Chapter One

    Alabista sighed as she pushed open the clinic door. This was the day. The day she'd been dreading for months.

    The clinic was a vast place, with polished marble floors and hallways branching off like nerves every which way. Alabista walked past a row of receptionists, all more blandly-smiling than the last.

    Alabista stopped before one of the receptionists, a grey old lady with gunky makeup that stuck in the wrinkles of her face.

    "Excuse me," Alabista muttered. The receptionist looked up and Alabista continued. "Um, I'm Alabista Star. I have a two o' clock appointment with Dr. Henry Joygood."

    The receptionist started typing on her keyboard. Alabista

watched, as if in a trance. The receptionist's bony fingers flew across the keys. She was typing so fast, it was almost one continuous sound. 

    This irritated Alabista. How dare the receptionist type so fast, it seemed she was speeding up life itself. That was the last thing Alabista needed. Maybe the receptionist was in a rush to get to the next day, but Alabista prayed every night that time would slow down. In Alabista's eyes, it was selfish. Insensitive. Cruel, even.

    The receptionist looked up when she finished typing and gave Alabista another bland smile.

    "Yes, Miss Star," she said, her voice quick and clippy. "Dr. Joygood will be with you in a moment. Step over to waiting area 

four, please."

    Alabista gave a slight nod and trudged over to the waiting area and sat down on a bench. The padding was thin, and it hurt her tailbone to sit on. She kept shifting her weight, trying to get into a good position.

    Alabista looked up as she heard her name called. It was Dr. Joygood. His close-cropped red hair stood on end as if it was defying gravity, as always.

    Alabista stood up and followed Dr. Joygood to the lab. She thought it was ironic, his surname, considering which department he worked in. 

    "Well, Alabista, how are you doing today?" he asked cheerily.

    "Guess." That's what Alabista wanted to say, but she 

reminded herself that she was twenty-one years old now, and she was supposed to have grown out of her emo stage. That meant no more snapping at people when they were just trying to help.

    So instead, she said simply, "Fine."

    "That's great!" Dr. Joygood exclaimed. "Now, we'll just be running a few tests today to figure out if your current treatment is working!"

    "Aren't we always?" Alabista muttered under her breath, but Dr. Joygood was humming Don't Worry, Be Happy quite loudly indeed, and he didn't seem to hear.

    All the pep had left Dr. Joygood by the time he'd finished up.

Maybe it was Alabista's sullen attitude or, maybe, it was the results of the tests.

    "There's bad news," he said.

    "Is there?" Alabista said sarcastically. "How surprising."

    Dr. Joygood ignored her and cleared his throat. "Your current treatment isn't working."

    Though she tried to hide it, Alabista's heart gave a little tremor. "Are you sure?"

    "I wish I wasn't," Dr. Joygood replied. "I'm sorry, Alabista."

    "Is there any other way?"

    Dr. Joygood considered this. "There is an experimental treatment that's proven success with other patients."

    Alabista felt a glimmer of hope inside of her "Really?"

    Dr. Joygood sighed. "Unfortunately, your healthcare plan doesn't cover it. It barely covered your current treatment."

    Alabista glowered at herself. The nerve of her, having hope when she knew nothing would come of it after all. 

    Alabista forced down the painful lump that had been forming in her throat, but she couldn't keep the shudder from her voice. "H-how much time?"

    "Not much. A few months, maybe. I'm sorry, Alabista."

    Alabista stood abruptly. "Yes. You are."

    With that, Alabista stormed out of the room, down the hall, and out of the clinic, hating herself every step of the way. The instant she'd said what she'd said to Dr. Joygood she regretted it. But she wasn't one to apologize for anything, and she sure 

wasn't going to start now. How would she? How could she, when-

    Alabista stopped still as tears painfully pinched the corners of her eyes and streamed down her cheeks, clinging for a moment to her chin before landing with a nearly inaudible pat on the sidewalk.

    "Miss? Miss, are you alright?"

    "I'm fine," Alabista stated flatly. She strode off before even glancing up.

    Alabista climbed the stairs six stories to get to her tiny, crappy apartment. Just her luck, the elevator had gone out the night before and it wasn't going to be fixed for a week, at least. By the time Alabista reached her apartment, she was panting

for breath. She fumbled with the keys; it took her sweaty (yet somehow ice cold) fingers ages to successfully unlock the door. 

    Believe it or not, when she was younger, Alabista was quite the athlete. She could outrun any girl in her class without breaking a sweat, and she could do more push-ups with a weight on her back in thirty seconds than most kids could do in thirty minutes.

    But things had changed since high school. Alabista had been forced to leave college after the deaths of her parents, because she couldn't earn enough money to pay for it on her own.

    And then, after the diagnosis, it was all she could do to make it from one day to the next.

    Alabista sighed as she closed her door. She slumped down 

against it, her hands on her knees, her face covering her eyes. Tears slipped over her eyes, through the cracks between her fingers, soaking her jeans.

    She must've been a pathetic sight then, if anyone were to have seen her. She was feeling sorry for herself, and Alabista hated herself for it.

    But she had to cry. Ever since she was a little girl, Alabista had always dreamed of being a ballerina. When she was young, her mother had taken her to plays and concerts. Alabista remembered being transfixed by the ballerinas; strikingly beautiful men and women who made dancing look as easy as breathing, easier, even, than that. Alabista longed to be up on stage, twisting and twirling, more graceful than a swan.

    Alabista let out another long, ugly sob as the memories attacked her with vicious fangs and claws like poisoned daggers. How could she be the queen of ballet when she was too weak to lift a gallon of milk? When she was so tired all day she could faint, but when she crashed into bed she couldn't fall asleep? When, even if she did get an ounce of sleep, she'd wake up in a cold sweat?

    How could she chase her dreams with leukemia? 

Chapter Two

    After yesterday, the last thing Alabista wanted to do was leave her apartment. Unfortunately, she still had to go to work at Petalpip Coffee in order to pay her rent. 

    After dressing, washing, and putting on oodles of makeup (in order to hide her sunken cheeks, the bags under her eyes, and her dried lips), Alabista started walking to Petalpip. Alabista had her driver's licence, but money had been tight with college loans, rent, and medical bills, so she'd never had enough cash to buy one. So that meant six days a week she'd walk a mile to Petalpip Coffee.

    "Bista!" Alabista's co-worker, Celeste exclaimed as "Bista" walked in. "Where have you been, sucre?"