Joan didn't go to fencing tonight, broken wrist and all. Instead we've just stayed up in the attic, talking about Elsa. Just talking. It's amazing how much I haven't told her while telling our story. Just little things, like how you loved winter back home; or the way you'd sometimes braid your hair—and the way those little flyaways annoyed you. Even one of the very simplest things, and it's kind of embarrassing because I was with you so long I just took it for granted.

"Elsa was left handed," she knows this anyway, but not how versatile you were. "Well, actually she was ambidextrous, but she'd use her left hand for most day to day stuff."

"Really?" the way Joan quirks just one eyebrow—it's just like you.

"And she also did that eyebrow thing you're doing."

"I do not do that eyebrow thing."

"Really?" And I raise both my eyebrows, staring her down.

"Okay, fine. But what was so important about Elsa being ambidextrous?"

"Well, it meant she could juggle a lot of things, and had really good multitasking. And one other thing." She has no idea. And for all the times you teased me with both hands…

"What other thing?"

"Also meant she could be really devious in bed."

"Mom!" Like I've said, can't help teasing people sometimes.

"You're fifteen, I figure you've at least experimen—"

"Just stop, please." Joan's holding her hands up, trying to look away and hide her flaming cheeks.

"Fine," I shrug. "But you might miss some key information in the story if—"

"Or you could just tell me and leave out those details, mom. It's bad enough me and Tink heard you all morning that time…"

"You think that's bad…" and I just leave it hanging there for her, just let her stew a little longer. I think she saw my devious smile, because she's wailing on me with her cushion now. "Okay—pfth—pillow fluff—how about I just tell you the rest of the story?"

And suddenly she's the picture of teenage patience, sitting, legs crossed, eyes expectant, surreptitiously grabbing her cushion back. I shake my head at the change, I just don't know how she does it. Then again, we could be like that too, and I guess it was kinda funny…

—∞—

"Anniken?" Elsa's voice was soft. Maybe she thought I was asleep. I wished I had been. I was drained, emotionally spent, and yet I just couldn't sleep. I rolled over to face her.

"I hate this."

"This?" She was more than a little surprised, especially since I had asked if we could share the bed that night.

"Knowing…" I choked up a little. "Knowing you're dying."

"Anna," her voice was a soft sigh, and I could feel it as she shook her head. She pressed her forehead against mine. "I tried. I tried to push you away."

"And I was an idiot."

"Maybe," I felt her smile, her breath against my cheek. "But you are still my idiot." It came with a kiss, and I couldn't help but wrap my arms around her after that. I fell asleep hugging Elsa, feeling her arms around me to keep the world away for just a little while.


Breakfast was fairly quiet, Elsa reading the paper spread out in front of her while she chewed on a piece of toast. If she'd been wearing a suit I would have sworn she was the husband in a sitcom. I'm fairly sure she caught me trying not to laugh at that as well, because she started hamming it up for all she was worth, angrily turning pages and frowning at sports results. Every now and then she'd take a sip of coffee and just glance at me over the lip of the mug. I could see how hard she was trying not to laugh.

"I'm the husband, right?"

"What?" I wasn't sure if I should be taking her seriously at this point.

"Well, we already agreed I'd wear the pants."

"I recall no such thing." It was true. I didn't. And half the time we were both wearing pants anyway. Jeans just seemed more practical.

"Well, our sitcom still needs a title, doesn't it?" Then she poked her tongue at me before finishing her coffee. It would be great if our life was a sitcom. There would be laughter, and tears, and drama—so. much. drama—but it would likely run longer than we really had. It still wouldn't be a sitcom. It was life, and we only got one. She must have seen the look on my face, because she dropped the act after that. I was still—still—processing that one revelation from the previous evening.

"Anna," Elsa's voice was far more serious this time. "Are you okay to work? Do you think maybe you should call sick?"

"I should be alright, we don't have anything big on right now."

"I do not think you are okay. I do not think you should work today," she sighed, and looked right at me with those crystal blue eyes. "Perhaps only the afternoon?"

I shrugged, throwing my hands wide. "I'm already up, I may as well go in."

"Then go." She turned away, folding the paper, and took her mug over to the sink. She stopped, standing next to the counter. I knew what she was staring at. It was still a reminder to me, too. Both of us had brushed against death not so long ago. And for both of us it had been deliberate. That thought sent a chill down my spine. I don't know why it did, or why I hadn't considered it before. Elsa caught it out of the corner of her eye. After rinsing out her mug she sat next to me at the table.

"We should fix the floor." I nodded in agreement. She was right. Of course, it actually took rather longer to get the kitchen floor fixed than either of us could have guessed at the time, but for some reason it never was a priority.


I made it to the workshop later in the morning. I arrived to hear a tinny voice echoing inside something, and to see Audrey handing something through a hatch to a disembodied hand. Well, at least that's what it looked like. It was Maurice inside the thing, of course. I could see the light he was moving around in there, and up top Kristoff noted down his occasional mutterings about parts and possible materials.

"Seventeen!" Maurice's voice echoed inside the machine. Audrey passed another spanner through the hatch.

Kristoff had me cutting out some new braces for the thing. I lost myself in the ritual of fabrication. I could run on autopilot while my mind tried to make sense of the previous night. Marking out the steel. How many years would we mark together? Quick math for kerf widths for the drop saw. Why hadn't she told me how long she had? The scream of the blade against the steel. Again, and again. Did she know—or was she too afraid to ask? Sparks bouncing off my mask. Was she going to burn out like them? The tang of ozone and carbonized steel. So different to her scent; crisp and sharp. I blinked, looking at the pile of parts. Was I really finished? Were we?

"Nice work," Kristoff clapped me on the shoulder, making me start. My train of thought ground to a halt. "I'd say it's about time for smoko." Maybe if I finished quickly I could find a way.

I checked the time on my phone. "I think I'll just keep going."

"At least stop for a drink." He was only trying to help.

"I'm fine." I turned away, shifting the pile of pieces to the welding bench and firing up the welder. There had to be a way.

"Earth," Kristoff shot over his shoulder. It took me a second to realize he was referring to the cables. I had the torch for our heavier TIG and had attached the earth from our light unit. I sighed, rolling my eyes. It wasn't the first mistake I'd made. She had said it was incurable, but was it? I had clamped the pieces down and picked up the torch in my right hand and the wire in my left. My helmet was already down. Incurable didn't mean hopeless.

Then why had she tried to throw herself under my bike?

I just stopped, staring at the pieces. She had had every intention of dying that day. I knew what I had to weld, but I just couldn't do it. Not a single seam. Not even a tack. She had even sounded disappointed that I hadn't killed her. I just stood there, hands shaking, paralyzed. It had finally hit me. Everything she had tried so damn hard to save me from. All that pain, all the hopelessness, all the heartache. She was right. I should have called in sick.

"Anna?" it was Kristoff, his annoyance enough to make me look up. "You gonna weld that up or not?"

The welding rod slipped from limp fingers, clattering softly against the floor. Even my grip on the torch slipped for half a second. I put the torch down carefully next to the big TIG. Nothing seemed real anymore. I took off the mask, resting it on the bench next to the welder. I took one breath. Another.

"Kristoff, I…" I didn't know where to start.

"Anna?" Kristoff's voice was a lot softer. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head. It took every ounce of strength I had to hold my composure.

Kristoff gestured for me to follow him. I had to. The office was small, cramped. It was also reasonably soundproof, and had a blind for privacy. I couldn't recall a time those blinds had been closed outside of… well… ever. The first thing Kristoff did was close them. I understood then that this was not for his benefit, but mine. I sat heavily, burying my face in my hands. I don't know how long it was before either of us spoke, but it was Kristoff that tried first, making several false starts.

"Something happened to you last night," he wasn't judging. He was concerned. Gravely. "I've never seen you freeze up like that." He sighed. "Look, I guess, being your boss might make this awkward, but as your friend, I really am worried."

I wanted to look up. Smile for him. Something. But the carpet tiles… the pattern… I just kept tracing it, trying to distract myself from everything crashing down around me. It wasn't that I couldn't talk, I just didn't want to. Not in that moment, afraid my voice would break and he would see me at my worst—just like Elsa had. I was an idiot; but it was also lingering damage from the way Hans had treated me. I just shook my head. I did not want to be breaking down at work. There was a job I was supposed to be doing, an important one. Kristoff didn't see it that way.

"It's bad, I get it," I almost heard the snap as he came to a decision. "Take the rest of the day off."

I had to look up at that. "Really?" Then mumbling. "Elsa was right."

"I… I'm just not sure I trust you to drive right now. Also, right about what?"

I ignored that first part. "I shouldn't have come in today."

"She told you not to?"

"Politely."

"So there's nothing wrong between you?"

"I…" I paused, looked him in the eye. It wasn't that there was anything wrong between us. There was something wrong with one of us. I felt like I had to tell someone. I simply couldn't keep it bottled up inside. But would she let me? Was I supposed to tell anyone? Wasn't it her secret? Didn't I have to keep this in trust—just between us? But I couldn't. I needed support. I needed help. More, I just wanted someone to talk to. I took a deep breath. Kristoff knew how to keep something in confidence. He was a friend. He was concerned about me. And he had also seen me with Elsa the most. In fact, he was the only one that had really seen us together. He was the only person I could tell.

I closed my eyes, taking stock. There was a whole story to tell—or I could use maybe five words. "Elsa's dying."

Kristoff said nothing, just stared at me.

"Cancer. It's incurable," and I hated how matter-of-fact I was, like this was something that happened every day. Like I was telling him about the damn weather, or a stupid boring weekend.

"Grab your things."

"Kristoff?"

"Anna, you're devastated, and you're trying to hide it. Don't. I'll take you home."

—∞—

"So let me get this straight," Joan's giving me an odd look. "Dad just dropped everything, left those two in charge, and ran you home. All because you told him Elsa was dying?"

"It's more complicated than that, but one thing you have to remember is that he studied Human Factors for a long time before trying to build the company."

"And…?"

"And it means he knew he wouldn't be getting any more useful work out of me that day. He was probably right not letting me drive, too."

"Yeah, Dad's pretty smart."

"I don't remember much else from that day. Maybe a little conversation in the van, then flaking out on the couch until Elsa got home."

"It took you a while, didn't it, mom?"

"It did," I shake my head sadly. "Grief is weird sometimes. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was grieving; for everything we would never have. Birthdays, anniversaries, children."

"Well… you keep forgetting the first two," like I've said, people tease me back—I expect no less. "But were you really thinking about kids back then?"

"Not really thinking, but in abstract. You know, where most relationships eventually end up."

"In bed, you mean?" I smack her with my cushion. Yeah, not very mature, but we wind up having a dusty pillow-fight in the attic. It ends with her sitting on top of me, slowly sliding down so our eyes are level. "Did you and her ever have stupid fun like this?"

"Lots," I give our daughter a stupid grin and pull her into a tight hug. "Maybe one day I'll tell you about how we polished the upstairs hallway."

"What?" I leave it hanging. I remember your smile as we skated up and down the hall in our socks, crashing into everything and each other. Didn't we put the old mattress on the stairs? I can't remember right now. All I remember is your smile, and it's enough.