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There
’
s
a
small
chapel
in
the
basement
.
It
’
s
hushed
in
there
,
a
library
kind
of
quiet
.
There
are
plush
chairs
like
the
kind
you
find
at
a
movie
theater
,
and
a
muted
soundtrack
playing
some
New
Agey
-
type
music
.
Kim
slumps
back
in
one
of
the
chairs
.
She
takes
off
her
coat
,
the
one
that
is
black
and
velvet
and
that
I
have
coveted
since
she
bought
it
at
some
mall
in
New
Jersey
on
a
trip
to
visit
her
grandparents
.
"
I
love
Oregon
,
"
she
says
with
a
hiccup
attempt
at
a
laugh
.
I
can
tell
by
her
sarcastic
tone
that
it
’
s
me
she
’
s
talking
to
,
not
God
.
"
This
is
the
hospital
’
s
idea
of
nondenominational
.
"
She
points
around
the
chapel
.
There
is
a
crucifix
mounted
on
the
wall
,
a
flag
of
a
cross
draped
over
the
lectern
,
and
a
few
paintings
of
the
Madonna
and
Child
hanging
in
the
back
.
"
We
have
a
token
Star
of
David
,
"
she
says
,
gesturing
to
the
six
-
pointed
star
on
the
wall
.
"
But
what
about
the
Muslims
?
No
prayer
rugs
or
symbol
to
show
which
way
is
east
toward
Mecca
?
And
what
about
the
Buddhists
?
Couldn
’
t
they
spring
for
a
gong
?
I
mean
there
are
probably
more
Buddhists
than
Jews
in
Portland
anyway
.
"
I
sit
down
in
a
chair
beside
her
.
It
feels
so
natural
the
way
that
Kim
is
talking
to
me
like
she
always
does
.
Other
than
the
paramedic
who
told
me
to
hang
in
there
and
the
nurse
who
keeps
asking
me
how
I
’
m
doing
,
no
one
has
talked
to
me
since
the
accident
.
They
talk
about
me
.
I
’
ve
never
actually
seen
Kim
pray
.
I
mean
,
she
prayed
at
her
bat
mitzvah
and
she
does
the
blessings
at
Shabbat
dinner
,
but
that
is
because
she
has
to
.
Mostly
,
she
makes
light
of
her
religion
.
But
after
she
talks
to
me
for
a
while
,
she
closes
her
eyes
and
moves
her
lips
and
murmurs
things
in
a
language
I
don
’
t
understand
.
She
opens
her
eyes
and
wipes
her
hands
together
as
if
to
say
enough
of
that
.
Then
she
reconsiders
and
adds
a
final
appeal
.
"
Please
don
’
t
die
.
I
can
understand
why
you
’
d
want
to
,
but
think
about
this
:
If
you
die
,
there
’
s
going
to
be
one
of
those
cheesy
Princess
Diana
memorials
at
school
,
where
everyone
puts
flowers
and
candles
and
notes
next
to
your
locker
.
"
She
wipes
away
a
renegade
tear
with
the
back
of
her
hand
.
"
I
know
you
’
d
hate
that
kind
of
thing
.
"
Maybe
it
was
because
we
were
too
alike
.
As
soon
as
Kim
showed
up
on
the
scene
,
everyone
assumed
we
’
d
be
best
friends
just
because
we
were
both
dark
,
quiet
,
studious
,
and
,
at
least
outwardly
,
serious
.
The
thing
was
,
neither
one
of
us
was
a
particularly
great
student
(
straight
B
averages
all
around
)
or
,
for
that
matter
,
all
that
serious
.
We
were
serious
about
certain
things
—
music
in
my
case
,
art
and
photography
in
hers
—
and
in
the
simplified
world
of
middle
school
,
that
was
enough
to
set
us
apart
as
separated
twins
of
some
sort
.
Immediately
we
got
shoved
together
for
everything
.
On
Kim
’
s
third
day
of
school
,
she
was
the
only
person
to
volunteer
to
be
a
team
captain
during
a
soccer
match
in
PE
,
which
I
’
d
thought
was
beyond
suck
-
uppy
of
her
.
As
she
put
on
her
red
jersey
,
the
coach
scanned
the
class
to
pick
Team
B
’
s
captain
,
his
eyes
settling
on
me
,
even
though
I
was
one
of
the
least
athletic
girls
.
As
I
shuffled
over
to
put
on
my
jersey
,
I
brushed
past
Kim
,
mumbling
"
thanks
a
lot
.
"
The
following
week
,
our
English
teacher
paired
us
together
for
a
joint
oral
discussion
on
To
Kill
a
Mockingbird
.
We
sat
across
from
each
other
in
stony
silence
for
about
ten
minutes
.
Finally
,
I
said
.
