Eggs

I have to tell you something, she texts.
I hadn't heard from her in a long time. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
What's going on, I write.
A few months ago I started getting this terrible pain in my stomach, she texts. It got worse and worse and I started spotting and it felt like there was a hard ball in my guts. I finally went to the doctor and he said it was cancer.
I don't want to respond but I don't know how not to.
It's ovarian cancer, she writes.
That's so scary, I finally write. Are they able to treat it?
I'm going in for surgery next week. It sucks they're making me get vaxxed
I fill a pot with water and turn on the burner.
I had two distant friends die of the vaxx, she continues. Did you get vaxxed?
Bubbles cling to the sides of the pot like tiny beads of glass. I ease in four eggs, think a minute, add another.
Yep, I type.
I told my best friend I have cancer and she sent me a fucking prayer emoji in response, she writes. What a bitch. 
I drop the empty carton into the bin. For a while, they were made of foam instead of cardboard. I have a sudden memory of cutting them apart and making them into caterpillars with pipe cleaner legs. I wonder if kids still do that.
People are terrible, I reply.
I hate emojis, she texts.
Me too, I say, watching the eggs knock gently against each other as they dance in the burbling water.