3: 3
I didn't answer her. I pulled my wrist free, turned, and walked away.
The sand came up out of nowhere, and the sky changed in a breath.
The three of us, along with the other travelers, ended up stranded in the same restaurant beside the desert highway, waiting out the storm.
I took a corner table, a few tables away from them.
Not long after we ordered, Cynthia pressed a hand to her stomach and leaned against Kent.
"Kent, my stomach hurts a little."
Kent's arm went around her at once, and he called out for the server.
"Excuse me, could we get a cup of hot water? Quickly, please!"
Cynthia scolded him softly.
"It's your fault. You just had to take me for seafood yesterday. You know my stomach can't take that, and you saw I wanted it, so you spoiled me anyway."
"My fault. It's all my fault."
Kent dug a pill case out of his own bag like he'd done it a hundred times.
"Here, take your medicine first."
He coaxed her, his voice gentle.
I watched it all in silence.
And that burning started up in my stomach again.
Three years ago, the night I was first diagnosed with stomach cancer.
I was alone in my rented room, frightened and shaking, the pain soaking the back of my shirt with cold sweat.
I held my phone in my hand, Kent's number glowing on the screen.
That day, his company's cash had run dry. Creditors were after him. He was drowning.
Over and over I told myself I couldn't be a distraction, couldn't drag him down.
In the end, I never made that call for help.
I took a bottle of pills out of the inner pocket of my coat.
The painkillers I used to take, all the time. I didn't need them now.
I dropped the bottle into the trash bin at the corner of the table.
Kent settled Cynthia and turned around, and his eyes landed right on the bottle in my hand.
He read the label, and his face changed.
Hospital prescription only. He frowned, and it looked like he wanted to come over and ask.
Cynthia called to him, low.
"Kent... it still really hurts..."
Kent's step toward me stopped short.
He turned back to Cynthia, drew her half into his arms, and murmured to her.
"There now, it's all right. The medicine takes a while. Just hold on a little longer."
Cynthia leaned into him, and over his shoulder her eyes settled on me.
She looked at the bottle in my hand, something complicated in her face.
"Sylvia, these three years, have you... been unwell the whole time?"
I gave a small smile.
"I was. But I'm fine now."
I picked up my water and took a sip.
I'd meant to finish out the rest of the trip, but a moment ago I changed my mind.
Enough.
All I wanted now was to be far away from them.
Outside, the raging sand had stopped at some point, and sunlight spilled through the clouds, staining the desert a warm gold.
I shouldered my backpack, walked out fast, flagged down a car at the roadside, gave the airport address, and left without looking back.
I never noticed that the worn side pocket of my backpack had split at the bottom.
An old phone and some papers slid quietly onto the seat.
Kent stared out the door in the direction I'd disappeared, then hesitated and picked up what I'd left on the seat.
His eyes locked onto the diagnosis report.
*Patient: Sylvia Floyd.*
*Diagnosis: stomach cancer, late stage.*
Cynthia leaned in to look too, and clapped a hand over her mouth, disbelief flooding her eyes.
"So... the international remains-transport service on that refund slip was real?"
