She runs her fingers along Zoe’s forehead where once her hairline had been. It had been such beautiful hair, so thick and shiny, just like Jess’s. Now all Audrey has left of Zoe’s hair are photographs and the single envelope of locks that she keeps tucked away in a box at the back of her wardrobe, hidden from Edward, who thinks it macabre.

She leans over, kisses her daughter’s bare scalp, breathes in a smell that she silently implores to be different: she wants it to be the sweet, fragrant, childlike scent of Zoe’s first ten years, not this sour bitterness which seems to ooze from her pores as if the leukemia is leaking out through her skin.

From the kitchen two floors below Audrey hears a loud clatter and silently curses the disruption. It is probably Edward organizing the girls’ breakfasts or emptying the dishwasher. She and Edward have not spoken since their disagreement yesterday afternoon. Audrey has kept vigil by Zoe’s bed overnight while Edward has assumed the household responsibilities that had, not so long ago, been Audrey’s domain. His belief in miracles has wedged itself between them and neither of them has the strength to close the gap.

She strokes Zoe’s bare head, brushes her fingers across her forehead, over her temple, behind her ear, following the same path again and again, just as she has so many times throughout Zoe’s childhood.

Stroke my hair to sleep, Mummy.

When she was little, Zoe would ask it almost every night as she clambered under the duvet, Jess in the bunk either above or below, the two of them taking turns each night as to who would sleep on top. Often, in the morning, Audrey would find them curled up in the same bed, their limbs tangled, flesh pressed together as though—even seven, eight, nine years after their birth—their bodies still craved being entwined in a confined space. Audrey would sit or stand by the bed, stroking Jess or Zoe’s hair, and sing to them both—“Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” “Hush Little Baby,” “My Favorite Things”—until her daughters’ breathing deepened, lengthening into that heavy, satisfied sleep in which they would remain until morning.

Now when Audrey runs her fingers along Zoe’s skin it is arid and unyielding, like writing paper puckered by dried tears.

Zoe’s eyes are closed and Audrey tries to convince herself that her daughter is asleep and dreaming, even though she knows Zoe is in something much deeper than sleep.

Morning creeps around the edge of the curtains, creating a thin shaft of light on the tiny blue hummingbirds that decorate the wallpaper. The silence is punctuated by the short, shallow breaths that rattle through Zoe’s body. They seem to serrate her throat on the way down, get caught somewhere between her lips and her lungs, forcing her to arch her neck as if trying to clear a safe passage for air to pass through. There is an invisible snag somewhere inside Zoe’s windpipe that Audrey can neither see nor cure, but she hears it, feels it as though it is reverberating through her own body.