Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Olivia sank down into her bathtub, scrunching her knees up to her chest. Beads of water dripped down the back of her neck, the remnants of her quick shower moments before. Her golden blond hair was twisted up into a spare towel despite still being wet. In previous times, before she began her farming career, she could get away with a short shower and head straight to bed. Now the strain of daily hard labor on her muscles made a nightly bath to sooth her aches and pains a necessity. Even her bones hurt by the time she watered her crops for the second time as the day faded to a dusty blue.

With a content sigh, she ran a hand along her neck. Already she calculated her schedule for the following day. From six to seven, she watered her crops. Since it was her second year farming, her crops showed significantly more promise than the previous spring. She couldn't afford to let her care lack in any which way. From seven to eight, she ran around Lulukoko, greeting each and every friendly face. From eight to nine, she moved to Tsuyukusa and repeated the process once more. Then from nine to eleven, she greeted the residents of Westown and mined at the four geodes scattered throughout the town. The rest of her day unfolded as she played with her various pets, cared for her various animals, and fertilized and re-watered her various crops. Each day was long and just as difficult as the previous, but she still enjoyed her work.

Warmth flushed her chest to a bright red. Her heart began to pound in her ears. Her hand trailed down to press against her ribs. The heat transferred to the tips of her fingers. In any other moment, she might not have noticed, and it would have progressed and grown without restraint. Her fingers slipped to left, accidentally pressing down on her breast. About half an inch above the nipple, she felt a lump.

She blinked. Twice.

In middle school health class, they had a short section on sexual education. One of the brief lessons they had was the existence of breast exams. The male teacher awkwardly stumbled through the process before handing out black-and-white pamphlets to each female. On the pamphlet, cartoon hands traced mountains and valleys along a cartoon breast with white dashes tracing the path. Olivia lifted her left arm high above her head and attempted to lean further back in the tub. With her right hand, she followed the invisible path, up and down, up and down.

Sure enough, the little hard lump remained.

She switched sides, lifting her right arm above her head. A small part of her hoped the other side would offer the same texture. If they both had a lump, maybe it was something normal, nothing to worry about in the end. Up and down, up and down, up and down from one side to the other. Nothing.

How long had it been there? Days? Months? If it was dangerous, wouldn't she have felt or seen more symptoms? Her hands trembled; the breath stuck in her throat. Unless she already experienced the symptoms without recognizing them. She didn't know any at the top of her head. For all she knew, the persistent aches and pains and weakness stemmed from an illness growing inside her body. She stood. The water tumbled from her body in long, rolling streams.

Ford. He was a doctor, and he wasn't too far away. He'd know what to do.

Her knees shook and threatened to fail. Collapsing in the tub would only add insult to injury. She reached for another towel and wrapped it around her body. She tucked a plush tail under her armpit to keep the article in place. Pure muscle memory pulled her through brushing her hair and teeth. When it came to getting dressed, she stared at the simple cotton nightgown, jaw slacked. Exhaustion pulled at her legs. She fell into her bed.

The doctor always said the clinic was open for emergencies. Did this count as an emergency? If the lump first formed months ago, another night wouldn't hurt. Even if it was newer, another night wouldn't hurt. She couldn't drag her body out the door, much less all the way to Westown. It could wait until first thing in the morning—after watering her crops. Right?

She tucked her naked self under her blankets. Her still-wet hair dampened her pillow. She rolled onto her side, pulling her knees up to her chest. Mint, her pet Maine Coon, jumped onto the bed with a sweet little coo. The cat stretched her front legs. She yawned and settled herself next to her human's head.

Olivia reached up to pat Mint on her head. “It'll be alright, Minty,” she said. Her voice came out as an icy whisper, thin and cold. “Everything will be fine in the morning.”

Chapter Text

The navy night sky shuddered away multiple layers of color until nothing but a pale blue-green hue remained. The gentle palette ushered in the morning's quiet fury. A near-sleepless night left dark purple bags underneath Olivia's eyes. Crusted yellow discharge filled the corners of her eyes, right along the tear ducts. At the very least, fatigue left her without the energy to shake any longer. She moved without motivation, getting dressed in her usual attire. She didn't even bother with her trademark braids.

Mint trailed after her owner as she left the house, swishing her bushy tail. The cat cut between her legs, ran forward to the fields, and looked expectantly back toward Olivia. She meowed. Each morning the friendly feline followed her owner as she performed her morning watering. The rest of the day she spent basking in the sun and playing on the pet playground.

Olivia swallowed. A dry lump form in her throat. “N-not today, Mint,” she said as if the little animal could understand. “At least, not right now.”

She exited her farm to the crossroads. The expanse of bright green land branched off in three different directions. Swarms of bugs flew above the nearby pond. Two foxes frolicked and snapped at the insects without falling into the water. The sight might have made her smile, but in her current mindset, she marched on without stopping. She shoved her hands into her dress pockets, keeping her eyes on the dirt path as she aimed for Westown.

A hazy silence hovered over the town. White sunlight highlighted the outline of the mountains that created a natural border around town; the occasional ray poked over the edge and flooded the buffalo statue or a cactus with light. Unlike the other two nearby towns, Westown was built on three different tiers. The florist, general store, and restaurant were on the very top tier while the open-air market was on the bottom. The middle tier held the post office and clinic. Brad and Carrie, the couple from the restaurant, stood along the train tracks running through the center tier of Westown. They both waved quietly at her as she rushed to the clinic.

Dr. Ford stood outside. He held a simple watering can in one hand, and he watered the two small fields of potatoes in front of the clinic. When Olivia first met the doctor, she was shocked to see him outside and doing physical labor. The first thing she learned about him was his disdain for sweat and dirt, so the implications of even recreational gardening seemed out of his interests. The second thing she learned was his passion for healthy meals. Access to fresh vegetables made his quest for dietary balance much easier, and to avoid the discomforts of sweat or body odors, he moved with slow, reduced, and deliberate motions.

He straightened up as she approached. “Good morning, Olivia. It's unlike you to visit so early.”

Her bottom lip trembled. “Doctor,” she mumbled.

“Yes?” He blinked. Anyone with the natural ability to pick up emotional cues would have reacted to her tattered appearance; from her dismal eyes to her uncharacteristic pout, almost anyone could see her typical “Olivia” glow was absent. Dr. Ford wasn't one of those individuals.

With the back of her wrist she wiped away the crush from her eyes. The words seemed to fail her. How many different ways were there to relay the same message? Countless. Yet, there she stood, mouth opened and void of language. Her tongue darted out to coat her bottom lip with saliva. One word at a time. One and then another after the other. “I have an emergency.”

He blinked once again. Regardless if he believed her or not, he remained calm. “Very well. Follow me,” he said in his typical cool tone. He held the clinic door open for her. Once indoors, he tucked his iron watering can into its proper place within a cabinet. “Please take a seat.” When she sat on the short round stool, he took his place across from her. He folded his hands on his lap. “Now, Olivia, what's bothering you?”

She crossed her arms over her stomach. Her eyes fell away from his stern face; instead she stared at his pristine white necktie. She couldn't picture him without his signature full piece outfit—the pressed button-up shirt, the proper vest, the tie, the straight-legged trousers, the bright white gloves, and finally, the white lab coat. Formal and put together, just like the doctor. She said, “I found a lump on my breast.”

A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows as a look of concern overtook his face. He nodded once and stood suddenly. He balled his hands into fists at his sides, and he looked over her head, toward the doors. “I understand. Olivia, I'll be back momentarily. While you await my return, change into this gown,” he said, handing her a powder blue hospital gown from a lower drawer, “with the opening in front, please. I'll secure the clinic door behind me, so no one will disturb you.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, her hand shooting out to grasp his lab coat. Her knuckles turned a harsh white under her tight grip. They almost blended in with the stiff cotton of the coat.

“It's best if Megan is here while I perform any tactile exams. While I'm confident in my ability for an accurate diagnosis and prognosis, having another woman as a chaperon in the room is simply proper procedure to insure your comfort and safety. In tense and stressful moments, a motherly figure can provide support I'm unable to give,” he answered. “If I were delivering a baby, I would request Megan's presence, as well. She does have previous experience as a midwife.”

Her fingers relaxed one at a time. It made sense, in a bizarre rational way, but she didn't want to be alone. Not right then. She could see the determination in his violet eyes, and she knew there was no point in arguing with the doctor. “Oh. Alright. Thank you.”

Ford nodded to her. He didn't offer a temporary farewell as he exited the clinic. The clinic's double doors housed narrow rectangular windows, and the doctor hung gauzy white curtains to create a filter between the outside and the inside worlds. His dark shadow showed through fabric as he manually locked the door. The shadow disappeared moments later.

She sighed. She placed the hospital gown down on the doctor's chair before disrobing. She folded her dress with as precise edges as possible. She shot a hesitance glance over her shoulder as she unhooked her bra, and she let the article fall to the ground. The gown, despite its gentle coloring, was scratchy and starchy. The vague scent of bleach wafted from the material. Pulling on the gown was almost like wearing a dysfunctional cape. The arm holes provided borderline useless support, and tying the strings together to close the gown was impossible. Still she tucked the flapping sides underneath her armpits to keep them still. Even though she was technically covered, she still felt naked, stripped of her protection and comfort.

The clinic doors released a loud click as the tumblers unlocked. “Olivia, I've brought Megan,” Ford said, announcing their arrival. He held the door open for the elderly woman, and when she entered, he re-locked the door. “Please move over to the open cot.”

Olivia half expected Megan to tell her, “everything is going to be okay” or “there is nothing to worry about.”

Megan offered her a sympathetic smile and said nothing. She took the spare chair next to the sanitized white hospital cot.

“I have a few questions to ask before we begin any exams,” the doctor said as she lifted herself onto the blank bed. He produced a brown clipboard and pen. “Are you aware of any preexisting medical or mental disorders within your family? This can be extended or immediate family.”

“My dad has high blood pressure and cholesterol, but that might just be from stress and poor diet. My grandfather on my dad's side fell ill for an extended period of time, but I don't know what he had. He also made a full recovery.” She twiddled her thumbs. “I think my grandmother on my mom's side had glaucoma and cataracts. She died when I was young, and I don't remember of what. It might have been leukemia or something along those lines. I just remember my mom crying at the funeral. I'm sorry. That's all I know. I could always write my mom and ask for a more detailed history.”

The doctor's frantic writing suggested that he wrote each and every word down on paper. He nodded. “That would be for the best. Have you used any legal or recreational drugs in the past two weeks? This includes alcohol, tobacco, and cigarettes.”

“I'll have a glass of wine once or twice a week, but that's about it.”

More frantic writing, more nodding. “Are you sexually active?”

She cast a quick sideways glance at Megan. To her genuine surprise, the woman looked indifferent to the question. Here she thought the kind and conservative woman turned her nose at anything unsightly. Perhaps the medical setting neutralized any perverse meaning. Scandalous behavior became a fact of life when necessary. “No,” she answered.

“Have you experienced any nipple discharge?”

“No.”

“Have you experienced any excess sensitivity of the breasts, outside what may occur with your typical menstrual cycle?”

“Not that I think.” It wasn't like she went around groping her chest at random.

“And have your menstrual cycles been regular? Not particularly heavy or light and no peculiar or unreasonable symptoms?” He seemed to even copy down his questions along with the following answers. His face remained blank throughout the questionnaire. Not even his mouth twitched. Watching his complete lack of emotional response was interesting if not a little unsettling. Still, in most situations Olivia would consider the two of them friends, but she had never actually visited the clinic as a patient. She kept her energy well controlled, so she never passed out or required the doctor's madman injections. Each and every time she passed through the clinic doors, it was to speak with Ford or deliver a package or gift him a fresh piece of mint. During these exchanges, his affect remained fairly constant, but he smiled and made conversation like anyone else. At that moment it was as if they had never met before, and he handled her with a doctor's impersonal demeanor. Like almost everything about the man, his actions made logical sense—a doctor had to be levelheaded and rational, not inspired by outbursts and personal affairs. But...

He rattled off a handful more questions, each as painfully personal as the last, until he requested that she lay back on the cot. He placed the clipboard aside, and he replaced his cloth gloves with blue disposable gloves. “Raise your left arm, please,” he said. His hands were cold. He performed the same procedure as what she remembered from the self-check pamphlet. “Raise your right arm now.” The command came off less severe than the words suggested. When the examination finished, he returned to his clipboard without a word.

A knot formed in her throat. Had he not felt it? Had she imagined the whole ordeal?

She felt the intense desire to cover herself. Heat swallowed the back of her neck. In her twenty-two years no man, or woman for that matter, saw her exposed body, and here she had a man touching her. A doctor, yes, but if it turned out she felt a phantom tumor...

Ford continued to scribble with a persistent frown. He sighed and tapped the side of his glasses. “Even without knowing of any past family history with breast cancer, this is still a concerning development. There are several different possibility, two of which are more likely. I do doubt it's a cancerous tumor, because the lack of other symptoms suggests either it's in an early stage or benign. It could also be a cyst. If this was a more severe situation, I would suggest a biopsy to collect a sample to insure exactly what it is before making any counteractions, but as it is I would suggest a non-invasive method of complete removal.”

“Removal? Here, in the clinic?” she asked, eyes wide.

He gave her a quick nod. “Yes. While my primary focus is on providing general care for my patients, I do have training with minor surgery.” From one of the many cabinets of medical supplies, he produced a long and frightfully thick needle. “I can't provide an intravenous anesthetic without an anesthesiologist to monitor your condition, but a local anesthetic is easy and relatively safe to administer. I must warn you, however, there may be minor scarring, and you may feel soreness in the location for up to two weeks. Physical labor may prove difficult for that length of time.”

“Two weeks?” She pulled the gown tight over her chest. “I can't be out of commission for that long; I have a farm to run, animals to feed, crops to water, and everything. Even now I should be taking care of my radishes, not sitting in the clinic.”

Megan reached out and put her hand on Olivia's wrist. She continued to smile her gentle smile. “It will be alright, Olivia. Frank, Hector, and myself will be more than willing to help you around the ranch. I'm sure some of your friends from the other two towns would be happy to lend a hand, as well.” She gave her a reassuring squeeze. Megan must have read something in Olivia's eyes, because she added, “don't think you're burdening us, Dear. Just worry about getting better.”

While Megan comforted her, Ford set to work preparing the anesthetic. He stabbed the needle into the top of a glass container. Pulling the plunger back, clear liquid shot inside the syringe's barrel. He removed the needle and held the entire container up to the light, checking the dosage. “If you're prepared to begin, please lay back down,” he said when Megan finished speaking. “Megan, if you would, prepare to wipe away excess fluid.”

Fluid...

Olivia's stomach flipped; the back of her neck and shoulders tensed. She could always back out and return at a later date. The only two people who knew about her issue were in the room with her. She would only need to avoid Ford and Megan to keep from being reminded about the surgery; it wouldn't be difficult to adjust her schedule to cut them out of her routine. But... As strange as it was, they were her friends. She sighed. “Alright, Doc. I trust you.”

He smiled.

She made herself as comfortable as possible on the cot, but still, the level of discomfort from the situation alone was almost unbearable. Part of her just wanted to clamp her eyes shut and sew them shut when Ford re-performed the breast exam to re-locate the lump. Instead, her eyes remained wide, unblinking. With a specialized marker, he drew the parameter and general shape with dark blue dash lines. Next he picked up the syringe. He showed no signs of hesitation, and he pierced her.

The needle itself didn't hurt too bad. It was worse than drawing blood but not as bad as getting a vaccine straight into muscle. She could feel the cold liquid entering her body, pushing against fat and nearby nerves. She wouldn't have known he removed the needle if she hadn't watched the action as it occurred. Perhaps she wouldn't have known anything he did if she hadn't watched him. With vague detached interest, she witnessed as Ford took a sharp scalpel to her skin. Red oozed up from the incision as soon as Ford created it. When he moved his hand away, Megan took the opportunity to mop up the blood. Between thirty and forty minutes passed when Ford brought out the stitches. Even as he sewed her back together, she felt nothing.

Once he finished the stitches, he disinfected the area and cleaned any of the leftover surplus blood. “I'll be certain to properly seal and package the sample; I'll let Wayne know the urgency of its arrival at its destination without mentioning you or your situation. When I receive word from my colleagues in the city, I'll summon you to go over the results. Well, how are you feeling?”

“I don't feel much of anything. Except, I'm tired. Really tired,” she answered. She tried to sit up, but her arms refused to cooperate. She released a loud huff and closed her eyes. A wave of sleepiness almost kept them shut. Prying them back open took real determination.

Megan nodded. “Perhaps it's best you stay here and rest. Ford will keep a good eye on you, and I'll gather the troops to tend your chores.”

“Of course,” Ford said with a quick nod. For the hundredth time, he returned to his various cabinets. This time he unearthed a pristine white blanket. “Wearing tight fitting clothing or a bra may be uncomfortable until the swelling and tenderness goes down,” he said, fanning out the blanket so it landed over her body in one smooth motion.

Megan prepared to leave, and Olivia called out, “thank you.”

The older woman smiled. Then she was gone.

Ford drew the white curtains around the cot and her. He stood on the other side of the thin boundary; his shadow showed through the flimsy filter. Unlike when she saw him through the gauzy door curtains, his height became apparent. Since when was he so tall? “Would it ease your recovery if the clinic remained closed for the rest of the day?” he asked. He said it in his usual cut-and-dry tone, as if the offer was no big deal, just another part of the job.

She smiled a timid little smile. “You can open up; something tells me I'd sleep through the end of the world right now.”

He didn't laugh, but he never laughed at anything. “Very well. Then rest.”

“Doctor's orders?”

“Doctor's orders.”

She could picture his smile, the slight upward tilt of his lips. Her eyes fluttered shut. She could trust Megan to take care of her farm; the woman did have a lifetime of experience after all. If Frank and Hector agreed to help, then there were about three lifetimes between them. Ludus would visit her in the clinic with the twins if he found out before she left. If he didn't find out before she told him herself, he'd probably be angry. Iluka, too. Her own grin creased her lips; from Westown to Lulukoko, she truly had great friends. A tiny sigh passed through her throat, and sleep enveloped her.

Chapter Text

Mint watched Poppy the sheep from the safety of the other side of the fence. Her tail swished in wide violent sweeps while her silver-gray mane bristled. Her long white whiskers pointed directly forward. She might have hissed at the grazing animal if not for Olivia sitting next to her. Her owner wore a long face, and perhaps the little cat didn't want to cause more worry.

In the three days since the surgery, she took to wearing a magenta yukata from Tsuyukusa. She didn't have to wear a bra with the yukata; the material was thick enough to crush any potential indecency. The silky cloth felt soft and smooth against her skin; at times it was as if she wasn't wearing anything at all. It helped her forget that her chest hurt like the devil. For farm work, however, the outfit was a bit too formal, too easy to rip and to dirty. Sitting on the ground wasn't exactly comfortable either. The clothing constricted around her calves more than the styles from Westown that she normally wore.

A gentle breeze ruffled her hair, the grass, and Mint's fur.

Frank left only a half hour earlier after brushing each of her livestock while she fed them crunchy threats and pet their noses. Now she reclined on a small hill near one of her large barns, legs stretched out in front of her. She scratched the top of Mint's head and sighed. Three days and no news, no letters from either the city hospital or her mother—nothing. She knew the mail system needed its time to work: letters and packages had to travel miles upon miles before reaching their destination, and then people needed time to formulate a response and return to the post office for the process to start all over again. This knowledge didn't ease her worries.

The cat nuzzled her hand and cooed.

She smiled down at Mint, petting her with more focus.

“Olivia, aloha.” Ludus waved at her from the path connecting the western side of her farm to the central. The dark blue haired man approached with his slow gait. “Taking a break, right?” he asked when he was close enough to her.

She patted the ground next to her, inviting him to take a seat. “The animals are cared for already; my uncle just left a little while ago. All's that left is the afternoon watering. What are you up to? It's not like you to come and visit.”

He lowered himself down to the ground; once he settled himself down, he offered his small, almost shy smile. “E kala mai ia'u,” he said. “You're the one who comes and visits every morning; I thought it might be nice to repay the favor.” It was a gentle lie, one she could ignore or accept with quiet grace. He meant no harm with his words. If anything, he was doing his best to preserve her dignity by not mentioning her condition. “What about returning the livestock to the barn?”

She pointed across the field, over near the large coop. “See the Bengal and the husky down there? Those two are trained to bring them out in the morning and back at the end of the day. When they weren't as well behaved, Cassia, the Bengal, would stalk the chickens throughout the field. She would never actually hurt them, but she sure liked to scare the ever-living out of the poor birds. Coriander, the husky, would chase her off if the chickens got too discouraged and started crowing. They're great pets; a farmer couldn't ask for better.”

Mint glared up at her with intense green eyes. The harsh stare didn't lighten even as Olivia showered her with scratches and strokes and love. She stood, lifting her tail until only the very tip was crooked. With a fluffy huff, she marched away, back toward the house.

Ludus continued to smile as he watched the cat's display. He took a deep inhale and sighed. “The air's sweet here,” he said. His smile faded away, but he didn't seem upset, just neutral. “It's so different from Lulukoko. There's not even a hint of sea salt.”

Olivia grinned and said nothing. A comfortable silence settled between them. She wondered if she would ever feel as comfortable with Ford. Sure she could go and listen to the man talk or interact with him, but on the occasions when she had lunch with him, she felt bewildered. With one-on-one conversations where his attention was focused on her and her alone, words almost failed her. Her palms sweated. Her chest tightened in ways she didn't want to understand. She was lucky she didn't choke on his admittedly bland food. Sometimes she managed a playful disposition, but he never returned the impish tone, retaining his stoic nature without fail. When her implication or jokes fell flat, her confidence wavered. Something akin to disappointment (discouragement, perhaps) would settle in her chest, and the conversation strained before stuttering to an awkward end.

They offered different breeds of awkward. Ford wasn't discriminating in his awkwardness—each and every individual was subject to his inability to read social cues. Olivia on the other hand? She could fit in with any group, from children to the elderly. Other men near her age, like Ludus, offered no problems; she could befriend them and maintain their friendship almost effortlessly. There was no struggling to speak or to fill dead air around them. She felt no need to go out of her way to impress them; they established their relationship as they were—if someone didn't take to her, she didn't take offense.

But Ford? As much as she wished to deny it, she wanted him to fancy her.

“What are you thinking about?” Ludus asked, watching her with open curiosity.

“Ford.”

He gave her a confused face, his eyebrows drawing toward each other. “The doctor?”

She nodded before releasing a hissing sigh. “I don't get him. I've visited him each day since the incident, but that's not out of the normal for me. I say hello to everyone once a day. It's just what I do,” she said, shrugging. “Each time he insists on checking on how my incision is healing. He applies some type of cream over the stitches and changes the gauze before sending me on my way. Sure, before he didn't like me lingering in the clinic when I wasn't hurt, but at least he wouldn't actively shoo me out the doors.” She crossed her arms over her chest, careful of her wound. After the surgery, she insisted Ford didn't have to bother Megan whenever he needed to observe her wound, so their appointments had progressed without outside supervision. “Before we were friends, and he treated me like a friend in his own way. Now it's like I'm just another patient.”

Ludus leaned forward a bit, and he tapped a short melody on his kneecap. He frowned. “E kala mai ia'u. I'm afraid I'm not good at this sort of thing. Perhaps it's better to talk to Siluka, yeah. She's rather perceptive since she sees auras and all.”

“No, no. I'm sorry for bring up my problems; it sounds kind of silly when I say it out loud.”

He looked out over the land again. The concerned look remained trained on his face. “You could also talk to his friends. They would have some type of insights, or they should. Ask Wayne, yeah? He might be even better than Siluka, because of his, er, disposition.”

“Alright, we don't have to talk about this,” she said. “I'm not going to put you through those trifles. Now, help me to my feet, please.” She braced herself against his shoulder, and together they rose from the ground. With her hands, she wiped away any dirt from her rump. Short green grass stains blemished the bottom of her outfit. She shot him a bright smile and said, “while you're here, I might as well offer you something to eat. How about deep-fried fish cakes? Marco gave me some fresh carp that'll go to waste since I don't eat fish, myself.”

He echoed her smile. “Mahalo.”

Chapter Text

Five days since her impromptu surgery, and she still received no response from her mother relaying a detailed family medical history. She slammed her mailbox shut with more force than necessary, sending a jolt of white pain through her chest. She spat a curse to the grass, buckling in for more discomfort. At the very least, Olivia could water her own crops. Sure the action exhausted her worse than it had even when she first began farming and she almost dropped her watering can multiple times during the process and it took an extra hour and an half than normal and she couldn't spread fertilizer, so the quality of her crops remained static...

Another curse tore from her throat and beat against the clear Spring sky.

Mint jumped straight into the air. As she landed, she broke into an immediate sprint to escape the sudden outburst.

Olivia muttered an apology to the startled cat, but her mood didn't improve in the slightest. For one of the first times since moving to the country, she genuinely missed city life. In cities with their towering office buildings, rivers made of concrete and automobiles, and massive underground public transits with tens of thousands of people spread evenly throughout, she was an invisible face in a crowd. Throughout the entire day, she might meet one or two people she knew on a personal level at most. This meant less people knew her business and felt the need to act on their friendly relations.

Between the three towns, everyone knew something was wrong with her, that she wasn't one-hundred percent. None but Ford, Megan, and Frank (who weaseled the information out of her, using their common blood as a talking point) understood the true nature of her weakened state, but all the others felt sympathetic toward her. They spent more time asking about her and how she felt and how her farm fared; they never asked outright about her healing or wound. They gifted her with small items or pieces of food as “get well” presents. At first she didn't mind the extra attention, but with each passing day, harmless care and sympathy began looking green and tainted—like pity. She rose a successful farm from the ground up with her own two hands and iron-clad spirit; she didn't need any damn pity.

She wished she could skulk off to sulk in private like an offended cat. She would avoid the three towns and the many compassionate inhabitants, if she knew she wouldn't feel guilty about it later. Despite her irritation, she still cared about her neighbors and their feelings. If she missed saying “hello” to even one person, she knew she risked making the individual feel unimportant, especially if she met almost everyone else from the town.

Masking her scowl with an overcompensating grin, the daily exchanges occurred without issue, and no one seemed to notice her emotional disturbance. Even the more eagle eyed individuals went unknowing.

Westown dust crusted around her ankles and up her calves. The noon sun hung overhead, bright and brilliant with its golden rays. In the increasing heat, villagers and guests alike retreated into the safety of shade, either in the shops or the restaurant. A vague sense of hunger throbbed within Olivia's stomach. A tiny bundle of fresh cherries waited in her rucksack, but the process of peeling the fruit away from the hard pits seemed like too much effort on such a hot day.

She ran the back of her wrist over her forehead. Sweat clung in heavy beads across her skin; the thickest slipped down the bridge of her nose and along her temples. Her lips parted, parched. The restaurant tempted her with its comfort foods and industrial strength ceiling fans, but the sheer number of people lingering within held her at bay. The post office and general store both offered rotary fans for the workers but not the customers, so they were out of the question. That left the florist and the clinic. A quick image of Ford flashed through her mind. Squaring her shoulders, she aimed for the clinic.

A glorious gush of mechanical cool air blasted her face as she opened the door.

A shuddering sigh hissed through her teeth, pure relief. The waiting room and examination section were void of people. Even the research area lacked the Doctor himself. The icy white emptiness and hollow silence reminded her of waiting for Ford's return. As confusion twisted her mouth into a concerned frown, she remembered that Ford ate lunch around noon. The thought of food sent a ravenous grumble through her gut. Maybe he would have extra to share.

The doctor stood at his old-fashioned stove. He looked up from his stewing pot as she entered the living area above the clinic. “Good afternoon, Olivia,” he said. He returned his attention to his meal. The earthy scent of simmering turnips and carrots filled the air. “I'm in the middle of preparing a quick meal. Is there something you require?”

“I stopped in to say 'hi,' and I wanted to escape the heat for a little while.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “The clinic isn't your own personal hide-away. When will both you and Wayne learn that this is a place for the sick, not the healthy?” He stirred his stew twice with a long wooden spoon. He sighed. “Is the temperature that unbearable already? I suppose I need not warn you about the dangers of dehydration and heat stroke if you already know when to seek shelter. If you would prefer, you may join me for lunch; although, you should know I cook for nutritional benefit rather than taste.”

She smiled despite herself. “You know you say that every time I eat with you, right?”

A wrinkle appeared in the skin between his eyebrows. “Do I? Ah, I suppose I do. I'll try to remember for the next occasion, should one arise.”

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“If you would like to set the table, it would be much appreciated,” he said. Without further prompting, he offered directions to the location of various dishes and silverware.

When she dropped in for lunch on previous occasions, she joined after the meal already began, so she never had the joys of exploring the kitchen. The simple set of ceramic bowls stacked together on top of the simple small plates which rested on top of larger plates with the same white canvas. Each coffee mug in the neighboring cabinet faced the same way, the handle facing away from the wall at a forty-five degree angle. The silverware rested in a plastic storage container with separate sections for the forks, spoons, knives, and other less uniform utensils. No watermarks tainted the polished surfaces.

She set Ford's table with more care than she would set her own table. She caught herself as she straightened a spoon, and with a tight throat, she chastised herself for her actions. Setting a nice table wouldn't impress anyone. Not that she wanted to impress Ford specifically. Right, right. She just wanted to know any updates on the biopsy of her mysterious breast growth. She sighed. If she thought it enough, maybe it would eventually become the truth.

Ford brought out a steaming pot of pistou soup. Brown oven mitts covered his hands as he held onto the black handles. The soybeans bobbed to the top of the broth. Bright orange from carrots filtered through, not quite rising above the brown surface. He placed the silver pot on the center of a brown ceramic block to save his table from any heat warping or damaging. He served us with a long wooden ladle.

He had a nice figure. His usual positioning in a chair or behind a desk hid most of his physical presence, but watching him move about his living area, Olivia drank in the novel experience. Tall and lean but not without broad shoulders, he fitted his formal attire well. She couldn't call him handsome, not in the conventional way at least. Perhaps in his younger years he might have drawn more eyes, but she wouldn't call him unattractive in the least either.

How old was Ford, anyway? A doctorate degree took between eight and ten years after high school, placing him at least in his late twenties. Even then, his clinic and his position as the general practitioner seemed an integral part of Westown with strong roots in the town. Mid-thirties seemed more accurate. Ten or thirteen years didn't seem too extreme; she'd heard of larger age gaps in plenty of happy couples. Couples?

Olivia huffed. She needed to steel her thoughts, steer them away from improper shores.

“Are you alright, Olivia?” Ford asked, raising an eyebrow at her. He took his seat with silent grace.

“Just getting lost in my own head. Sorry. I haven't been myself lately.” She picked up her spoon and took a drag of her soup. The broth simmered most taste from the vegetables, but the various textures from crunchy to soft remained to entertain the tongue.

“Understandable,” he said. He dabbed a napkin against the corner of his mouth. “You've had a stressful week, and as minor as it may be, you're still recovering from surgery. No one expects an automatic rebound. Even once the physical symptoms have passed, emotional and mental changes may remain without proper intervention or adjustment techniques to intercept their development.”

She chased a cube of onion around the edge of her bowl with her spoon. “Are you a psychologist now?”

“Psychology and the study of adjustment, while not my focus, did occupy some of my studies.”

A smile crossed her lips. “You're a real jack-of-all-trades, Ford.”

He blinked. His shoulders bunched together a bit. He didn't blush, but his embarrassment rang clear. “Ah, well. I believe that title belongs to that young man, Ludus.” He adjusted his glasses. “On another note, I need to have an understanding of a wide variety of medical conditions and disorders. As the only doctor within the region, I must prepare for any mishaps or emergencies that may arise.” He placed his fingertips on the table's edge, kept his eyes down on his soup, and smiled a slight smile. “But thank you nonetheless,” he said.

His smile faded to a thin but neutral line. “Returning to the previous topic, I want you to know I will lend an ear, should you require it. I'm offering, not only as a medical professional, but as your friend, as well.”

Heat enveloped her chest as pink twinged her cheeks. For a moment she struggled to say anything, and her tongue felt cottony against the bottom of her mouth. She could only smile. At long last, she managed a soft, “thank you.” Their meal continued with little conversation, but she kept sneaking peaks at her meal partner between bites.

Chapter Text

The eighth morning after her surgery, Olivia awoke to her mailbox filled with papers. The first, a lightweight yellow flier that smelled faintly of green tea, told of new seasonal dishes at Sharaku in Tsuyukusa starting the first of summer.

The second, a thick stack of white copy paper held together with a pink staple, came from her mother. Marlena's round and loopy handwriting detailed their family medical history with simple precision. She split the family, dividing Olivia's mother's family from her father's. From there she went back a full five generations, extended cousins included. The last four pages in the stack dedicated each and every line to expressing both worry and love for Olivia while scolding her for never writing (which, she had to admit, was true; she wrote once, maybe twice, a month at most).

Tucked in the back of her mailbox, she pulled out a long white envelope. Her name scrawled across the smooth front, and inside she discovered Ford's neat script. He wasted no paper with his simple message:

Olivia,

At your soonest convenience, may I request your appearance at the clinic.

Best wishes,

Ford

She shoved her mother's letter into her rucksack. Her stomach flipped; bile licked the back of her throat. Today's the day, she thought. She straightened her back and set to work watering her crops. Her cabbages were almost ripe. The cucumbers dangled from their vines, heavy and lush. The leafy tops of turnips poked through the soil, but they'd shoot up overnight with a day of proper watering. One more day, and she'd be able to harvest all her spring crops at once before the summer heat smothered them to death.

With her morning chores complete, she returned her watering can to the tool shed. “This is it,” she told herself. She brushed dirt from her skirt and washed dust from underneath her fingernails. “This is it,” she said again, clamping her eyes shut. Squaring her shoulders, she began her march to Westown.

Another crop of potatoes jutted from the clinic's two small fields. Droplets of water collected along the leafy veins, and at their heaviest, they rolled down and dropped to the ground. The ground itself seeped with water, dark and rich. So Ford already finished his light farming for the day.

She pressed open the clinic's door. The sterile white tiling reflected her own hazy image back at her. “Ford,” she said, raising her volume a bit. Her voice almost seemed to echo through the waiting and examination room.

Chair legs scraping against wood sounded from Ford's research area. “I'll be with you in a moment, Olivia.” He entered the room, and he greeted her with a curt nod. He gestured to the patient stool with a gloved hand, saying, “please, take a seat.”

She obeyed. She sat with her back needle straight and her hands folded tight on her lap. She watched Ford. Each and every minute movement from the slight way his lab coat rustled to the gentle bounce of his pale hair with each step, he moved through slowed time. It felt like a lifetime by the time he sat himself in front of her. “What's the damage, Doc?” she asked, throat dry and words heavy on her tongue.

His right eye twitched at the unfortunate nickname. “Must you...? Oh, never mind.” He offered her a slight smile, defusing whatever annoyance that contorted his face. “I've received word from my city colleagues. The biopsy revealed no signs nor symptoms of cancer. In fact, the lump proved to be a small sebaceous cysts, a skin cyst in layman's terms. They don't prose immediate risk. It is, however, good we acted as soon as we did. If left to its own devices, the cyst might have grown and damaged the milk ducts. Already the cyst showed signs of expanding roots.”

A sigh hissed between her teeth. Tension lifted from her muscles, and her body slumped back. “So I'm in the clear?” she asked, offering a small grin. The grin wavered, trembled around the corners.

Ford nodded. “Let's move to the cot. I'd like to examine the incision.”

They relocated, and Olivia loosened her top. She allowed one shoulder to slip down her arm. The material hooked on her nipple, keeping part of her breast hidden by the silky cloth. Ford replaced his cloth gloves with disposable blue gloves. She held her breath as Ford peeled away the gauzy bandage. The incision showed an angry pink. A shiny gossamer layer covered the break, and black stitches held the two sides together in one continuous length. The stitches crossed back and forth, back and forth without stop. At the ends, the synthetic sutures tied together in tight tiny knots.

“We'll wait another few days before removing the sutures. From this point forward, I want you to keep the wound uncovered. The amount of discharge has reduced to almost nothing, so no damage should come to your clothing without a bandage. Fresh air may do it well.”

He leaned back, pulling his gloves free with a snap. “I'm afraid there's nothing to be done about the scarring,” he said with a frown. A crease formed between his eyes as a slight scowl overtook his features. “The coloring may fade with time, but even the sutures will leave small indents. I apologize; I don't enjoy scarring my patients.”

“It's not your fault,” Olivia said, pulling her sleeve up her shoulder. She tied her outfit tight over her torso. “Plus, it's not like anyone is going to see it.”

“Ah, yes.” He turned his head away from her, and he adjusted his glasses higher upon the bridge of his nose. A vague red hue ghosted across his cheeks. “I suppose that is correct,” he said, and he cleared his throat.

Olivia noted his discomfort with a fox-like grin. Rather than let him wallow in his awkwardness, she pulled her rucksack onto her lap. “My mother finally sent a family history.” Opening her bag, she leafed through her mother's letter, and she tore the last pages from the staple. She offered the remaining stack to him.

He replaced his gloves before accepting. His metal frames slipped down his nose as he hunched to read through the various diseases and mental ailments. With a pen he wrote in various notes, and every now-and-then he released a soft huff. He placed the papers on the nearest counter, saying, “I'll be certain to update your personal file with this information.”

The clinic door sounded. Hesitant steps tapped against the tiles, and a soft voice rose up, inquiring, “doctor?”

Ford stood with a small sigh. “Duty calls. Return home safe, Olivia.” He stepped out to greet his new patients with his characteristic cold demeanor. He began asking of the young girl's complaints before Olivia escaped the building.

Olivia almost felt bad for the girl—she was in for a flurry of probing questions.

Back in the dusty outdoors, the daytime heat already began baking Westown's desert climate. Glorious yellow light illuminated the town. Highlights shined against all surfaces, cacti included. Heat clung to her back. Sweat slicked the silk of her yukata along the curve of her spine and shoulders; the sleeves threatened to suffocate her with their weight. The thought of motion exhausted her, so she stood outside the clinic, suffering the intensifying temperature.

She held a hand up above her eyes, blocking some of the offending rays. Sucking in a deep breath, she aimed for the post office. The post office hadn't quite succumbed to the day's heat, but the opened windows allowed the dry air to permeate the front room. Ethan greeted her with his usual slow kindness. He helped her prepare a letter to her mother, and he promised its safe delivery. When asked for Wayne, Ethan pointed her to the residential area behind the postal front.

The postman in question paced his combined kitchen/living and dining room. The blond's trademark cowboy hat sat on the dining table, forgotten. He noticed her after a moment, and a sunny smile blossomed across his face. “Howdy there, Olivia. You're lookin' good today,” he said.

“So do you, Wayne.”

The man always looked good whether dripping in sweat or dry as a bone. He drew eyes where ever he went, even when he visited the neighboring towns for deliveries. The fact that he was a genuine and kind person added to his near pristine image. He had his own army of fans for a good, solid reason. If she preferred the pretty boy type, she might have enlisted herself.

“I just brewed some coffee; would ya like some?” he asked, still beaming.

“You're aware it's blistering hot outside, right?”

“Ya think so? How about sweet tea instead?” He walked to his refrigerator, retrieved a clear pitcher of golden tea, and poured a glassful into a clean crystal cup. On the way back to her, he grabbed his own mug of steaming coffee. “Here ya go.”

She thanked him and took a long swig of the liquid gold. The sweet flavor relieved her throat of some torment, and she hissed a sigh. “Thank you. I needed this.”

“I appreciate the visit, Olivia. I know ya must be busy with the harvest festival comin' up tomorrow.” He must have read something in her face, because concern flashed across his eyes. “Ya'll did remember the festival, right?”

She groaned. “Nope,” she said, popping the 'p.' “I've been a little preoccupied.” Another sigh followed. “I'll just wing it tomorrow. At the worst, I lose, and so what? The experience is the real reward anyway.” She rolled her eyes. The tea suddenly didn't taste quite as sweet. Her slack with fertilizers would come back to bite her in the ass. To play it safe, she'd have to enter the novice rank, but where was the fun in that? The veteran rank and humiliation seemed much more appealing.

“How ya feelin'?” he asked, looking at her from over the rim of his mug.

“Fine, fine. I just got back from Ford's. I'm basically in the clear.”

As they spoke, they wandered over to the small table. They sat across from each other, their drinks resting on thin slabs of wood acting as makeshift coasters. “Ford, eh? You've been spendin' quite a lot of time with the good doctor, Olivia.” A sly overtone settled across his grin.

“By default,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. She felt heat flush her chest.

“'Default,' she says.” He let a little chuckle punctuate his tone. He leaned back against his chair, and he let his arm dangle over the edge. “Ain't nobody who'd judge ya, friend. Not in this town, at least.” His grin seemed to dance across his face, somewhere between gentle teasing and honest blessings.

“You're reading too much into it, Wayne.”

He waved her off. “Sure, sure, but don't forget: Ford's my friend, too. I want nothin' more than happiness for my friends. If they found happiness together...”

She placed her cup down harder than she intended. “Wishful. Thinking.” Clipped tone aside, a dark blush tainted her face. “Besides, you and me both know he doesn't believe in marriage, much less dating.” Heaviness settled over her stomach. She blinked twice. She chugged the rest of her tea; a bit of liquid dripped down her chin. “Thank you for the tea. I'll see you later, Wayne.” She wiped the tea remains with the back of her sleeve and stood in one motion. The blush refused to fade as she marched out of the post office, back into the daylight where anyone could see the embarrassment exposed on her face.

In fact, one townsfolk in particular witnessed Olivia's personal display, and without context, they were free to speculate or assume the reason behind her bright pink cheeks.

Chapter Text

She expected second place. Her cucumber hadn't been the finest. The size earned her a few extra points with its larger than normal length and girth. The pale green coloring didn't compare to the winner though, and of all things, the main focus of the festival was the crop's color. Still, she stood on the festival's stage, chest puffed even as the judge crowned the winner. Her stomach churned with a mixture of burning loss and acidic pride. She held her gaze above the villagers' heads, not meeting other individuals' eyes.

The festival concluded with a round of applause for all contestants regardless of results.

Frank gave her a half-wave, inviting her to join him.

Olivia stepped down, shot Frank a pained grin, and aimed for her Lulukoko friends. She accepted Ludus's soft remorse, Siluka's odd comments, and Iluka's biting encouragement with tight smiles. They stood in a circle, chatting about anything from their preferred vegetables to the impending Summer.

“I like your tunic, Olivia,” Siluka said with a dreamy sigh. “You look like you're wearing the sun.”

She looked down at her outfit as if just realizing it for the first time. “Thank you. I figured I needed something with more ventilation.” Sure enough the sunshine tunic offered wide open sleeves and a large billowing hemline. Even a slight breeze could cool her on the hottest of days. The golden thread reflected in the sun, bright and warm.

“I hate to say it, but the Lulukoko style suits you.” Iluka crossed her arms over her chest. “You should wear it more often, especially once summer hits. I'm sure Ludus sells at least one thing that will suit you. In fact, the tropical pareo might actually look pretty. You should think about it, or not. Either way it doesn't matter to me.”

Ludus turned to the sound of his name but didn't respond. He stared ahead, waiting for the conversation to redirect back to safe territory.

Siluka giggled. “We should join Olivia when buying clothing schematics.”

“That doesn't sound like an awful idea,” Iluka said with a sharp nod.

Olivia caught herself smiling, and some of the pain from losing numbed. She'd just have to do better at the end of Summer. She had a few fruit trees she'd grown since her very first season, so they would probably be her highest quality produce yet. That's right; she could probably take on the expert category with her best bananas! The train of thought help further chase her sorrows away, and her smile turned more true and less forced.

The start of a new season saw Olivia at her busiest and most troubled. From tiling new fields to cutting down dead stalks and planting new seeds, some task demanded every minute of her day. From morning til late afternoon, some breed of farm work devoured her life, and before she realized it, a week of summer disappeared.

She leaned against her mailbox, panting. Sweat rolled down her face and dampened her neck. Loose strands of hair clung to her skin as if glued by a malicious force. Dirt caked her ankles and burrowed underneath her fingernails. A fresh sunburn rouged her exposed forearms. The skin around the irate red burn peeled and flaked in long rows. Working kept her mind off the near-constant pain emanating from her arms, so she worked. Even as the afternoon began winding down, she still searched for something to do as she scanned her land.

“Howdy there, Olivia,” a low voice called. Wayne walked down the path from the crossroads to her farmhouse. His cowboy hat angled up to show off his shaded eyes.

“Hey there. What brings you all the way out here?” she asked, giving him a weak wave.

“Ford actually sent me. He gave me a cryptic message to deliver.” He adopted a dark and mysterious tone as he said, “'they're overdue for removal.'”

She shot him a look of pure confusion. Confusion morphed to horror. “Oh crap. I forgot my stitches. Crap, crap, crap. Is the clinic still open?”

“He's waiting for you,” Wayne answered with a smug grin.

She groaned. “First, let me try to wash up real quick. I'm already going to be scolded for forgetting; I don't need a scolding for being dirty, too.” She rushed to her house to wash her hands and try to rid herself of whatever vague sweaty smell she might carry. Once finished, Wayne escorted her to the clinic's door.

She poked her head through the clinic's door, half expecting the examination room to be empty.

Ford sat at his chair, facing an empty patient chair. He crossed his arms over his stomach in a motion that could either suggest annoyance or discomfort. His eyes met hers the moment she looked into the building. “Olivia,” he said in simple greeting. “Please, have a seat.” His voice offered no warmth or friendliness. Instead a frigid edge sharpened his words.

Olivia cringed. “I'm sorry, Ford. It's been so busy that I lost track of time.”

“Matters of health aren't to be forgotten.”

“Says the man who missed dinner, because his research completely absorbed his time.”

The cold mask cracked with a grimace. He rubbed his temples with slow circles. “I suppose you have a point. This is quite the pot and kettle situation, isn't it? Let me restart. Good evening, Olivia. Would you please have a seat?”

“It'd be a pleasure,” she said, trying not to roll her eyes. She settled herself across from him, and she couldn't help but hope she looked at least somewhat presentable. Wayne hadn't said anything about her smelling, but the man was too polite to say anything offensive to a lady.

Ford edged forward. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could release any words, he gasped. “Olivia, what happened to your arms? This is one of the worst sunburns I've seen.” He bent forward. With gentle hands, he lifted her right arm to examine the burn up close. He sighed and shook his head. He stood, moving to his many cabinets. From one he produced a jar of rich teal cream; from another he pulled a roll of gauze. Switching to his disposable gloves, he unscrewed the jar's lid. “Hold out your arms.”

She lifted both at once as if she were a zombie.

The cream cooled on contact. Ford applied thick globs at once before running his fingers along the length of the burn. Each drag along her skin spread the cream, and after six or seven runs, Ford distributed the cream as one even surface. Next he moved to the gauze. He wrapped the roll around and around from the elbow down to her wrists. With a pair of scissors, he snipped the white cotton, and he secured the end with body tape.

He all but fell back into his chair. “I swear, Olivia. I leave you to your own devices for a few days, and look what happens.”

“Maybe I just like you doting on me.”

“I, ah.” He cleared his throat. “Health is no joking matter, and I don't dote. I merely perform my duties to the best of my abilities. In fact, I've been told my bedside matter is lacking in many ways.”

Perhaps for others, Olivia thought, but she held her tongue.

“Now to the matter at hand, and the real reason for your late-day visit. If you would move over to the cot and remove your top, so we can begin.” He stood once more, waiting for her to echo his motions.

She glanced down at her tunic. “Uh, about that. Ford, I don't think I can remove just the top of this. It's sort of like a dress, and the neckline isn't wide enough to free my shoulder. I'd rather not run around the clinic in my underwear if I can help it.”

He blinked, turning his head. “Ah, yes. That wouldn't be for the best. Allow me to acquire a gown for you.” From yet another cabinet, he retrieved a pale blue hospital gown. If it wasn't the same gown from her surgery, then this gown was its identical twin. He handed the article to her and waited for her to walk over to the cot. He pulled the fluttering white curtain shut behind her. “Summon me once you're changed. Opening in the front, if you will.”

She pulled her tunic off in one smooth motion. She folded the overgrown shirt into a neat square, and she slipped her arms into the sleeve holes. The gown fell against her back, exposing the entire front of her body. Perhaps she should have invested in leggings underneath the tunic. She sighed. Too little, too late. She pulled at the two strings, tying them as tight as possible. “I'm decent enough,” she said, laying on the cot. Her feet dangled off the end.

Ford opened the curtains in one smooth motion. He dragged his chair across the room and placed it right along the cot. Next he acquired a miniature pair of silver scissors, tweezers, and seven or eight thin white strips from a box. He placed everything on the thin metal tray that lingered near the cot on a daily basis. At some point he had changed to a new pair of blue gloves. He pulled back one side of the gown just enough to display her incision.

“This shouldn't produce too much discomfort; although, you may feel a slight pulling.” He raised the scissor, and with careful precision, he snipped the first stitch. He moved to cut the next and then the next. With each slow movement, he made certain not to nick the still damaged skin beneath the blade. After breaking the last suture, he replaced the scissors with the tweezers. He grabbed hold of one broken end and gave a sharp tug.

The black wiring came right out, leaving a vague pin-prick sensation in its wake. She blinked with each removal, but she felt no pain, as promised. She watched as he applied each of the white strips over the wound.

When she asked, Ford explained that they were sterile strips. “They help relieve tension around the incision. They have intense grip, but they'll fall off on their own in about a week. I must caution you against sudden motions that pull them prematurely. Anything involving raising and lowering your arms or jerking your arms or chest could result in skin tearing and pointless pain.”

“So no hoeing around?” she asked, retying the gown shut. She kept her face stony, trying to play the line as straight as possible. Whether he caught the double meaning, she couldn't tell. Probably not.

His right eye twitched. “I'd highly advise against it,” he said with a sigh. He stood, removing his glasses. He rubbed his temples with a final sigh. “It has been a long day... I have one last request on my part. For my female patients, I tend to suggest a self-breast examination once every three months or so. With your predisposition to growths in the area, I ask you to check at least once a month. The sooner we catch any new cysts, the better.”

“Can do,” she said. When he returned back to the typical exam area, she changed back into her tunic. She placed the curtains back to their original position and gave him a smile. “What do I owe you for all this?”

He placed his glasses back on his face, pushing the frames high on his nose. He looked tired with dark bags beginning to form under his eyes. Still he maintained his proper stature and posture, not allowing exhaustion to hinder his medical role. “We'll establish a payment plan on another date, but know I have no intentions of raking you over the proverbial coals. I'll ask just enough to cover supplies and a good portion of the labor.”

“Alright. Then I'll let you get some sleep. See you another time, Doctor.”

“Good night, Olivia,” Ford called as she exited the clinic.

During her time in the clinic, the sun had set. A dark blanket settled around the town, casting navy hues across the orange-brown landscape. In the newfound night, she almost missed Wayne hanging back against the side of the clinic. “You didn't have to wait for me, Wayne,” she said, wrapping her arms underneath her breast. Strange how quick a day's heat dissipated to cool nights. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

He chuckled, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “I know, I know, but I gotta favor to ask ya, Olivia.”

“Oh?” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You usually don't ask much, Wayne. What's up?”

He smiled, but it wasn't his usual hyper-confident show. The smile seemed hesitant, not as strong around the corners or as full to show off his teeth. “Do ya think ya could talk to Lisette for me?”

“Lisette?”

He grabbed onto the rim of his cowboy hat and ran his fingers along the edge. “I think, ah, she's avoidin' me. I don't know what happened. One day, we're right as rain, and the next, I'm sufferin' the cold shoulder.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I think Brad mighta said something about me that upset her, but whenever I ask him, Carrie shushes 'im, tellin' him not to make things worse.”

“Why do you want me to talk to her?” she asked.

“Now, I don't got any proof, but something in my gut tells me you gotta be the one to clear up any,” he frowned, “miscommunication.” A sigh followed the word, and he shook his head. “I think she, er, took a shine to me. Don't get me wrong; I like Lisette. She's a sweet gal, but...” He let out a sound that mixed both a sigh and a groan, a noise of pure disappointment.

“But you don't like her in a romantic sense.” Olivia's heart twinged. “Maybe you should be the one to tell her.”

“I need 'er to talk to me in general before any heavy topics. I don't wanna hurt her; I really don't. Imma firm believer that guys and gals can be the best of friends without any complications.” His shoulders slumped, and sorrow molded his mouth into a mournful low. “I don't know if Lisette and I'll come out as friends.”

Silence held her tongue. She tossed her arm around his shoulder, and she gave him a tight squeeze. Some part of her remembered Ford saying that human warmth offered a soothing affect. Common sense, really. She figured she made the right decision, because Wayne put his warm hand over hers, returning the squeeze. When he pulled away from the contact, she said, “I'll do what I can.”

He nodded, and they parted for their separate paths.

Chapter Text

Olivia liked Lisette. A simple statement, yes, but it was an undeniable truth.

Lisette was a good, polite, and likable person. She met challenges with a smile and a gentle determination. Like many others, she ran her own business, making her a part of Westown's backbone. She handled the responsibility to the best of her ability. A sweet disposition with a passion for flowers and cute things made disliking her an active choice.

This said, Olivia didn't spend much free time with the young woman.

Given the option for some girl time, she'd rather hang out with Iluka or Siluka. The choice wasn't a slight against Lisette, but...

Part of her wanted to avoid the situation. She knew she could dance around both Lisette and Wayne if she tried. Shoot, she could avoid them without trying if her work demanded. Not that she would willingly prolong Wayne's suffering any more than necessary, and even then her actions might start a more painful chain. One bad situation could breed another. Then what? Nothing. Nothing she could do would help the situation change. Still, for Wayne's sake she'd try and listen to Lisette's story.

This responsibility as a friend drove her to the florist's door the following afternoon.

Lisette's head shot up as the door's bell twinkled a short tune. She stood around the front of the counter, a faded dust rag in hand. Her pale golden ringlets bounced up before returning to place behind her exposed shoulders. Her sea-foam green eyes widened. “Olivia! Hello. I was just closing up for the night.”

“I'm sorry to disrupt, but,” Olivia held up a bundle wrapped in simple cloth, “I baked a peach tart. There's no way I'll be able to eat it all on my lonesome.”

Her back jolted straight, her eyes widening further. A smile fluttered over her lips. “Really? Let me finish one last chore, and I'll brew a pot of tea.” She placed her dust cloth on the counter, folding the square in half twice. She examined the flowers resting in the center of the shop, and she toyed with various pots and trays of water. She sprinkled fertilizer on a few underdeveloped flowers. As she worked a look of determination creased her eyes, but the moment she finished, she washed her hands and led Olivia to the living quarters upstairs.

The shop's mixture of sweet and exotic flower scents seeped through the floorboards. The various earthy aromas intertwined with the fresh smells of lemon cleaner and the must of yellowed books. The stairs opened up to a small fireplace and dining table. A overstuffed bookshelf lined the far wall; from previous experience, Olivia knew romances ranging from picture books to full-length adult novels lined the shelves. The kitchen tucked itself into a tight corner, half hidden by a wall.

Lisette shooed Olivia to the table, insisting that she sit and rest while Lisette played the good hostess. The water boiled quick on Lisette's gas stove top; the burners glowed a bright violent red beneath her flower detailed kettle. Her tea cups matched the kettle with blue daisies encircling the rim. With the tea, Lisette brought small plates and a serving knife. She tucked her skirt beneath her as she lowered into her chair. “Now to the tart,” she said with a light chuckle.

Olivia took lead in cutting through the simple dessert. The sharpened knife slipped through the crust with ease, and as she lowered a slice onto a plate, she noted how normal Lisette seemed. The woman showed no outward signs of hurt or annoyance. If anything the sight of the peach tart encouraged real surprise and joy. Perhaps Wayne mistook or misread her actions, saw something where there was nothing.

She accepted her tart with a chirped, “thank you.” She sectioned off a small bite with the side of her fork, and she popped the morsel into the mouth, humming. “It's delicious. Thank you for sharing with me.” She poured them both tea. As the orange liquid steamed into Olivia's cup, Lisette asked, “did Wayne ask you to talk to me?”

Olivia jerked as if struck with a hot branding rod.

Lisette placed the kettle down on a triangle trivet, protecting her pretty pink and white tablecloth from heat damage. She made sure the kettle spout pointed away from either of them. “Wayne's a perceptive man; he knows when someone's hurting. If he feels he's the cause of said hurt, well...” She shrugged.

Olivia toyed with her own forkful of tart. She pushed it to one edge of the plate to the other. She ran her tongue along the back of her teeth before asking, “is everything alright, Lisette?”

The young woman chewed slow, and she placed her fork down, prongs clicking against the plate. “No, but I'll be alright.” Her words sounded light and airy, but as she continued, a sort of sadness nibbled at the ends of her sentences, carrying syllables out longer than necessary. “Do you remember the fairy tale about the knight and the princess? We read it so long ago, so... You do? I'm glad.” She smiled. “I know I'm not a princess, but I've always dreamed of my own knight in shining armor, someone who would ride up on a white steed and carry me off into the sunset.” Here she chuckled. “It's childish, but in my heart, I want to experience my own fairy tale ending.”

Peach tart untouched, Olivia sipped from her tea. The scalding liquid scorched her throat, but the burn carried a pleasant aftertaste. “Wayne seems like the ideal knight,” she said after long consideration.

“I thought so, too. He's sunny. He's observant and caring. He'll come to your rescue, because that's the sort of man he is.” Lisette finished her tart; she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “That might be the problem. He has the sort of personality that invites and welcomes you. When you're with him, he makes you feel special, even in a crowd. It's easy to picture him as my fairy tale knight, and that picture is easy to fall for. Before I knew it, my feelings for Wayne bloomed.

“But he doesn't feel the same way, because I'm another one of his precious friends. I won't say he treats all his friends the same—he interacts with each differently, adapting a genuine attitude that suits his specific companion. With me, he's sweet and gentle. He never has a complaint, but he'll offer a helping hand without prompting. With Brad, he's the teasing but well-intended little brother. He acts as the catalyst for Ford's socialization, and in turn, Wayne becomes the supportive best friend. With you, he becomes more playful but never offensive. He treats us specially, and in this specialty, we become the same. Not one of us means more or less than another.

“I want to be someone's one and only. I want a knight who will rescue me, because he loves me—not because that's his natural personality.” She poured herself a second cup of tea. “Even saying this, I love him still. I need to let this bloom wilt; I won't nourish the plant any further.” She closed her eyes. Her fingers wrapped together, a gentle embrace.

Olivia downed the rest of her drink in one big gulp. She wiped away remnants with the back of her wrist. “He asked me to talk to you, to see if you'd be willing to open a conversation with him,” she said, voice as gentle as possible. “He thought you might have misunderstood our relationship.”

She chuckled. “On the contrary, I understand your relationship all too much, because we're the same in his eyes. Tell Wayne not to worry: I'll approach him when I'm ready. I just need time to myself, to sort out my mind and steel myself.” Sorrow clouded her kind face; a slight glaze covered her irises as some of the optimism deflated. Her smile still persisted. “Give me another week or two. Oh, Olivia. You haven't touched your dessert.”

“I'm not a real fan of peaches. They're too peachy.”

“Then you wouldn't mind if I kept the leftovers?”

“Not at all.”

Lisette wrapped the almost whole tart back in the clean cut cloth. She tied the ends into a tight knot with short “ears” poking out in either direction.

After a bit of persuasion on her part, Olivia helped Lisette with the dishes, and all the while, she couldn't help but feel she did very little. She listened to Lisette's short monologue, but did that even count as “something?” A sort of numbness settled in her stomach, chilling her core. Perhaps she should have stayed away. She sighed. “Hey, Lisette. I know it might not mean much coming from me, but you'll find your knight.”

She chuckled, saying nothing.

Olivia stood knee-deep in a patch of tomatoes. Thick green vines crept along the pale wooden stakes driven into the soft soil to help support the plants' impressive weight. Wide leaves fanned out and protected some patches of damp soil from premature evaporation in the scorching temperature. Petite pale buds hung from the vines. Soon, very soon, she'd be able to eat all the tomato salad her stomach could handle.

She weeded with more vigor than usual with images of the savory fruit floating through her head. The heat be damned, summer produced the most delicious crops. Pineapples, corn, watermelon, tomatoes, and pumpkins all made for hearty yet tasty meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In terms of snacking, she could pluck a fresh orange or banana or mango and be set for a few hours. Even better—she could melt chocolate, dip bananas in the rich goo, and freeze the fruit for a sweet and cool treat. If she crushed some almonds in the chocolate, it would add a pleasant crunch, too...

So much to eat; too little time.

On top of that, she had to manage keeping her checkbook in the black. If she ate all her produce, then she wouldn't have anything to sell. Being rather good with numbers had helped her when first starting her farm. She knew where to invest her money, when to save, and when to gamble with upgrades to her farm, tools, and house. Her returns became her farm's lifeblood, supplying a constant stream of support and nutrients. She managed a healthy net profit each season, and she even stored a good chunk of excess money away for the future. In another life, she would have made a decent investment banker.

“Olivia, Olivia, hey!”

Walking down from the crossroads, Hinata raised his hand in an enthusiastic wave. The man carried a bounce in his step, and he closed the gap between the farm's entrance and her tomato field. Sweat dripped down his temples. His brown hair darkened and stuck to his forehead and the sides of his neck. In his opposite hand, he carried a white paper fan. “Keeping cool?” he asked, waving his fan.

“No, but I'll survive.” She straightened, her back aching a bit from strain. She accepted his fan when he offered. She fanned herself; tiny exhales of hot air assaulted her face. Sighing, she gave the fan back. “What can I do for you, Hinata?” she asked, cracking her neck to the side.

“Now, I don't mean to sound strange, but do you own a horse?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes at him. With a quick wave, she gestured to the salt-and-pepper mount standing at the stall next to her house. The horse in question drank deep from its water trough, and its black tail swished in wide parabolas. “That's Cashew.”

“Cashew?” Hinata let out a light laugh. “You'd think he'd be tan with that name.”

She shrugged. “I didn't think of a name before I bought him, so it sort of came to me on the spot. Now the question is: why did you want to know if I had a horse?”

“My latest role requires I ride a horse on and off stage multiple times. I need to display confidence in my actions and lead the animal with ease. The issue? I've never ridden a horse before.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a timid laugh. “My acting troupe won't have access to a real life horse until the performance opens, so learning how to interact with a horse is all on me. I was wondering if I could practice mounting and dismounting with yours since we live so close.”

Olivia frowned. “Shoot. I really wish I could help you, but Cashew won't let anyone mount him, much less actually ride him.”

“Really? Maybe he'll warm up to me.” Hinata's voice bounced, jumping from inflection to inflection without restraint. Without waiting for further comment, he aimed for the open-air stable. “Hello there, Cashew,” Hinata greeted the horse with an even tone. He kept his voice soft enough not to startle him with his approach.

The horse whinnied, tossing its head. His mane swished back and forth like a jovial little dance.

Olivia trailed behind, lips frozen in a continuous thin line.

Hinata held his hand out under Cashew's nose level, and within moments, the horse pressed its warm muzzle into the outreach palm. With the invitation, Hinata ran soft pats on the horse's velvety fur. All the while he chanted, “that's a good Cashew, good boy,” over and over. Still whispering, he made his way around the stable, so he could access Cashew's flank.

Cashew didn't mind being the attention to his side, and he released another happy, high pitch neigh.

“He's such a mild mannered animal,” Hinata said. With a stead hand, he led Cashew from the stable by the charcoal lead. The horse trotted behind him, tail flicking this-way and that-way. They climbed down the slight incline from the stable and house to the dirt pathway that cut across the front of her farm. Cashew's heavy hooves kicked up puffs of dirt with each step.

She jogged after them. “I never said anything about his temperament, Hinata. He'll let anyone brush him or pet him, but no one can ride him. Listen to me, dammit. Don't be an idiot and try to—”

Even as she spoke, Hinata secured his grasp on the lead. He rubbed Cashew's muzzle and said, “we're going to get through this together.”

“Hinata, stop—!”

Her warning fell on deaf ears; Hinata pulled himself up the horse's side, tossing his leg around as he did. He sat atop of Cashew with a beaming smile for a split second. Cashew's nostrils flared wide, and the beast released a deep, hoarse, and imposing scream. Cashew bucked once and burst into a sprint.

Olivia broke into a run. No human could outrun a horse, but Cashew, with his days of lazing about the farm, lacked endurance, especially once the initial shot of adrenaline began to fade. After a minute without dislodging his unwanted rider, Cashew slowed to a brisk trot.

She cut through her crops to cut off the horse. She rushed along Cashew's flank, arm stretching out to capture the flapping lead. Tension ran from her fingertips to the depth of her armpit as she reached. She swore, jumping in a desperate attempt. Her fingers grasped around the soft leather. She held onto for dear life as Cashew continued his rampage, dragging her with them. She spat another obscenity. Pain ripped through her chest. The moment Cashew showed signs of slowing, she yelled, “jump off,” as loud as her exhausted lungs allowed.

Hinata catapulted himself overboard. He landed on a patch of grass with a pained grunt.

Olivia released Cashew, slipping away from the animal's powerful legs. She laid flat, face-first against the ground. A moan escaped her throat, high-pitched and almost squeal-like in sound. Gathering some sort of momentum, she rolled onto her back. Another moan followed. Pain filled her chest; it felt as though a knife burrowed deep into her breast, slicing through layer after layer of tissue and fat. Any other aches and pains paled in comparison to her chest.

A moment passed. “Shit,” she spat as realization dawned, “my incision!” She reached down the front of her tunic, ignoring the creaking in her elbow. She met no blood, so Goddess willing, the wound didn't reopen. Her head rolled. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Hinata, you alive?”

The man in question sat straight up, rubbing his lower back with both hands. “I'm fine. What about you?” He turned his eyes toward her. His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Oh man, oh man. Olivia, we got to get you to a doctor.”

“What's wrong?” she asked. She forced herself into a sitting position, body screaming at her to lay back down. Sticky warmth seeped through her arms, legs, and her right cheek. Her pain remained in the same location; it hadn't spread an inch in any direction. “Fuck,” she cursed, clamping her eyes shut.

Hinata forced himself into a standing position, and he half-limped to her. With each step, his legs seemed to regain strength. By the time he helped her to her feet, his motor abilities returned to full capability. He lifted her arm around his shoulder. “Press against me as much as you need to, Olivia.” His lean frame, while not made for heavy lifting, could handle her weight if needed.

She let herself lean into his chest, unable to support her own torso's mass. Another short stream of obscenities flowed through her mind, but none managed to pass her tongue. A sound like air escaping a pressure hose hissed through her throat, but midway the sound died, devolving into a squeal. The pain bloomed, reaching across her body indiscriminately.

A quick look of panic passed through Hinata's feature. He smiled a shaky grin. “We're off to the doctor's now. We'll be right there, Olivia. Promise.”