Willow Hart slipped long, slender arms through her running T-shirt and yanked it over her head. Her golden blond hair, recently cut short into a fashionable-yet-practical bob, lifted slightly in the breeze. Blinking up at her best friend, the electric Summer Delgado—in many ways her opposite, with her dark features and curvy shape—she grimaced.

“All right. Let’s get this over with,” she sighed.

“Don’t say it like that,” Summer said, wielding her large, bulky camera. “You know as well as I do that you look better in running gear than most people. Might as well flaunt what you’ve got, right?”

“That’s not really the point of the fundraiser, Sum,” Willow scoffed.

Ignoring that comment, Summer pointed toward a rock, along the edge of the small park. Beyond it, the Houston skyline was visible, sparkling beneath a particularly bright blue sky. It was the end of May, and summer was already in full force.

“Stand up there. I’ll just take a few shots and then we can go grab margaritas,” Summer said. “I’m already scorched.”

Willow stood and arched her back, giving Summer a large, toothy grin. Her friend snapped away, taking several shots as Willow turned her body, tossing her hair.

“I always knew you were a model, deep down,” Summer teased her.

“Whatever,” Willow said, chuckling. Inside, her stomach churned with embarrassment. She wasn’t accustomed to being the center of attention. Her regular life spoke of nothing but being a cog in a machine. She worked in the customer service department of a large corporation, answering nearly three hundred phone calls a day, each time with a chipper, “Hi. This is Willow. How may I help you?”

And, nearly every single person who called? They answered not with a casual tale of what they really needed. No. Rather, they singled her out, asking her, “What? Willow? Like the tree?” And then they laughed in that horrible, guffawing way that made Willow feel smaller than she was. At twenty-five years old, she’d long sensed she had a bigger purpose in life.

And this fundraiser was a part of that.

“I think I’ve got what I need,” Summer said, taking a last glance at the tiny screen on her camera. “And we’ve still got thirty minutes till the end of your lunch hour, right?”

“Something like that,” Willow said. “Maybe forty, even. Or forever, if I decide never to go back.” She scampered toward her friend, leaning into the camera to take a gander. “These are really going in the Star?”

“I’m still waiting on clearance from my editor, but—truth be told—I’ve already written the piece,” Summer replied, giving Willow a shrug and a wink. “Eight hundred words all about how Willow Hart, on the surface, is a normal 25-year-old girl. But rather than laze away her Saturdays, she runs through them: raising thousands of dollars for children affected with Jayne’s syndrome. She’s not only beautiful, stunning, gorgeous—”

“Stop. You’re making me blush,” Willow sighed, glancing back toward the car.

“—she’s also the best and most selfless person this writer knows,” Summer continued, sliding into her journalist voice. It boomed out across the park.

Willow allowed silence to fall between them. Summer slid her hand across Willow’s shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug.

“Come on. Don’t get all somber on me. I really think that showing what you’ve done with this fundraiser could boot some more people into action. If you can raise a hundred thousand dollars—and run twenty-six miles—then what’s stopping the rest of them? It’s an inspirational story. And having it in print can really do nothing more than help your cause. They might even donate, if it’s published in time for Saturday’s race…”

“I know. I know,” Willow said. “Just not used to all the attention. But I’m guessing your editor won’t approve a fluff piece.”

“We’ll see,” Summer said, giving her a dazzling smile. Slipping her arm through Willow’s, she tugged her back toward her bright red truck. Tossing her camera bag into the backseat, she sat in the driver’s seat, watching Willow as she inspected her messy blond bob. “You aren’t regretting that cut, are you?”

“I don’t look like myself anymore,” Willow said, chuckling slightly. “I give myself a double-take every time I see a mirror.”

“I think it’s the most stylish thing you’ve done in years,” Summer told her. “Ever since you threw away that ’80s jacket. That did wonders for your wardrobe.”

Willow swatted her friend on the upper arm, loving the smile that crept across her cheeks. The girls had been friends for fifteen years, since they’d been giggling ten-year-olds at their suburban elementary school. That had been five years before Jayne’s syndrome had taken Willow’s younger brother, Paul, and just three years before his diagnosis.

Willow could still remember those lost, hot nights, sobbing on the back porch of Summer’s parents’ house. Summer had been the friend responsible for pulling Willow through the darkest time of her life. And she’d been the one to bring up the possibility of fundraising, when Willow had been nineteen and mid-way through her first year at college. “You can raise awareness while honoring Paul’s memory,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And he’ll know. Somehow, he’ll know.”

“Where are we going?” Willow asked, breaking from her reverie as her friend turned the truck toward downtown.

“La Lucha’s fast—and good,” Summer said simply.

“We should have skipped the photos and gone straight to lunch,” Willow said. “Because there’s no way your editor is approving that story. Those photos will never see the light of day.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Summer countered, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially.

La Lucha was a motorhome-turned-taco-truck, with an awning and outdoor seating. The man at the grill was cooking a selection of sizzling onions and peppers and other vegetables, and gave them a toothy grin as they entered.

“Senoritas!” he cried out. “Welcome. You came just in time. We’re nearly out of pork carnitas.”

“You know us too well, Jorge,” Summer said, chuckling. “And the taquitos of the day. We’ll have two of those, as well.”

“And margaritas,” Willow added, giving her friend a soft jab with her elbow. “Just one. So I can get through the rest of these phone calls…”

“I don’t know why you don’t find a better job. One you don’t have to drink to get through,” Summer said, lifting a single eyebrow. “When we were growing up, you had a million ideas of what you wanted…”

“I just want to focus on fundraising.”

“I know. I know you do,” Summer sighed. She gripped the tray of prepared tacos, watching as Jorge shook up their margaritas. The ice cubes clacked together, tuning the mixer into a momentary maraca. “Just promise me you’re not too miserable? You’re only twenty-five. I don’t want you to waste away at that call center. Most people you work with are in their fifties…”

As they took their seats at one of the plastic outdoor tables, Summer’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Willow took a small bite of her taco, closing her eyes at the intensity of the flavor. As her eyes opened, Summer clapped her hands together, all but shrieking.

“Guess what, baby-cakes?” she cried.

Willow nearly dropped her taco.

“What is it?”

“My editor’s approved the story! It’s going in the local interest section tomorrow morning! That leaves you an entire day to raise more money before the marathon.” Summer’s eyes sparkled with glee.

Willow’s heart pumped quickly. Swiping her napkin across her lips, she tried to find the right words to say. A million feelings raced through her: there was slight embarrassment, at the idea of her photo being circulated all over the city; but more than anything, she was filled with a sense of sheer excitement and triumph.

“Come on. Don’t overthink this,” Summer said, squeezing her hand across the table. “You’ve been putting your heart and soul into this for years. Just let yourself be famous for a single second. And then, when you cross that finish line on Saturday, you’ll know that you did everything you could. For Paul. And for everyone suffering from Jayne’s.”

“I know. I know.” Willow gripped her margarita and brought her lips around the end of the straw, sucking up the tart liquid. Immediately, guilt flooded her. “I really shouldn’t have this. I’ve been training non-stop for this marathon.”

“You deserve a little break, hon,” Summer said, diving into her own food. “And if you can’t finish the marg, know that I’ll pick up the slack. I’m just that good of a friend.”

“Ha,” Willow said, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “I know I can always count on you.”

“Not at the race, though. That’s all on you,” Summer said, chuckling.

The girls inhaled their tacos, taquitos, and margaritas in the next fifteen minutes, chatting endlessly in the stream-of-consciousness way that accompanies the kinds of best friends who haven’t left each other’s sides for fifteen years.

Willow wasn’t entirely sure, sometimes, if she and Summer even needed to speak their thoughts out loud. Rather, they could glance at one another and see the thoughts clearly, glimmering behind one another’s eyes.

“Come on,” Summer said, tossing their trash into the nearby can. “I know your boss gets antsy if you’re even a minute late. We’ve gotta run.”

She grabbed several bills from her wallet and paid for the food and margaritas, yanking Willow to the parking lot. The girls raced toward the red truck and revved toward the square grey building near the river which they’d nicknamed the “prison.”

Willow brought her arms around her friend’s shoulders, hugging her close. The radio blared in her ears, a country tune that filled her with nostalgia. Suddenly, tears sprung to her eyes. But Summer had already sensed them, and slid her hand up and down Willow’s quivering back.

“It’s okay, hon,” she whispered.

“I just appreciate it. So much,” Willow sobbed. “The article. Your help. Everything…”

“You know we don’t have to say thank you,” Summer said. “I already know you feel it.”

“Okay,” Willow said, sliding her finger beneath her eye. “I know you’re right.”

After giving her friend a final goodbye, Willow scampered up the steps of her office building. Diving into the bathroom, she tugged off the running gear she’d worn for the photographs and re-donned her business suit, shoving her feet into her uncomfortable black heels. Glancing around the office, she noted that her boss, Tyler, was nowhere to be seen, giving her a moment’s reprieve to rush to her desk. Once there, she clicked on her phone.

Immediately, it began to light up, glowing orange. Another day, another caller, another complaint.

“Here we go.” Willow sighed inwardly, lifting the phone. “Hello, this is Willow. How may I help you?”

“Willow, huh? Like the tree?” the voice called back, from somewhere out in the world. “You don’t hear that every day.”

“I guess not,” Willow said, still managing to sound chipper. Her heart began its slow decline down her chest, toward the acid in her stomach. Every hour she spent seated in that chair, she felt hopeless, like a shadow of her former self.

As she hung up, after a particularly tiring conversation she already didn’t remember, she glanced down at her cellphone. There, a message from Summer: as if she’d known, without being told, just how desolate Willow felt after returning to work.

“Keep your chin up,” Summer had texted. “Things are going to be brighter now. The article will change EVERYTHING, you professional fundraiser, you. I’m so proud of everything you do. And Paul would be, too.”

Paul. Willow loved that Summer brought her brother up frequently, reminding her that he still lived on, in a sense. His curly head of blond hair. His eyes that glowed bright blue when he was telling a joke. Even in his last days, when the disease had ripped him of his last bits of energy, leaving him skinny and pale, he’d still had that lively personality. That big laugh, which reverberated through any space, no matter the size.

Jayne’s syndrome had taken him from Willow, and from the world. And Willow was determined to show the world just what they were missing, through raising funds in memory of him.

It was the least she could do. It was her reason for living. Even tucked away at a windowless call center in the middle of Houston, she could cling to that.