She was sitting in the waiting room chair, elbows on her knees, hair pulled back like she’d done when we were kids and late for school. Her eyes were red. She looked exhausted in a way that went beyond a bad night’s sleep.
“I drove,” she said before I could speak. “Eleven hours.”
Later I learned she hadn’t slept at all. A cousin had mentioned my diagnosis in passing. My sister didn’t call. She didn’t text. She got in her car and drove through the night.
