He’d looked concerned, but let her go, hiring a car to take her. Wendy had almost told the driver to turn around several times, and again at the gates she’d almost panicked and fled. Now, as she follows the nurse, Wendy’s fear shifts to something else. There’s a sense of dislocation, as if she’s floating. She isn’t afraid; she feels almost giddy, and that seems wrong.

She glances at the faces of the patients they pass. Most keep their heads lowered, not even looking up as she goes by. She remembers doing the same, ignoring the outside world as a matter of survival. If they did look up, would any of them recognize her? And would it make their lives better or worse? Would her being here give them hope they might leave one day, too, or would they simply resent her for having freedom they do not?

Lucky, she tries to remind herself how lucky she is, how little separates her from the patients around her. After everything, John didn’t give up on her. How many of these patients have brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, still hoping for their cure?

The nurse opens the door to one of the small sitting rooms, and Wendy’s heart takes a moment to forget how to beat. The room is empty save for Mary sitting in one of two chairs by the window, silhouetted against the bright winter sky. How should Wendy act? What will she say? All the ease between them has fled from her mind, as though they’re meeting again for the first time. Will Mary resent her? What will they talk about, now that they no longer know every single detail of each other’s lives day to day?

At that moment, Mary looks up from the embroidery hoop in her lap, and her face splits into a smile—sun breaking through the clouds—showing the gap between her teeth, and Wendy’s fear drops away. She forgets the nurse standing in the doorway, forgets everything and runs to Mary. They collide halfway across the room, crushing each other in a hug, breathless and laughing, both trying to talk at once.

“I’m so glad you—”

“I didn’t know if—”

They stop, staring at each other in wonder, and laugh again. When Wendy looks around, the nurse is gone, and they’re alone. She squeezes Mary’s hands, the calluses and warm skin familiar under her fingertips, and leads Mary back to the chairs. They sit, knees almost touching, and Wendy keeps hold of Mary’s hands. Now that she is here, she never wants to let go again.

“Tell me everything. How are they treating you? Are you all right?” The words rush out; she can’t stop staring at Mary, scarcely able to believe she’s real.

“Nothing ever changes.” Wendy’s heart drops, but Mary’s lips shape a mischievous expression, and there’s a glint in her eye. Wendy’s heart turns again, a complicated feeling. She thinks of Mary sneaking through the corridors, pulling off little thefts, all the trouble she might be getting into while avoiding getting caught. She should be here by Mary’s side.