I’d do anything for her and Rosa. Including letting them baby me back to health.
“Tell Rosa she’s outdone herself,” I say after finishing my soup.
Anne’s face lights up. “I will. She worries about you.” She takes the bowl from my hands and gives me the tea instead. She smooths out the blanket over my legs, reaches around me, and fluffs my pillows as much as she’s able, then she lays her wrist against my forehead again, between sips. She nods once, in her curt, efficient way, when she’s satisfied the fever hasn’t returned.
Right. Rosa worries.
My heart swells. Another side-effect of my illness is increased sentimentality—as evidenced by me crying to the music earlier—but my sister wouldn’t approve of any overt displays of affection, so I play along. “Tell Rosa not to worry so much. I fe
