\u201cNo,\u201d Margaret whispered, not to anyone in particular. \u201cDon\u2019t give up, Sophie.\u201d<\/p>\n
She rested her palm lightly against the girl\u2019s sternum. The skin was cool, the kind of cool that makes memory rush in: the first morning Sophie arrived with a smile and an unfinished drawing\u2014blue sky, yellow dog, a stick\u2011figure family under an Ohio maple. \u201cWhen I get better,\u201d Sophie had said, \u201cI\u2019m going to paint the whole sky.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tonight the sky felt gray.<\/p>\n
Three minutes. That was the space left on the edge of the cliff. Three minutes for a small heart to stop beating. In three minutes, even hope could disappear.<\/p>\n
The facts were stark, the charts merciless. For seven months, an autoimmune storm had swept through Sophie Carter\u2019s body. Treatment after treatment had met a wall. There were cautious trials under close supervision. There were nights when numbers ticked the right way and mornings when they fell like leaves.<\/p>\n
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