For the love of blood…
Thalia tapped her slippered foot.
Nia had the whole crew in a kerfuffle after a hit-every-red-light —— high-traffic —— four-additional-mile-detour —— drive. Despite all that, wearing her classy head covering, Typist was only two minutes late.
Her smile had faded a bit, but nobody could tell on a count of the still mandatory mask she was steaming up. Too hot, Typist removed the beanie. If you can’t go bald at the cancer center, where else can you? Bald has its benefits.
Calliope worried a button on her sleeve. “Her blood pressure is going to be through the roof!”
“Let’s just hope the blood is meaty with red cells, white cells, and platelets.” Nia made sure the clasp to Typist’s necklace was at the back of her neck. The Muse of Determination took a deep inhale and released it to a count of eight. “Do you think all of the well-wishes and prayers are helping? Even the new friend we met at the dog park added Typist’s name to a prayer list.”
“Helping!” Cal and Tal nodded. “How can it not?”
A word from Typist:
All of my self talk on the drive couldn’t override my hearts tripity-trapity at an elevated pace.
I’m here. I’ve written to you. I feel better.
Thank you for hearing me.