Walking up the steps to the Venice bungalow, my body trembles as my knuckles rap upon the door. I’m an unexpected, and hopefully not unwelcome, visitor on this drearisome day before Anna’s double mastectomy.
Anna opens the door. Her pale skin and red eyes show her disease is getting the best of her. “Hey,” I whisper, nudging my head to encourage her outside. With what I need to do I’d prefer if Donovan didn’t know I was here.




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