That bell that bell that goddamned bell. You know the one? The one that the victors ring on their way out—after their last treatment. The center is so quiet, the voices hushed. The bell is so loud. Clang-clang-clang and cheers of wild joy. “Does it make me a bad person?” she asks, licking her shriveled-up lips. “That I cannot stand that bell?” “No,” I say. Because I, too, hate that goddamned bell, and I’m not a bad person. Just a person. “Fuck that bell,” I say. “Fuck it,” she repeats. I know, and she knows, that forever, if I ever hear another bell, any kind of bell, something will bloom open in my stomach, and I’ll think of her, nestled right here, tucked under her fuzzy blue blanket, and I’ll whisper, “Fuck that bell,” just in case she can hear.