Page 38 of Thor

The vegetables went in next, softening in the fat left behind by the meat. Then wine to deglaze, scraping up the browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Stock, herbs, the return of the meat, potatoes last so they wouldn't overcook. I covered the pot and reduced the heat, letting time do the rest of the work.

The familiar routine steadied me. This, at least, I could control—this small act of nurturing when everything else felt helpless. I couldn't fix Amy's illness. I couldn't take away Mandy's pain. But I could feed her, keep her warm, make sure she wasn't alone with her fear.

I washed my hands and dried them on a dish towel, watching Mandy from across the room. Her breathing had deepened slightly, though I could tell from the tension in her shoulders that she wasn't asleep. Just retreated into herself, conserving energy, processing.

The stew needed time to simmer, flavors melding into something greater than their parts. I moved back to the living room, careful to make enough noise that she'd hear me coming. Her eyes opened as I approached, that same hollow look still present but perhaps a fraction less empty.

"Food will be ready in about forty minutes," I said, sitting in the armchair across from her rather than crowding her space on the couch. "Can I get you anything while we wait? Water? Tea?"

She shook her head slightly, then seemed to reconsider. "Water would be . . . nice. Thank you."

The politeness was reflexive, I could tell, but at least she was responding. I fetched a glass of water and placed it on the coffee table within her reach.

"You don't have to take care of me," she said quietly as I sat back down.

"I know." I kept my voice matter-of-fact, not pushing or prodding. "I want to."

Something flickered across her face—confusion, maybe, or disbelief. Like the concept of being cared for without an agenda was foreign to her. It made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.

Thestewhadbeensimmering for nearly an hour when I ladled it into deep bowls, steam rising in fragrant curls. I set one in front of Mandy, who hadn't moved much from her spot on the couch. The spoon clinked softly against the ceramic as I placed it beside the bowl, the sound sharp in the quiet cabin. She stared down at the food like she'd forgotten what to do with it, her hands still twisting restlessly in her lap.

"You should eat," I said, settling in the armchair with my own bowl. "Even just a little."

She nodded mechanically but made no move toward the food. The stew's rich aroma filled the space between us—beef, herbs, red wine, comfort—but it couldn't penetrate whatever wall had gone up inside her.

"It was bad today," she finally said, voice barely audible above the ticking of the clock and the occasional pop from the fireplace. I went still, listening, giving her words the space they needed.

"Amy?" I prompted gently when she didn't continue.

She nodded, fingers moving from her lap to the edge of the coffee table, tracing its wooden grain like she was reading braille. "The doctor says her white cell count is way down. They're concerned about infection."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. I set my bowl aside, food forgotten in the face of her pain.

"She looked so small in that hospital bed." Mandy's eyes remained fixed on the table edge, not seeing it at all. "Amy's never small. She's the loud one, the brave one. She backpacked through Europe alone. Climbed mountains. Told off catcallers in three languages." A ghost of a smile touched her lips before vanishing. "But today, under those hospital blankets with all the machines beeping . . . she just looked small."

I kept silent, sensing she needed to get this out without interruption. The cabin creaked gently around us, old timbers settling as the night deepened. Outside, an owl called once, then fell silent.

"They say she'll probably be fine in the end," Mandy continued, her green eyes finally lifting to meet mine. Something in my chest tightened at the raw fear I saw there. "The type of leukemia she has—it's treatable. Good survival rates, the doctors keep saying. Eighty-five percent make it five years or more."

She swallowed hard. "But what about the other fifteen percent? And what about the suffering between now and then? You should have seen her today when the reaction hit. Her whole body just . . . seized up. She couldn't breathe. There were alarms going off, and nurses running, and for a minute I thought—"

Her voice broke off, the memory too fresh to articulate.

"Watching her suffer through it . . ." She shook her head, copper hair falling across her face. "I keep thinking about how unfair it is. She's so young. She had plans—was going to start her own event planning business this year. Now everything's on hold while she fights this."

I leaned forward slightly, elbows on my knees. "Your sister sounds like a fighter."

"She is." Mandy's fingers curled into loose fists on her thighs. "Stubborn as hell. Always has been. When we were kids, she once stood in the rain for three hours because our dad bet her she couldn't stay outside during a thunderstorm." The memory brought another fleeting smile. "She caught pneumonia, but she won the bet."

"Sounds like someone who won't give up easily," I offered.

"No, she won't." Tears welled in Mandy's eyes, and she blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. "But that's almost worse, watching her fight so hard and still get knocked down by this . . . this invisible enemy. And I can't do anything but sit there and hold her hand."

She took a shaky breath. "I'm supposed to protect her. I promised our parents when they died that I'd take care of her."

This was new information, something she hadn't shared during our previous conversations. "When did you lose them?" I asked quietly.

"Car accident, seven years ago." Her voice flattened, the way people's do when they've rehearsed a painful story too many times. "Drunk driver hit them head-on. I was twenty-two, just starting my career. Amy was in her first year of college."

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