take.” When they reached the front door, Sloan paused. “Start now.”

As she opened the door, Sloan plastered a smile on her face. “That felt good! Wore me out a little, which also feels good. I’m going up, do my breathing thing, maybe take a short nap.”

“If you need anything,” Elsie began.

“I got it all.” Deliberately, Sloan hung her coat in the closet, used the basket for her scarf, cap, gloves. “I plan to blow the doctor away at my follow-up.”

The stairs felt like a mountain, but she made it. She turned down the hall, used the bathroom to splash cool water on her face.

Her childhood bedroom, just across from it, held a bed with four short, turned posts and a snowy white duvet with a deep blue throw at its foot. The reading chair, another throw across its back, angled cozily in a corner.

Its walls, a misty, soothing blue, held the local art her parents collected. Springs and summers here, of the lake, the mountains, wildflowers streaming through the woods.

Because she’d made the deal, she did the breathing exercises, coughing, as instructed, after the long exhale.

It tired her, too, and made her grateful her mother had put a covered pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table.

Flowers—mums in rusts and golds—sat on her old dresser and gave a hint of spice to the air.

A short nap, she thought, and lay on top of the duvet, pulled the throw over her. Twenty minutes just to recharge.

She slept for ninety, and didn’t wake until the nightmare tossed her out of sleep.

The next day, Sloan laid out a routine. She showered, changed the dressing on her chest wound—which she assured herself was healing well. She studied her body, trying for dispassion.

Day One, she thought. A baseline. Yes, she looked frail. Yes, she’d lost weight and muscle tone. But she could stand and walk, and while things ached, she didn’t have active pain.

Like the chest wound, the one on her forehead would leave a scar. But they’d remind her she’d survived.

That made her a survivor.

She dressed, then considered makeup. Then decided some blush, mascara, all the rest wouldn’t fool anyone.

When she went downstairs, she found her parents lingering over coffee at the kitchen table. They both looked over at her, and she felt their study down to the bone.

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