Makeda smiled. “I do.” She’d left her tight curls to air-dry that morning since it was Saturday and she didn’t want the bother of straightening it. “But I don’t have any beads in mine.”

Rochelle popped a thumb in her mouth and laid her little head against Makeda’s shoulder, still patting her hair. “I like it. It’s pretty like my mommy’s.”

“Thank you.”

“But you should get beads.”

“I’ll think about it.” Realizing she’d have company for a while, Makeda brought up the article again and found her place.

“You should wear your hair like that so Serena can see it.”

Serena was another patient. A five-year-old with a thick shock of dark brown curls and loads of freckles that stood out on her pale skin. “Well, I usually straighten it for work, but maybe I’ll leave it in for you and Serena one day.”

“Why do you make it straight for work?”

“Some people think straight hair is more proper for doctors,” she said carefully. “More professional.”

Rochelle giggled again. “That’s silly.”

Makeda glanced down at the little girl with the brightly colored beads in her hair. Somewhere in the years of medical school and residency, the dark brown hair Makeda’s mother, Misrak Abel, had crooned over when she’d been a girl, the mane she had braided and twisted with brightly colored thread, had become an unprofessional mop her daughter had learned how to brush and straighten into submission.

She leaned down and kissed the top of Rochelle’s head. “You’re right. It is silly. I’ll wear my hair curly for you and Serena next week, okay?”

Rochelle said, “If you don’t want beads, Serena has lots of pretty bows. Silver ones. And purple ones. And red ones…”

Makeda smiled and tried to imagine the makeover her tiny patients would give her if she let them.

Maybe she would let them.

She was a respected thirty-eight-year-old physician and researcher with years of experience on her resume. She was second in charge of one of the most prestigious hematology research facilities in the country and had coauthored numerous journal articles on the subject of sickle cell treatment. If she wanted to dye her hair purple and wear giant gold bows, no one should say a thing about it. After all, if her colleagues could put up with Andrew Kominski’s ever-widening comb-over, nothing should be off-limits.

Quick footsteps coming down the hall had Rochelle’s head lifting from Makeda’s shoulder.

“Uh-oh,” Makeda whispered. “She found you.”

Mimi Ocampo put her fists on her hips in a mock gesture of disapproval. “Dr. Mak, are you stealing my patients again?”

Rochelle giggled.

“Is this a patient?” Makeda looked down at Rochelle. “I could have sworn this was a kitty cat. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not a kitty!” Rochelle slid off Makeda’s lap. “I’m a… bunny!”

And with that, the little girl bounced out of the office and down the hall. Mimi turned to Makeda. “You weren’t in the middle of anything, were you?”

“Just doing some filing before I head to my mom and dad’s.” Makeda nodded toward the door. “Her energy is good.”

“Yep. The chelation therapy is going well. I think this will be her last inpatient treatment for a while.”

“Good news.”

Mimi smiled. “Your mom is so pleased you still keep an office here.”

Mimi and Misrak had been fast friends and colleagues for nearly thirty years. Mimi, a new immigrant from the Philippines. Misrak, a new immigrant from Ethiopia. They’d bonded in their first hospital and had been friends ever since.

“My mom knows I need the reminder.”

“Of what? Burned coffee and constant interruptions?”

“No.” Makeda turned off her desktop and grabbed her bag from beside the desk, glancing at the wall of photographs and drawings her little patients had given her over the years. “I need to remember it was worth it to bury my life in a lab.”

Makeda never felt buried at her mother’s house. The high-pitched squeals from her nieces pierced her ears as she chopped the mound of onions for the doro wat her mother was preparing for Sunday dinner. During the week, her mother cooked a medley of dishes she’d learned in over thirty years living in an international city like Seattle—dumplings and fish, pasta, and curry—but Sundays were for “home cooking,” which meant Ethiopian food.

The spicy smell of garlic and berbere filled the kitchen of her parents’ house as the chatter of little girls and low voices from the den filled Makeda’s ears. Her mother was chopping the chicken while her older sister made the injera. Her younger sister, Adina, eyes watering, stood at her side, wiping away onion-fume tears.

“You’re quiet today,” Adina said. “Work?”

“Hmm?” Makeda grabbed another onion. “No, I’m not thinking about… anything, really. Just enjoying the background noise. It’s kind of nice.”

Adina laughed. “That’s because you only visit the noise.” A squeal came from the stairs. Adina shouted at her daughters in clipped Amharic, and the girls quieted down.

“Why do you and Fozia always yell at the kids in Amharic?” They’d always spoken a mix of Amharic and English at home, leaning more toward English the older they got.

“I don’t know. Probably because Mom always yelled at us in Amharic.”