Chapter 11

Curry meatballs were something I could never get at the orphanage.

Even if they made it to my plate, someone else would snatch them away.

Later, after I ran away from the orphanage, I scavenged for a while.

Curry meatballs often showed up in takeout boxes.

Later, when I turned 16, I could work at a restaurant.

That restaurant's best seller was curry meatballs, and I could often sneak some.

Those were my happiest memories.

I woke up to the smell of curry.

For a moment, I thought I was back at the restaurant, sneaking bites between shifts.

Then the sterile white ceiling came into focus. The IV drip. The heart monitor beeping steadily.

And Damien Sterling, sitting beside my bed, holding a thermos.

"Maria made it," he said, not meeting my eyes. "She said... she said you used to stare at the curry dishes but never took any."

"Because I always landed the leftovers."

He flinched.

"Emily, I—"

"If you're going to apologize, don't. I don't need apologies. I need people to stop pretending the last six months didn't happen just because I'm dying."

He set the thermos on the nightstand. His hands were trembling.

"I'm not pretending. I remember everything. The curry I threw. Every time I compared you to Sophia. Every time I walked past your room and didn't knock."

"Good. You should remember."

"I will. Every day. For the rest of my life."

I looked at this boy—my biological brother, younger than me by eight months, who had spent six months treating me like an intruder.

"Open the thermos," I said.

He did. The steam rose, carrying that familiar, warm, heartbreaking scent.

Curry meatballs. Made exactly the way I loved them.

"Maria watched me eat once," I murmured. "At the kitchen counter, when everyone was asleep. She made me a bowl and cried while I ate."

Damien pressed his palms against his eyes.

"I'm going to eat this," I told him. "And then I'm going to do the chemotherapy."

He looked up sharply. "You—you will?"

"Noah said even bunnies bite back. Maybe even dying bunnies can fight."

"But you said you didn't want—"

"I didn't want to live for people who didn't want me. But Maria cried over a bowl of soup. Daniel turned on the heater in summer. Noah carries me like I matter. And you... you're here with curry."

I took a slow, careful spoonful.

The taste exploded—warm, rich, perfectly spiced. Nothing like the cold takeout boxes or stolen bites.

This was made with love. Specifically for me.

"It's good," I whispered, and the tears came before I could stop them.

Damien reached over and very gently—as if I might break—put his hand on my head.

"Eat slowly," he said. "There's more at home."

Home.

He said home.

Maybe, in whatever time I had left—whether months or years—I'd finally learn what that word meant.

The system chimed softly in my head.

"Host's survival probability has increased by 12%. Emotional support detected. Adjusting prognosis parameters."

I smiled through my tears.

"Shut up, system."

"Acknowledged."