June 18 was the day Loretta had her port put in. A small surgery. A little device under the skin of her chest, so they could give her chemotherapy without finding a new vein every time.
I’d been at the hospital from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon.
And I remembered something else.
I remembered sitting in the surgical waiting room. I remembered my phone buzzing. It was Trevor.
“Becks,” he said, “Monica’s having some payroll problem. Something’s stuck in the system, and the guys aren’t going to get paid on Friday. She needs to log in as you to fix it. Can you just give her your phone for a little while? She’s on her way over. She’ll bring it right back.”
Monica showed up at the hospital twenty minutes later. She hugged me. She asked how Loretta
was. She said, “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll handle it.”
