28 candles flickering.
I close my eyes and make a wish.
I can’t tell you what it is, that would be bad luck.
28 years old, her chart reads.
Triple-negative invasive breast cancer.
What, I wondered, did she wish for?
She can’t tell me, that would be bad luck.
A half-collapsed cake in the corner of the break room.
Sticky plastic knives resting on crumbs and smeared frosting.
A sad pile of sugar trying to sustain the entire third floor of the hospital.
I close my eyes and make a wish for her.
I can’t tell you what it is, that would be bad luck.