Some Quiet Place

night. I set my covers aside and get out of bed, padding downstairs on silent feet. I pick the phone up on its third ring.
    “Hello?”
    “Elizabeth? Is that you?” a tearful voice asks.
    Still affected by remaining dregs of sleep, I don’t identify it right away. The person on the line asks if I’m there, and it slowly clicks. Maggie’s mom. I lick my dry lips, unable to make my voice properly concerned as I ask, “Yes, what is it? Is Maggie all right?”
    My friend’s mother sobs once, tries to smother it. “I’m sorry to call so late,” she chokes. “But Maggie’s been asking for you. I thought you might want to see her one last time … the doctor says she won’t be with us much longer. Until tomorrow night, at the latest.”
    I don’t respond for a moment, and just listen to her cry. It’s a wet, desolate series of noises. Whimper, snort, hiccup, exhale. “Elizabeth? Are you still there?” she asks when I’ve been quiet for too long.
    “Yes. Let me think.”
    “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “It’s just … Maggie is barely holding on as it is. You’re so important to her, and I just thought … ”
    It wouldn’t be prudent for me to see Maggie, even now. Tim would find out if I skipped school, and the portfolio for Mrs. Farmer’s class is due. I still haven’t written a poem or a peer review. I shouldn’t encourage these connections—not until I know the truth about myself and the influence over me has been broken.
    “Elizabeth?” My name has never sounded so bleak on another person’s lips. I clutch the phone tight, holding it away from my ear slightly as if it could sting me. Maggie’s mother sniffles one last time, and I decide to pretend again despite the consequences. After all, Maggie will be dead in a matter of hours, and no one would understand if I were to go on like nothing is wrong.
    “I’ll see you soon.”
    Maggie’s mom sounds so relieved and grateful as she says goodbye. After I’ve hung up, I stand in the kitchen for a couple minutes, thinking, remembering. An idea forms in my mind. A few more minutes pass, and then I quietly exit the house. I go into the barn, up into the loft, and don’t leave until morning.
    The air in the hospital is brittle this time, grim, as if everyone knows about the girl on the ninth floor. The nurse at the front desk doesn’t smile at me, and after I’ve stepped off the elevator, the anguish hits me like a wave. Walking up to her room, I see Maggie’s dad, John, sitting in a chair in the hallway, bent over his knees, eyes in the heels of his hands. Sorrow is beside him, his white palm resting on John’s bowed head. As usual, the Emotion doesn’t speak when he sees me.
    At the sound of my approach, John glances up. Recognizing me, he attempts a smile. “She’ll be glad you came,” he murmurs. His eyes are red-rimmed and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. This man watched us grow up. He drove me and Maggie to the park. He took us out for ice cream.
    “Is she asleep?” I ask.
    John shrugs as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. Maybe it does. “It’s off and on. Her mother is in there with her now, and it’s quiet, so probably.”
    I nod. Maggie’s dad focuses, and he finally notices the wrapped package in my arms. Sorrow also notices. “What’s that?” John asks lifelessly. I look down at it.
    “Something I made for Maggie.”
    He tries to smile again, fails. Sorrow is unrelenting. “Why don’t you just go in? You can wait by her bed. She’ll be so surprised when she wakes up and you’re there.”
    I glance at the door. “Are you sure?” John waves me in, and I walk past him. The air in Maggie’s room is warmer, still dark. Slumped in the chair by the bed, Maggie’s mom startles when she sees me, then relaxes.
    “Oh, Elizabeth,” she sighs. She’s in no better condition than John. “Thank you so much for coming.”
    “Elizabeth?” Maggie’s voice is a rasp, a croak, really. It sounds like it hurts just to say my name. I approach the bed, clenching the package close to me as if it’s a defense against her. Realizing this, I release my grip.
    “Hi.”
    Silently, Maggie’s mom gets up from her chair and leaves us. She gently touches my arm as she passes. I stand there over my best friend. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she struggles to breathe. She manages to smile up at me, something neither of her parents was able to do. I don’t know this person. She’s just a shriveled,