And Maura heard the stories of short-stringers approaching the end, with no obvious illness, stalked by dread and uncertainty, hesitating before crossing the street, standing far from the subway tracks. It sounded unbelievably stressful. An awful, powerless feeling. Maura wasn’t surprised that some short-stringers had apparently formed a network for obtaining special pills, either from sympathetic doctors or dealers abroad, choosing to slip away gently, with their favorite people by their side, rather than wait a few more days for a potentially painful accident. It was quite a complex issue—Nina’s magazine had just covered the trend—since these short-stringers were seemingly healthy, their actions still illegal. But did they not share the same rights as the terminally ill? Maura wondered. The chance to exert their power, their freedom, in the final hour of their life?
Maura chose not to return to the website and remeasure a more accurate time frame.
She already knew enough.
And that particular gnawing question—the one thing she didn’t know—she tried to shove deep inside of herself, pushing it down as best she could. But still it emerged, every once in a while, and on the rare occasion when she let herself succumb, she tried to focus instead on the outcomes that would surely never occur.
Shark attack. Broken parachute. These, at least, she could rule out. And wasn’t there comfort in that?
Venomous snake. Lightning strike. Malnutrition. All improbable.
And yet, Hank’s death—gunned down at a protest—seemed exceedingly rare in itself. One year ago, if someone had told Hank that he would die at a “short-stringer rally,” he wouldn’t have even understood the phrase. Who would have guessed that he would be shot by a woman aiming for the corrupt politician behind him?
Or perhaps it was obvious, Maura finally realized, that he would die the same way he lived, according to his oath—saving the lives of others, even those who seemed unworthy.
When Maura arrived at the school on Sunday night, Chelsea was sitting on the steps of the entrance, languidly smoking a cigarette, sweating in the muggy summer heat that barely relented after sundown. There were still a few minutes before their session started, so Maura took a seat next to her.
Chelsea held out the cigarette as an offering. “You smoke?”
“Just a few times, in college,” Maura said. “Of course, that was pot . . .”
Chelsea laughed before taking another drag.
“You know, if Doc were here now, he’d probably yell at me for not quitting,” she said. “But sometimes it feels like the only good thing about having a short string is that I get to smoke freely again. Whatever’s gonna get me is already coming, whether it’s lung cancer or something else.”
In the earlier sessions, back in April, Maura had stared at Chelsea and wondered about her, the natural orange tints in her hair matching her quite unnatural orange tan. It fascinated Maura that, even after receiving her short string, Chelsea continued to prioritize her biweekly spray tans. But there, on the stoop, watching Chelsea savor the final puffs of her cigarette, Maura actually admired her dedication. So what if she had a short string? She still wanted to live her life. She still wanted to look tan.
“So, did you look again?” Chelsea asked. “At the new website?”
Maura shook her head.
“That was probably the right idea,” Chelsea said. “It’s a lot easier to freak out when it’s so much more specific. At least Hank didn’t have to wake up that morning and think, This could really be it.”
Chelsea dropped the butt of her cigarette onto the ground, smothering its glowing tip under the heel of her wedge sandal, and slowly stood up. “Shall we?”
When the two women walked into the classroom, the rest of the group was already talking.
“He should have told us the truth about his string,” Lea said.
It was the first session after Hank’s funeral.
“That Dr. Singh gave a nice eulogy,” Terrell remarked. “Saying that Hank inspired her to join Doctors Without Borders? I doubt any of my exes would be that kind.”
“Did they find out anything more about the shooter?” Sean asked.
“It sounds like she was aiming for Rollins,” said Ben. “So it probably wasn’t going to be some mass attack.”
“Only one thing’s really for sure,” said Nihal. “Her string is almost up.”
Chelsea groaned audibly. “First, she murders our friend, and now she’s giving all of us a bad rap.”
But it was Anthony who had actually linked the shooting to the woman’s box, Maura thought, painting her motivation as a short-stringer’s fury. Very few details had surfaced about the shooter herself. She was in her early forties, unmarried, no children. No family or friends came forward publicly, neither to defend her nor to express their shock.