They called it a near miss, but I called it a twist of fate. If I would've taken that packed elevator instead of three flights of stairs, she would've walked right past the staircase with no one to run into her. Had I chosen a Starbucks with a more experienced barista, my americano wouldn't have ended up all over her blouse and my button-down. Suppose I chose a different tax--

"Wes, it's your turn!" her stern but soothing voice roused me from my daydream. Remember I was sitting in her room, I played my next card. "No, not that one, you're supposed to play a three." I didn't even have to look up to see the pout she was wearing, her mouth scrunched to one side and her brows furrowed.

"Pardon me then, can I redo my turn?" I asked as I removed my card and gingerly placed the requested one. She was the reason I never had a winning record in crazy eights. As she placed her three on top of mine, I heard a soft knock at the door. I knew the drill, so I got up, excused myself for a moment, and exited the room.

"You know, Sierra is always thrilled when you show up," the nurse began, flipping through notes on her clipboard as I entered the silent hallway, "But are you sure you're okay to spend time with someone with no legal or biological connections to yourself?"

I gave a small shrug. "You said it, I'm here because it makes her happy, and it distracts her from, y'know."

It had been forever since the chance encounter where I had spilled my coffee over Sierra's mother and myself, but especially on the year anniversary of her death and Sierra's partial paralysis from the accident, I felt it was the least I could do for the light that gave joy to the love of my life.