Even after the way I’d acted. Even when he didn’t have to.

“Move over,” I said.

I shrugged out of my backpack and sat down next to him on the steps. We stared out at the woods. The trees. The sky. All of the things that didn’t belong to Latham, that weren’t put here behind iron gates for us to cough over.

There was barely any space between us, and I hadn’t quite realized how intimate it would be, sitting there together in the dark. I’d interrupted his solitude, and I could feel him wondering why.

“I used to come to this gazebo a lot,” I said. “Back when I first got here. It felt almost magical, like if anything at Latham could transport you somewhere else, it was probably this.”

“I thought you hated me,” Lane muttered.

I guess I deserved that.

“False alarm,” I said. “It turns out that what I really hate is TB.”

“Yeah, me too.”

His shoulders were slumped, and the stubble that shadowed his jawline looked more defeated than deliberate. Up close, I could see that his jeans were too loose, and the belt I’d made fun of was actually necessary. He looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept for days. And I had no idea what to do, or say, or how to apologize to this strange, sad boy who was so different than I’d imagined.

“I only hated you because I thought you were an asshole to me when we were thirteen,” I said, all of it spilling out in a clumsy, unplanned mess. “It was stupid, and dumb, and if I’d thought about it for two seconds, I would have realized that the girls in my cabin had faked the whole thing. So I’m sorry. I was horrible to you, and you didn’t deserve it, and you still saved me from Mrs. Hogan.”

“Who’s Mrs. Hogan?” he asked, coughing a little.

“The librarian,” I said.

He nodded, filing away the information.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Fifteen months. Maybe sixteen, depending on whether it’s October yet, or if I only think it is.”

“It’s October fourth,” he said automatically.

“Got the weather forecast for me, too?”

“Sorry.” He shrugged. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

I said sure, expecting the same panic attack that everyone had in their first few weeks at Latham, about not wanting to die here. I braced myself for a conversation so predictable you’d almost think it was a symptom of tuberculosis.

And then he told me how his girlfriend had written his eulogy as her college admissions essay. I hadn’t been expecting that, at all. But then, nothing about Lane was what I expected. He was familiar and unfamiliar, like a song I’d heard a different version of, and whose lyrics I couldn’t quite remember.

I sat there as it poured out of him, what she’d written, how she hadn’t even seemed sorry, and how fucked-up it was that she saw him like that. I hadn’t known any of that was going on with him. Sometimes I forgot that everyone who arrived here left behind their actual lives, often in a hurry, and frequently unfinished. And when I thought about how I’d acted all week, like he owed me this big apology for even existing, I felt even worse.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I said.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it suck any less.” Lane sighed. “I’m just so tired of everyone going on about how I’m sick, and how sorry they are. I can’t remember the last time anyone had a normal conversation with me.”

I couldn’t, either. I was so used to it that I hardly even noticed. If a stranger on the street had asked me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, I probably wouldn’t have blinked.

“Do you know what my mom talks about?” I said. “Ice baths and miracle herbs. She seriously calls them that. ‘Miracle herbs.’ And I’m like, I’m sorry, but if there was some miracle out there, I don’t think they’d sell it in Whole Foods.”

Lane snorted, and I went on, encouraged.

“So yeah, talking to people? Totally depressing. We should off ourselves right now, so we can be done with people caring how we feel.”

For a moment, Lane thought I was serious. Then he realized I was full of shit, and he laughed.

“When you put it that way,” he said.

“Your ex-girlfriend cared about you. She cared in a shitty way, but that’s why it took her so long to say anything.”

It was cold out, and the wind picked up then. I pulled my hands inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt, shivering.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Lane mumbled. “That’s so weird.”

He was quiet a moment, lost in thought.

“What?” I asked.

“Oh. Um. I was just thinking how having an ex-girlfriend is one of those things that isn’t true until someone says it. Like, we all had TB before we were diagnosed. We just didn’t know we did. But breaking up isn’t like that. Being single is something you’re aware of the moment it happens to you.”

“Or if you’re like me, being single is a chronic condition since birth.” I said it like I was joking, even though it wasn’t funny.

“Wait, so you and Nick aren’t . . .” He sounded surprised.

Everyone assumed Nick and I were a thing. Everyone. But as much fun as Nick and I had hanging out together, I had zero interest in going there.

“Nick?” I made a face. “God, no. He’s practically my brother. We’re partners in crime.”

Lance winced at my joke, like it dredged up something painful.

“Hannah and I used to call ourselves ‘lab partners in crime,’” he explained. “Before she decided to eulogize me for shits and giggles.”

He leaned forward and propped his chin on his hand, looking tremendously sorry for himself.

“It’ll be okay,” I said.

“Will it?” Lane murmured, like he didn’t believe me.

“Here’s a secret,” I said. “There’s a difference between being dead and dying. We’re all dying. Some of us die for ninety years, and some of us die for nineteen. But each morning everyone on this planet wakes up one day closer to their death. Everyone. So living and dying are actually different words for the same thing, if you think about it.”

I’d thought about it for a long time, even though I’d never said it out loud. Nick and I joked around a lot, but I didn’t confess anything serious to him. We weren’t that kind of friends. I didn’t have that kind of friends. The ones you could talk to, without being afraid someone would cut in with a witty remark, trying to get a laugh, and ruining the whole thing. But there was something about sitting on the steps with Lane that made it feel okay to let the darkness spill out.

“So basically, I’m saying the glass is half-empty of TB, and you’re saying the glass is half-full of it?” he asked.

That was a clever way to put it.

“Pretty much,” I said.

“Awesome. I was looking for a new metaphor about being sick.” Lane gave a hint of a smile.

“My personal favorite is the one about the invisible hand of tuberculosis trying to grab hold of us all.”

“Show me on this doll exactly where the invisible hand touched you,” Lane said, his voice serious.

We laughed. He had a nice laugh, a sort of embarrassed chuckle. Unlike mine, which was completely silent, as though someone had turned off the volume.

I shivered again and balled the sleeves of my sweatshirt in my fists, but it didn’t help.

“It’s getting pretty cold,” I said. “We should head back.”

We climbed to our feet, and I shouldered my giant backpack. I could feel Lane staring, but thankfully, he didn’t ask me about it.

We walked back to the dorms together in silence. Not the awkward kind, but a nice, contemplative silence. Usually, spending any amount of time with someone was a forcible reminder of how much I’d rather be alone. Even my friends could grate on me sometimes, although I tried not to let on. But talking with Lane felt easy. Nice. Like being alone but less lonely.

“So,” Lane said, when we reached my dorm, “thanks for keeping me company.”

I shrugged, like it was no trouble.