They went to the doctor on Tuesday. There was a name for what Clemency was experiencing, a waiting list, and a long process ahead. Her mother sent me a photograph of the leaflet. I remember seeing a figure of seventy percent something, though I couldn’t recall the exact wording.

Clemency kept coming every three weeks. In December, she asked me to cut all her hair short, properly short, so the patch and the rest would be the same length. Nobody had suggested it. It was her decision, and I respected it.

Her mother came with her now. Rosalind sat in the window seat, but this time she didn’t spend the appointment staring at her phone. She watched her daughter and occasionally spoke to her. The difference was small, but I noticed it.

The patch began filling in from the back. I could see the new growth while standing behind Clemency’s chair, sometimes before anyone else in her life could. I still took her fourteen dollars because she brought it herself and insisted on paying. I understood that keeping that small choice mattered to her.