Chandler’s gray beanie had been hanging on my desk chair for a week. On Thursday, I put it on.
The knit was soft and worn thin in places, and it slipped down over my ears. For the first time in two days, I could stop thinking about what might fall out every time I moved.
It had started for real on Wednesday morning. I’d sat propped against my pillows, my left leg supported, and pulled my brush through my hair. It caught near the ends, so I held the strands above the knot and worked through it gently. When I turned the brush over, the bristles were full.
I picked the hair out and set it on a tissue beside me, then tried again. More came away. I put the brush on my nightstand and looked down at the blond strands caught between my fingers. Nothing had hurt. I hadn’t even felt them pull loose.
Dr. Giacherio had explained this could happen, and Lylah had warned me that everybody would have opinions about what to do when it did. There was a difference between hearing hair loss in an exam room and holding it in your hands. I gathered the strands from my pajama pants and folded them into the tissue.
Bernard lifted his head from his rug beside the bed and sniffed toward my hand. “Don’t start. You’re the one who sheds enough to build a second dog.” He settled again while I dropped the tissue in the wastebasket. I tucked the brush into my nightstand drawer and closed it, leaving the rest of my hair alone.
By Thursday morning, there was hair on my pillow, my hoodie, and the back of the couch where I’d leaned my head for all of two minutes. Bernard had strands caught in his fur, which felt like a personal insult considering how much of his own he left around the house.
At breakfast, Dad glanced up from his tablet. His eyes paused on the beanie, then returned to my face. “Morning, Fiorellina.”
I gave him a sleepy good morning and maneuvered my wheelchair closer to the table. Pops stood at the counter in his Navy working uniform, back at work now that his leave had run out, finishing his coffee before the drive to base, his keys already in his hand. He turned around, saw the hat, and opened his mouth.
“Before you ask,” I said, “yes, it’s Chandler’s. No, I didn’t steal it. He left it here.”
Pops shut his mouth. He set his toast in front of me on his way to the door, and when I held up one finger and asked for half, he took a piece back and ate it in the doorway without comment. Dad moved the jam closer, then asked whether I wanted the crossword from his paper. I did, even though he’d already filled in half of it.
Friday was Halloween, and Noelle had decided back in August that we were going as Greek gods and goddesses. She still had the costume plans in a folder on her phone, including three different versions of Stetson’s toga.
I’d made Dad ask about Halloween at my follow-up appointment. Dr. Giacherio had checked my latest blood work and asked how I’d been feeling since the fever. He said a short outing outdoors was reasonable if I stayed fever-free and felt well enough, but he wanted me to avoid crowds and going into neighbors’ houses. If I got tired, we were done. If anything changed, we were staying home. Dad repeated the whole thing in the Suburban on the way home, including the part about coming back early if I got tired.
By six on Friday, everybody was crowded into our living room. Stetson, Tinsley, and Maekynzie had gotten the night off from work back in September, when Halloween was still just a folder on Noelle’s phone.
Stetson was Zeus, wearing a bed sheet toga and carrying a plastic lightning bolt taped to a cardboard tube. He kept pointing it at people and demanding they respect his authority, but he had to keep catching his toga before it slipped off his shoulder.
I’d finally answered Maekynzie’s messages that morning and told her she could come. We hadn’t talked about the hospital yet, and I didn’t want to do it with everyone there. She was Athena, in a gold crown and a white satin dress, with a cardboard shield tucked under one arm. She’d drawn an owl on the front, and Emory kept asking why it looked so disappointed in him. Emory had chosen Dionysus, complete with plastic grapes around his head and a paper cup of grape juice he called a prop. Tinsley had claimed Aphrodite immediately, then paired her pink dress and fake-rose crown with her usual black beanie. Her cinnamon-red hair stuck out beneath it in choppy layers.
When Stetson questioned the beanie, Tinsley declared it historically accurate. He wanted to know which period of history she was talking about, and she adjusted her fake-rose crown without blinking. “My personal history.”
Noelle was Hestia, goddess of the hearth, wearing an orange robe and a headband decorated with felt flames. One of her homemade flames had folded over, and she kept trying to straighten it.
Chandler showed up as Hermes in a gray hoodie with a white sheet over one shoulder and little gold wings attached to his sneakers. I looked him up and down when he came through the door. “Messenger of the gods?”
He tapped one of the gold wings on his sneaker. “Fastest guy here.”
“You came in a Jeep.”
“Transportation is beside the point,” he said, stealing a piece of candy from the bowl.
Noelle had assigned him Hermes back in August. He’d told Stetson he wanted to be Ares, then said Hermes was fine the second Noelle asked. Chandler said fine a lot. I’d never thought much about it.
Noelle had made my Artemis costume: a silver-gray cloak with a deep hood, a thin circlet that sat over the fabric, and a toy bow with foam arrows. On Wednesday, when she’d first brought it over, I’d still had enough hair to make a ponytail. Friday afternoon, she helped me settle the hood over Chandler’s beanie and tucked the loose strands out of sight.
She adjusted the circlet and stepped back. “Goddess of the hunt,” she announced, circling me to check the cloak. “Also the moon. Also excellent hoods.”
I asked whether the last part was official. She straightened the circlet one more time and informed me that she was adding it to the mythology.
She asked if the circlet was too tight. I shook my head, and she went to find more tape for Stetson’s lightning bolt.
Walking the cul-de-sac on crutches wasn’t happening, so my wheelchair was becoming a chariot, and Maekynzie had brought the gold streamers. She crouched beside my chair, winding one around the frame. “Thanks for letting me come,” she said, keeping her eyes on the tape.
“I wanted you here.” I held the loose end while she tore off another piece. “I’m still upset, though.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
I nodded and passed her the scissors. She finished taping the streamer, then looked up at me. “Too much gold?”
“It’s a chariot, Mae. Commit.”
She smiled a little and reached for the rest of the roll. Emory taped a cardboard sign to the back that read Chariot, then had to move it when it caught against a wheel. Dad checked that the decorations were clear of the brakes and adjusted my left leg support while Stetson took the handles.
Pops fastened felt antlers to Bernard’s harness and handed his leash to Uncle Jake. Bernard shook his head until one antler drooped over his ear. Uncle Jake straightened it and shortened the leash before Bernard could get his mouth around it.
Noelle pointed out that Artemis’s chariot was supposed to be pulled by deer. Tinsley looked at Bernard, who was attempting to lick an antler, and said he was very obviously not a deer.
“Tonight he is,” Noelle insisted, already taking pictures.
Uncle Jake walked Bernard beside us while Stetson pushed my chair along the sidewalk. Chandler carried my candy bag, and Noelle and Maekynzie walked ahead, debating whether a goddess could demand candy without technically trick-or-treating.
Apparently she could. We stopped a little way back from the porches while the others went up for candy, and nobody tried to make me explain why I wasn’t joining them.
At Mrs. Holcomb’s house, Noelle returned with two full-size chocolate bars and a message. “For the goddess.”
Mrs. Holcomb waved from her doorway. I held up the bars so she could see I’d gotten them, then put them in my bag before Bernard noticed.
Halfway around the cul-de-sac, Noelle’s felt flames slipped sideways. Stetson stopped my chair and reached over to straighten her headband. Noelle held still while he tucked the folded flame back into place, then thanked him so quietly I almost missed it.
Tinsley caught my eye over Bernard’s antlers and mouthed, Finally. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. It didn’t work.
Back at the house, Pops had changed into a flight suit and was handing out candy with Dad at the front door. A little boy in a dinosaur costume asked whether he was a real fighter pilot.
“Classified,” Pops whispered.
Dad told Pops he’d have to answer for that someday. Pops dropped another piece of candy into the dinosaur’s bucket before the boy ran back to his father, nearly tripping over his tail.
I laughed hard enough that my hood slid off one shoulder. Chandler reached over to fix it, then stopped with his hand hovering near the fabric. “Can I?”
I nodded, and he pulled it back into place, careful not to dislodge the beanie underneath.
By ten, everyone had gone home. Stetson peeled the Chariot sign off my chair while Dad helped me out of the cloak. Bernard followed us down the hallway, stopping to scratch where the antlers had been.
In my room, I took off the circlet. Then the hood. Then Chandler’s beanie. A thin patch near my left temple showed more scalp than hair. I turned my head toward the mirror, then tilted it the other way. The patch was just as bare. I touched it once, then picked up my phone. I typed a message, erased it, and typed it again.
Me: i’m shaving it tomorrow. will you help me?
Chandler’s typing dots appeared almost immediately.
Chandler: What time?
Me: two?
Chandler: I’ll be there.
I put the phone on my nightstand and left the beanie beside it. Then I asked Noelle, Tinsley, Emory, and Maekynzie if they’d come, too. I didn’t want to do it by myself.
Chandler arrived at two on Saturday, straight from Happy Paws, with dog hair on the knees of his joggers and his hoodie zipped to his chin.
Pops had offered to help with the haircut, but when I said I wanted Chandler there, he didn’t argue. He cleaned his electric clippers, set out the guards, and brought a towel and a handheld mirror to the back deck. Dad checked that I was warm enough to sit outside, then carried out an extra blanket without making a speech about it. Noelle arrived from next door in her cream sweater, her hair braided tight against her head. Tinsley still wore her Java Junction apron from her morning shift. Emory came through the side gate carrying a folding chair and a bag of Takis.
I eyed Emory’s folding chair and asked what it was for. “For you,” he said, unfolding it and pressing down on the arms to check them. “It’s comfortable. I sat in it for, like, six hours at a barbecue.”
Maekynzie had texted an hour earlier to say she wasn’t coming.
Maekynzie: i told everybody it’s a family thing. it’s not
Maekynzie: i walked out on you at the hospital and i’m scared i’ll do it again today. you don’t need that
Maekynzie: can i come by later? just me?
I’d read the messages twice, then turned my phone over. Last night she’d been Athena, telling Emory to stop putting his plastic grapes on her owl shield. This morning she’d asked whether I still wanted her here. I’d said yes. Now all I could see was her by the door during my first treatment, both hands over her mouth, mascara smudged, slipping into the hall while Dad held the basin.
I typed you didn’t walk out, then deleted it, because she had. I couldn’t have that conversation while everybody waited for me to take off my hat.
My phone buzzed while Noelle was laying out the towels. For one stupid second, I hoped it was Maekynzie changing her mind. Instead, it was a picture from Lylah: the lilac wig perched on a foam mannequin head, with a paper crown taped crookedly to the top.
Lylah: emergency fashion consultation. crown or no crown?
Me: no crown. you’re already a public safety hazard.
Lylah: cruel. accurate. tell me how the haircut goes? only if you want to.
I sent her a picture of Emory posing with the clippers like he’d won a trophy. Three dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again.
Lylah: oh you’re in excellent hands. absolutely doomed.
Then she sent an old clip Nessa had put in the birthday video: Lylah in the coffee-shop parking lot before this hospital stay, lilac wig under a paper crown, two iced drinks held up like trophies. Nessa was laughing behind the camera. I saved it before setting the phone on the railing, still smiling.
Emory glanced at my phone when it lit up again. He didn’t ask who it was or offer an opinion. He put the chips on the railing and started fussing with the chair instead.
Stetson came out last, carrying the round mirror from the downstairs bathroom. He turned sideways to get it through the door, then shifted it against his chest.
“I’ve been assigned mirror duty,” Stetson announced, angling the glass toward me.
“Volunteered,” Pops called through the open door. Stetson waved him off. The distinction was beneath him.
He positioned himself beside Chandler, tested the angle, and adjusted it until I could see the chair and the deck behind me. Chandler held the chair steady while Pops helped me transfer from my wheelchair, then settled my left leg on a padded stool.
I sat down with the towel around my shoulders and the blanket over my lap. Bernard stretched out beside my good foot, where he could supervise without getting stepped on. Through the living-room window, Dad and Pops stood beside the couch with their coffee mugs, close enough to come out if I needed them.
I took off the beanie, and nobody spoke for a moment. My hair had thinned more since Friday. The temples were patchy, and the rest hung in uneven lengths that used to be my ponytail. The cold air touched places that had always been covered.
Noelle’s eyes shone. She pressed her lips together and folded the spare towel across her knees.
“You guys can say something,” I told them. “I’m aware my head is having a situation.”
“Your head has always had a situation,” Tinsley said, leaning against the railing.
“Thanks, Tinsley.” I looked at her in the mirror, and she gave me a small smile.
Chandler picked up the clippers, checked the guard Pops had fitted, and looked at me. “Still what you want?”
I looked at my reflection, then at the strands caught on the towel already. “Yeah.” He offered me the clippers for the first pass.
“Emory does it,” I decided instead.
Emory straightened, catching the back of the chair with his free hand. “I do?”
“You’ve been talking about giving me a terrible haircut since sixth grade. Congratulations. Your moment has arrived.”
He took the clippers from Chandler and moved behind me, checking the cord and waiting until I met his eyes in the mirror. Emory asked once more if I was sure. I told him to leave my eyebrows alone, and he promised those were a separate service.
The clippers buzzed to life. Emory started above my right ear, guiding them carefully up the side of my head. Loose strands slid onto the towel, and cold air reached my scalp. He moved around to the left side, leaving a long strip of blond hair standing down the center from my forehead to the back of my head.
He switched off the clippers and stepped back. “There,” he announced, his voice wobbling slightly. “One magnificent Mohawk.”
Tinsley leaned sideways to see the result and informed him I looked like I’d joined a punk band without telling anybody. Emory insisted it was avant-garde, but I caught sight of myself in the mirror and had to disagree.
“I look like a disgruntled rooster.”
I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. I looked ridiculous, and Emory looked horrified by his own handiwork, and Noelle was laughing with tears running down her face. Stetson tilted the mirror so I could see the Mohawk better, which only made it worse.
I was laughing so hard I had to grab the arms of the chair. I warned Emory I might fall out of his barbecue chair, which made him clutch the backrest and tell me to stay still before I took him down with me.
When we finally caught our breath, Tinsley picked up one of the longer locks from the towel. “Want to keep some?” she asked.
I looked at the hair in her palm. I’d worn it in a ponytail for every volleyball match I could remember. I’d curled it for the bonfire sitting at my vanity, because my leg wouldn’t hold me at the sink.
“Maybe a little.”
Tinsley asked Pops for a zip-top bag and tucked the lock inside. She sealed it and handed it to me. I put it in my hoodie pocket beneath the blanket. The laughter faded. I looked at the half-finished Mohawk in the mirror, then at everyone behind me. Noelle caught my eye, and I nodded toward the house.
“Snack break,” she announced, gathering the spare towels.
Emory squeezed my shoulder before taking the Takis inside. Tinsley followed with the towels, but Stetson lingered with the mirror. He hesitated and asked whether I wanted him to stay. I thought about it, then looked at Chandler.
“Could you leave the mirror?”
My brother set it securely against the deck wall, where I could still see myself. “I’ll be right inside,” he said. I nodded, and he went in.
The back door clicked shut, and the deck went quiet except for the rustle of leaves and Bernard’s steady breathing. Chandler stepped around the chair so I could see him. He waited until I nodded that I was ready, then switched the clippers on and began working through the strip of hair Emory had left. He moved slowly, pausing to clear loose hair from the guard before continuing toward the back of my head.
The hair that used to catch under my volleyball jersey slid across the towel. I swallowed hard, and Chandler lifted the clippers away from my head.
“Did I pull?”
I shook my head. He watched my face in the mirror and offered me a break, but the way his mouth tightened made me ask if he needed one.
Chandler looked down at the clippers and blinked hard. “Maybe one,” he admitted, switching them off.
I looked at the uneven strip of hair still sticking up from my head, waiting for him to say something about it. He kept looking down at the clippers.
“Normal Pact,” I reminded him quietly.
“I know,” he said. “I’m trying.”
“You don’t have to look like you’re at a funeral,” I blurted out.
Chandler turned toward me. I looked down at the hair scattered across the towel. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m here because you asked me to be.”
“I know. Sorry.” I picked a strand off my sleeve and let it fall onto the towel.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I just hate that you have to do this. Doesn’t mean I can’t make fun of your terrible taste in movies tomorrow.”
“Your taste in movies is worse.” I tipped my head toward the clippers. “Finish before Emory comes back and adds racing stripes.”
Chandler smiled and picked them up again. He waited for my nod before switching them on.
He finished the center strip, checked the sides in the mirror, and went over the spots he’d missed. When he finally turned the clippers off, he handed me the mirror so I could look properly.
My hair was cropped close and even. I turned my head, and my ears stuck out farther than I’d expected.
“Oh my God.” I leaned toward the mirror, turning my head to one side.
Chandler went still behind me. “What? Did I miss something?”
“I have my dad’s ears.”
He stared at me for half a second before laughing. I warned him not to tell Dad, which only made him laugh harder. He set the mirror down, picked up the gray beanie from the railing, and offered it to me instead of putting it on my head. “Keep it,” he said when I hesitated.
I reminded him it was his, but he only held it closer until I took it. I pulled it on myself. It felt different against my scalp, warmer than the air and a little scratchy where the knit had worn thin. I tugged it down over my ears.
“Better?” Chandler asked.
I adjusted the edge of the beanie. I could still feel the towel against the back of my neck, but there was no hair catching beneath it anymore. “A little.” I picked up my phone and opened Maekynzie’s messages.
Me: yes. just you. come see it.
The back door opened. Pops stood in the doorway holding a broom and dustpan. His gaze landed on the hair scattered across the towel and deck, then moved to my face. “Want help cleaning up, Sunshine?”
Chandler started to reach for the broom, but I answered before he could. I told Pops I’d like that, and he stepped onto the deck without another question. Through the living-room window, Dad was watching us, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug.
Chandler gathered the loose strands into the towel while Pops swept the deck. I sat in Emory’s ridiculous folding chair, Bernard’s chin resting on my good foot, and watched them work. For once, I didn’t feel like I had to get up and do it myself.