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company canceled its hiring stance. It was one of Harriet’s more successful ventures, but activism was built on activity, and not necessarily success. Keeping the message present in people’s mind was its own particular success all in itself.
    Olivia walked through the quiet, narrow halls of the hospice, smiling in reflection of her mother in such good health. It was a stark contrast to the reality of now.
    Harriet was sleeping when Olivia arrived. Thin linen blankets lay askew on her body. Olivia approached, sliding them up over the tiny, wasted body of her mother.
    It was depressing, seeing how little of her was left. For so much of her life, Harriet Martin had been a larger-than-life woman. Olivia had inherited some of her once-omnipresent curves, always adding a little extra to her small frame.
    Always, Harriet was bringing over folks from unions and civil rights groups and the like to their home, discussing big ideas over take-out dinners and cases of wine. She would preside over a table, thundering over it, guiding the conversation like the ocean guided ships. It was empowering for Olivia to witness at such a young age a woman like her mother changing so many minds and having so many people repeat all her wonderful rhetoric.
    Her mother turned in her sleep and her hands slipped over Olivia’s. Eyes fluttering open, she finally noticed Olivia sitting there with her.
    “Hello, dear.” Her voice weak.
    “Hi, Mom. How do you feel?”
    “Oh, like hell. True hell. But it’s all right.” She turned away, her eyes, face, drifting for several moments. Olivia thought she had fallen asleep. But then she said, “You made the trip again? You should stay home. I’m no sight to see.”
    “I like to see you, Mom. I’m glad to be with you.”
    Harriet laughed small—big laughs were a cause for concern, as they led to coughing. “Ah, well. That’s nice of you to say, at least.”
    For a few short, desperate minutes, they talked about anything else. Anything safe. The weather—wasn’t it cold, lately? Awful. Was Olivia dressing warmly? Good, that was good. How was she eating? Where did she find the time to cook anything with her schedule? And how were those other jobs—was she still managing or whatever at that outlet store?
    Olivia was still working at the outlet store, as a salesperson, but she didn’t correct her mother. The store depressed Olivia lately. She hadn’t made a solid commission in three weeks, and she was scared of losing that job. It had been a godsend at the time—at eleven dollars an hour, it let her quit waitressing under a boss who wouldn’t stop asking her to wear skimpier tops and skirts. But the new store made most of their money from insurance policies on the products that came through, and Olivia’s job—and any bonuses to her income—depended on selling the insurance, which often she wasn’t able to do.
    With that on her mind, Olivia wasn’t sure how to proceed, but then her mother asked, “How is the work at the rehab facility? Is that going well?”
    “Yes, Mom. Going well.”
    “Are you full-time, yet?” asked Harriet. She did not wait for an answer. “They should put you on full-time.”
    “No, Mom. They can’t do it.” Olivia held in her sigh. They had gone over this several times. “They don’t have a spot for me. Not for someone with my education.”
    “Then get more education!”
    Her mother’s voice, so clear and strong, stunned Olivia for a moment. But then it was followed by a bout of hard, horrible coughs once more. Olivia had to turn her on her side so she could breath, so that the blood rushing upward with each cough did not drown her. When it was done, Olivia cleaned her mother’s mouth with a damp, warm cloth.
    “I am sorry for the outburst,” her mother whispered.
    “It’s all right, Mom. Really, it is.”
    Her mother waved a hand weakly in the air. “You should...you should go back to school, dear. You could do so much for this world. You’ve got