Chapter 3: The Hospice and Annie’s Hope

In the final stage of cancer, I listened to Dr. Matthews and stopped chemo. The drugs were killing me faster than the disease. There was no point dragging it out.

Dr. Matthews tried to give Chloe and the others hope: "Maybe Miss Rivers is recovering at Green Mountain Hospice." But Green Mountain was where people went to die in peace—not to get better.

The trolls weren’t fooled. They called him a quack, accused him of taking bribes, said it was all a cover-up.

But Chloe and her friends, hearts heavy but hopeful, pooled their cash and chartered a van to the hospice. They were college kids and minimum wage workers, but they didn’t hesitate.

They drove all night through the Mojave, past dusty diners and gas stations, phone screens their only light.

Someone pulled up the WebMD page for cervical cancer: "Sister must have been in so much pain, huh?" The list of symptoms was brutal—bleeding, pain, exhaustion, organs failing one by one.

Someone sobbed. The driver, an older Mexican man who’d seen it all, silently passed back a box of tissues.

Chloe promised the director they’d be quiet, so she was allowed in. The hospice was painted a hopeful yellow, sunlight catching on lace curtains that fluttered in the breeze, trying to make the place feel less like a waiting room for goodbye.

She clutched her phone, carrying everyone’s hope, and met my caregiver, Annie.

Annie was young, her scrubs covered in cartoon characters, hair in pigtails. Nervous but eager, she kept smoothing her shirt and tucking hair behind her ear.

Trolls mocked her in the comments. She didn’t know, just spoke softly: "Yeah, I took care of Miss Rivers. She was real nice to me. Didn’t talk much, though. She always looked tired. I kept telling her she should eat more, but… I dunno. She just smiled and said she’d try."

Her mac and cheese was famous in the hospice—gooey, sharp with cheddar, and always topped with too much paprika.

Annie’s mind worked differently. She’d had meningitis as a kid, leaving her with the heart of a six-year-old. But her kindness was bottomless.

She worked hard—writing things three times to remember, practicing chores until she got them right. She could cook, clean, and her wildflower bouquets—California poppies, lupines, marigolds—were always in mason jars by my bed.

When my body failed me, Annie never complained. She cleaned up without a word, singing Disney songs and telling me princess stories to distract me from the pain and humiliation.

When I was at my lowest, curled up in Annie’s arms, she sang to me. Her hands were small and gentle, stroking my bald head like I was a sick kitten.

She’d practiced nursery rhymes for ages. Off-key, but the most beautiful songs I’d ever heard. "You Are My Sunshine" had never sounded so heartbreaking as when Annie sang it, missing half the notes but meaning every word.

To Annie, death was just another word. I told her I’d become a star—"the brightest one, right by the moon."

She remembered. She asked Chloe, "When will Miss Rivers come back from the sky? The flowers in the garden—except for the roses that died after she left—I’ve been taking care of the rest. The sunflowers are this tall now!" She held her hand to her waist.

"I’m waiting for her to come back and praise me." Her face shone with innocent hope.

For once, the comments fell silent. Chloe turned away, sobbing. Even the trolls had nothing cruel to say to Annie’s pure hope.