The doctor presses his thumb into Natsu’s palm, eyes closed and head tilted, listening. Natsu’s the color of rice paper, not a speck of pink in her cheeks, and the rough rawness of her cough scares Chiyo.

“Is she okay?” Chiyo asks.

“Do not interrupt,” the doctor advises for the third time. How his patience with her hasn’t worn thin, she doesn’t know.

“But what do you know?”

Natsu shoots her a positively chilling glare—just like their mother’s. “Sister,” she says. Chiyo quiets.

The doctor shakes his old, smooth head, reaches into his medicine bag. “I’m afraid it’s bad.”