The last chemotherapy was on the seventeenth of September at half past nine in the morning and there was a bell.
She had known about the bell for six months. It was on the wall by the door of the day unit, a small brass ship's bell on a wooden mount, and there was a laminated card next to it, and she had watched four other people ring it since April and had cried, discreetly, at two of them, and had told nobody.