"I'm not dying," Stirling said cheerfully, although his pallor and his wracking cough contradicted the assertion. "Mother's prone to exaggeration."

The past thirty-six hours since Ruthie's visit had been an exquisite form of torture for Kit. Ruthie had her read Mrs. Howard's letter, describing how Stirling had hidden his illness for weeks, until a co-worker had found him slumped at his desk as if lifeless. How the doctor at City General had shaken his head when explaining how desperate the case had become. Kit had gone to work and home again, numbly, picked at her dinner, and dully phoned the hospital to inquire about visiting hours. She'd put on the deception that she was merely concerned for the well-being of a casual friend; although, of course, no one who knew her intimately was fooled. Over and over she'd pleaded with herself, Don't let it be true. Please don't let it be true. She'd rehearsed, over and over, the words she would say - Kit was prepared to make any apology necessary, if only it would alter the situation somehow. And she'd steeled herself on the streetcar ride over, stomach in knots and hands twisting, preparing herself for what she might find.

She hadn't expected almost the first words out of his mouth to be a denial of his condition. But then again, when Kit thought about it, this made perfect sense for Stirling.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Howard fussed - refraining, to her credit, from calling him 'lamby.' "Do you need me to get a nurse?"

"It's okay, Mother," he said to her. "Look, why don't you go for a walk or something? Get some air."

"I don't like to leave," Mrs. Howard argued, "I see you so little as it is and who knows..."

"Mother." Stirling cut her off before she could finish her sentence. "Kit's an old friend. And you know her mother. Just a few minutes, please? I promise she'll call for the doctor if anything goes south before time is up."

Under protest, Mrs. Howard finally left, and Kit took her place in the vacated chair. Then, but for the din of the busy hospital, they were alone.

"So." A thin smile crossed Stirling's pale lips. "You came."

"Ruthie told me."

"Yes, Mother wrote her. She visited yesterday - she's looking well, isn't she?"

"She is," Kit agreed. "Marriage agrees with her. And it was lovely seeing her again. What I don't understand is why I had to hear this news from her."

"Mother wanted to write you. I… I told her not to."

"Why on earth not?"

"You told me," Stirling said matter-of-factly, "that you never wanted to see me again. You were quite clear about that."

"And you would have… died… without letting me know? Just to prove a point?"

"I told you, I'm not dying. I just got run down, is all."

"So if you really thought you were going to die, you would have written me yourself."

"Maybe," Stirling conceded, "but we'll never really know, will we?"

"Look," Kit said, taking off her hat and holding it between her hands. "I owe you an apology. Maybe I was more harsh that day than I needed to be."

"I don't hold you responsible in the least," Stirling said quickly. "You'd just lost someone you loved."

"I was so angry," Kit recalled. "And it wasn't just about Roger. I had this crazy idea - it's so funny to me, now - this ridiculous notion that you were in love with me, somehow." She laughed half-heartedly.

Stirling chuckled, not denying a thing. "No wonder you were so upset with me," he realized. "That certainly doesn't look good for me, does it? Swooping in to take my chance now that Turkeypants is out of the way."

To her credit, Kit actually smiled at Stirling's use of the old nickname. "I did love him, you know."

He felt as if the words would kill him, but they didn't. "I know."

Kit wasn't dwelling on Roger. "So, that's that."

"Kit, I need to apologize too. I am so, so sorry," Stirling said, his gray eyes sincere. "I provoked you, and that wasn't right. I should have been more sensitive to what you were feeling."

"I've regretted what I said to you - a thousand times over," Kit said. "There were so many times I wished I could have taken it back."

"Then why didn't you?" Stirling asked her quietly.

"Stubbornness," Kit admitted sheepishly. "You know me. That, and sheer foolish pride. The kind that goeth before destruction, as Aunt Millie would say."

"Shakespeare?"

"I think it's from the Bible," Kit said. "Everything is either from Shakespeare or the Bible."

"Remember selling eggs door-to-door with me?" Stirling recalled suddenly. "I think you wished the earth would open up and swallow you."

"Whereas you," Kit continued, her face suddenly alight, "were the best egg salesman I've ever seen. I think you may have missed your calling in life, Stirling Howard."

Stirling's chuckle turned to a laugh, which turned to a cough. "Sorry," Kit said quickly.

"Don't be," Stirling said, when his coughing jag was over. "I could use a good laugh."

"What you told your mother, is it true?" Kit pressed. "Are we friends again?"

Stirling's gray eyes stretched wide in mock innocence. "I couldn't lie to my mother." He leaned back against the thin pillow with a contented sigh. "Of course we're friends again," he said. "And boy, are you a sight for sore eyes. How've you been, anyway? Keeping busy?"

"Oh, this and that," Kit demurred. "I'm still with the paper, you know."

"I know," Stirling grinned. "I read the Register just like everyone else. I always look for your name."

"I have to admit, it gives me a little thrill of pride to see 'Margaret Kittredge' in the byline. Even after all this time, I still get a little excited." Kit blushed. "Isn't that silly?"

"It's not silly at all," Stirling replied easily. "You have every right to be proud of yourself."

"Well, I always liked seeing the Hitler Chicken on posters and things," Kit continued. "I'd always think, My friend Stirling drew that. I always knew he'd grow up to be somebody."

"We both did," Stirling countered. "Although I'm not sure how I'm going to follow up the Hitler Chicken, now that the war is over. It may be my one and only claim to fame." He grinned. "Hey, I read about Charlie. I'm glad he made it home from the war."

"Me too," Kit smiled. "You saw my series?"

"I did. Do you know what I thought when I read it?"

"What's that?"

"I thought, This is the story Kit Kittredge was born to write."

"Stop it," Kit scoffed, "or I'll get a swelled head."

"Well," Stirling said, casting regretful eyes at the clock on the wall, "time's almost up. Any minute now Mother will be appearing from the other side of the curtain. But -" He drew a deep breath. "Thank you for coming, Kit."

The way he said it made it seem to Kit like she had done much more for him than she had for herself. "You're welcome," she said warmly.

"I'll admit," Stirling said, gesturing around at the hospital environment, "I'm not in much of a position to make demands. But, will you come and see me every so often? If you're not too busy at the paper."

"I'll make time." Kit smiled. "For an old friend. Do you need anything?"

"I'd be the happiest man alive if I could just get my hands on a sketchpad and some pencils," Stirling begged. "I haven't drawn anything in weeks and weeks and I'm starting to think I'm going to forget how. Only you'll have to sneak them past Mother - can you do that?"

"I sure can," Kit said calmly. "I'll just ask one thing of you in return."

"What's that?"

There was a little gleam in Kit's eyes. "Promise me you won't die."

"Cross my heart," said Stirling, and meant it.