“What do you feel like, Mom?” I say, and she says, “Fine, fine. Just a little dizzy. I suppose I’m a bit warm.” Her skin is actually weirdly cool, though. Clammy. “Perhaps I should drink something.” “I told you to drink something!” Willa says, because her genetic inheritance includes scolding the people you’re worried about. “I know, darling,” my mother says. “I should have listened to you.”
