I held it up to the sun. It looked like something a girl would win at a carnival.
I thought about the pull tab.
“I’ll take it,” I said. “For eight.”
On Sunday afternoon, the day of the wedding, the nurses on the fourth floor outdid themselves. Bettina had strung paper streamers from the IV pole. Someone had taped a hand-lettered sign on the door that said JUST MARRIED (ALMOST). The cafeteria sent up a small white sheet cake with blue frosting roses. One of the orderlies, a young man named Desmond, brought a portable speaker and asked what song we wanted.
“‘Unchained Melody,'” June said immediately.
I looked at her.
“Prom,” she said. “You stepped on my feet the whole time.”
“I was nervous.”
“You were terrible.”
Wes stood beside the bed in a pressed button-down shirt. Next to him was a little girl with a dark braid and a serious face, holding a bundle of grocery-store daisies in both fists like they might escape.
