“No, we don’t. She’s always sick after the treatments. She’ll be better tomorrow.”
He glared at her. “And then you can go home.”
His grandma looked up at the ceiling and sighed, then she rubbed her face with her hands,
and he was surprised to see that she was angry, really angry. But maybe not at him.
He took out another cloth and started wiping again, just so he wouldn’t have to look at her.
He wiped all the way over to the sink and happened to glance out of the window.
The monster was standing in his back garden, big as the setting sun, watching him.
“She’ll seem better tomorrow,” his grandma said, her voice huskier, “but she won’t be, Conor.”
Well, this was just wrong. He turned back to her. “The treatments are making her better,” he said. “That’s why she goes.”
His grandma just looked at him for a long minute, like she was trying to decide something.
“You need to talk to her about this, Conor,” she finally said.
Then she said, as if to herself, “She needs to talk about this with you.”
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