Hermione shrugged. “It's not like I'm going to live long enough to get laid anyway. Besides, I know what I look like. No wigs will make this hotter. Or give me boobs.” She pointed at her braless, flat chest.
Clarissa handed Hermione the ties to her All American, All anger robe. “Who knows? Maybe once you're off the meds, things'll change.”
Her wishful thinking made Hermione snort as she belted it back on. “Don’t bullshit me by pretending there’s a future. I don’t have one. The cancer always comes back. We should have stopped after the third failed bone marrow transplant.”
That gave Clarissa pause. “Have you talked to your doctors or your parents about that?”
Hermione's lip trembled. “I'm thirteen. Ninety percent of kids with ALL can be cured. They're—none of them are ready to stop. If we buy more time, science will find a new, wonderful discovery to save me—like the four random immunotherapy trials I’m in line for.”
Her conclusions weren’t wrong. For children with difficult-to-treat cancer, the last resorts were experimental pharmaceutical immunotherapy trials. Occasionally, they won the science lottery, which was awesome, unless you were in the 99.99% who wasn’t that lucky.
“Do you want me to bring it up?” Clarissa ventured, hoping she wasn’t driving far out of her lane. She wasn’t even on the heme-onc service. Her only job was to do admits and take calls one night out of every four.
Hermione rubbed at her watering eyes. “Nah. They don't want to hear it. Eventually, it'll work out on its own. Any day, I’ll get sepsis, and that’ll be it. I’ve heard it’s pretty fast.”
Clarissa nodded. Fatalistic as it might have been, Hermione wasn’t wrong. “Okay.”
Besides, Hermione wasn’t actively expressing suicidal ideations, she didn't have to take any particular action. With Hermione being this open with a stranger, the odds her caseworker, social worker, parents, and heme-onc specialist hadn’t heard it yet were basically zero.
Though there was something she could do for Hermione.
“Hey,” Clarissa tried to be casual. “I have a friend who might have an in with Valkyrie Stormflyght. Might be able to get you some signed merch or something. Would it be okay if I got permission from your mom to get in touch with them?”
That got a very age appropriate response. “No way, bruh! You could? Do you have to ask my mom? She's not a fan of their music or the lyrics or their really hot bodies and shirtlessness.”
Clarissa laughed. “You think I can't sell the sad littlest cancer patient to your mom? Really?”
Hermione started to giggle herself, sounding finally like a teenage girl. “Okay, that's totally true. And, um, sorry about the stuff I said about your hair, weight, and sex orgies.”
Clarissa gathered up her papers. “Don't worry. As I said, there's definitely been worse. And remember, I’m making no promises, okay?”
It took Clarissa an extra layer of infection control to leave the positive pressure room with its two sets of doors. She had to wait for the doors closest to Hermione to close before exiting through the second outer set, with an odd whoosh of air. It was the opposite of the PICU’s negative pressure rooms that they used to suck the air in, preventing infected air of Tuberculosis, chicken pox, and measles from spreading through the hospital. Hermione’s was designed to push the air out of the room, preventing airborne infections from entering.
She sat down at a nearby alcove and dialed Lillian's number on the closest hospital phone. Cell phone reception was spotty and data didn’t always work in real time, so a direct line was best for this.
“Hey, it's Clarissa. Lillian, are you home already?” There were odd noises in the background.
Lillian’s greeting was breathless and didn’t answer her question. “Are you okay? Everything okay? Everything okay? Everything's good? Sean, go away. Back off.”
“All good. Did I catch you at home?” According to Clarissa’s calculation, it hadn’t been quite an hour since they’d parted ways.
“Yes, just got to Sean’s place. He needs to keep his hands to himself.” Despite the last sentence, Lillian didn’t give the impression of being remotely unhappy, since her tone sparkled with what Clarissa imagined was smiles. Clarissa wondered if she gave off the same happy vibe when interacting with Roan. “What's up?”
“This might be a bit much, but can I call in that heavy metal band favor?” Lillian had offered up contact with the band back in February for a dying pregnant patient that Clarissa had helped with. “She’s getting chemo, so could we get her signed Valkyrie Stormflyght merch? She loves them in an almost disturbing way.”
“How old is she and how disturbing?” Lillian asked as there were more sounds in the background.
“Thirteen. She has the robe, bag, hairbrush, pillowcase, and a wig, so a true fan. Only disturbing because she told me about missing a concert where the lead singer almost died, a Sorceress movie premiere, and a secret identity reality show with a Magic Tiger.”
There was masculine laughter in the background that ended in what sounded like a slap. “Boy. Go stand in the corner.”
“Everything okay?” None of that sounded like the normal bashful Lillian.
“It’s fine. Someone has to learn to behave himself.” Lillian returned to her usual voice. “Sadly, everything your patient said is pretty much correct. She’s not a stalker, just a fan.”
Another sign Clarissa had been trapped in an extremely fun sex and less fun residency bubble. “Good to hear. Think you can help her out?”
“Yes,” someone, likely Sean, called out.
