Elsie Tolley's channels began to fail two days early.
Doctor Marrow called at 11:40 at night, and she did not waste words. "She's destabilising. The last dose is running out faster than it should. I think the stress of the flood news, the clinic, all of it, has sped things up." A pause. "I don't have six days. I might have two."
I was in the kitchen with Stella, who had woken from a bad dream and wanted cocoa and a story, in that order. She was sitting on the counter in her butterfly pyjamas, swinging her feet, watching me with the expression she wore whenever she knew something was wrong and was deciding whether to ask.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," I told Marrow.
"Who was that?" Stella asked when I hung up.
"A doctor. There's a girl who's sick. About your age."
Stella considered this. "Is she going to be all right?"
