January passed into February. For some, it passed without notice, creeping towards and then past them at a sloth-like pace. It had never seemed to be approaching, with a new semester of classes and a new series of certain academic woes on the immediate horizon, and so it had snuck up on the unsuspecting and pounced, bringing with it this realization: the school year was coming to a close.

For Big Mac, though, the time passed like nothing, and it was mostly thanks to the girl with whom he was currently dining at Hamilton’s Diner (the name being strange, for no worker or owner there had the name Hamilton). Sugar Belle had picked it out, and though the food was somewhat expensive, Mac had readily agreed.

Now, situated in front of a stack of pancakes and waffles while Sugar Belle chewed on a croissant, Mac’s mind drifted without focus. He was looking out of the diner, into the street. In his mind, he remembered a scene just like this, only with him as the onlooker, and someone else looking out at him. He felt strangely detached.

“Macintosh?”

Sugar Belle’s sweet, inviting voice brought him back to the present. He quickly turned his head, and managed a smile. “Eeyup?”

Sugar Belle was pouting. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“I’m sorry, Sugar Belle. I was thinkin’ about something.”

“Something other than me? Other than us?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I was thinkin’ about a friend.”

Her pout became a frown. “Ink Quill, I’m guessing.”

“You know me too well.” He stuck a fork into his pancakes and proceeded to eat a few. They were small and bite-sized. He almost thought he heard Sugar Belle murmur, “But she knows you well, too,” but figured it was just his imagination.

“I can’t blame you for that, I suppose,” Sugar Belle said. “What with the poor dear’s mother and everything…”

Mac frowned at that. It was a sore topic to bring up, not just because Ink was obviously in deep pain, but also because it was still a nightmare for Mac. After all, he had been there that very same night; he had seen exactly what Ink had seen. Perhaps he was being a bit sensitive, but could he ever forget that scream of pain?

For it wasn’t just Ink who had thought she was seeing someone die.

“I hope,” Sugar Belle continued, “that her mother will be okay. It’s been more than a month now, hasn’t it?”

“Eeyup. But the docs aren’t too sure of anything,” Mac said quietly.

“No… I guess with these kinds of things, all you can do is hope for the best.”

“It ain’t enough.”

“Is it ever?” Sugar Belle said this with a sad smile. “Sometimes hope seems a little weak when faced with reality.”

Mac had to admit she was right in a way. They’d all been hoping—Ink, most of all—for a quick and speedy awakening and then recovery. But after that incident where Ink’s mother failed to recognize her, it seemed the girl had completely given up on hoping for such a facilitated ending. It didn’t help, too, that her mother slipped between consciousness and unconsciousness constantly; perhaps to her, Mac thought, it was like watching someone teeter on the edge of life and death.

Maybe that was too much for one girl to handle, perhaps for any one person to handle.

“Sometimes it’s all ya got,” he stated, “and that’s all yer gonna get, so you have to make it be enough.”

Sugar Belle took a sip of her coffee—dark,without cinnamon, Mac remembered; a strange combination, given her name—but said nothing. Mac watched her. Her eyes wandered over the diner, over the red booth they sat in and the other tables that were filled with noisy gossipers, undercover food reviewers, and the like. Then they wandered over to the outside, where a bright Saturday morning was growing. It was the 7th of that month, and their fourth date together since Sugar Belle had returned.

“I haven’t heard you so… sentimental-sounding.”

“Well, I’ve changed a bit. Been hangin’ around some real sentimental fellows.”

“Yes… such as that Artifex kid, or Nostradamus, or Ink.” She swirled a spoon around in her cup, the instrument making a light, high-pitched note as it spun around and around. Mac knew this gesture to be one demonstrating she was thinking.

“What’s on yer mind, Sugar Belle?”

Her lips stretched into a smile. “You know, that was the line that made me fall for you in the first place. I’m not even sure why; maybe because it just seems just like you to say that.”

She flipped her hair. She had cut it recently, and now it was a poofy length just above her shoulders. “As to your question, I was just thinking about… us.”

“Us?”

It was a loaded topic, one that held no easy answer, and so Mac wisely did not say more and let Sugar Belle continue.

“It’s just… I’m not sure about where we stand with each other.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, take just now, for instance.” She spread an arm over the table. “Normally when couples go out for a breakfast, they’re talking to each other constantly. Listening, too. Now I know you’re a quiet person, Mac, but sometimes I wonder if you’re really into me.”

“Of course I’m into you! Why wouldn’t I be?”

She pursed her lips. “It’s just—sometimes I think you’re more worried about that Ink girl than you are for me.”

“That’s not—”

“Just hear me out,” she said. “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, and I know she’s a good friend of yours, and I know that she’s been through a lot. I’m not saying you shouldn’t worry about her; what kind of friend would you be if you didn’t? But I’m also saying that, well, I don’t want that to be your only focus.” She paused. “I don’t want you to be consumed by this. There are things you have to do, people in your life who care for you and don’t want to see you caught up in something that you have no control over.”

“I…”

Mac found he had no words. Sugar Belle regarded him with a small smile. “I love that part of you, though. The caring part. It’s something I’ve always loved. I don’t want to sound like I’m jealous, or that I feel like I’m being ignored, but… well, I guess I’m just asking you to keep me in mind.”

“Sugar, you’re always on my mind, you know that.”

She nodded. “I know. But can you blame a girl for feeling a bit insecure?”

They finished eating and, as per usual, split the bill 60-40, Mac paying the former. “Come on,” Sugar Belle said, grabbing her coat. “Let’s just walk around.”

After they left the diner, the emerged on the busy street, where groups of interspersed people crossed and walked. Mac and Sugar Belle were quick to join them. About, the sounds of the city of Canterlot abounded, and the somber tone from before soon vacated the premises. Mac almost forgot their entire conversation.

With Hamilton’s Diner out of sight, they traveled up the streets and passed the various shops, open diners, cafes, and stores that lined the concrete walkways and sidewalks. As it was the weekend, Mac half-expected to see some of the students from CHS walking down the streets—perhaps even Artifex, who was indeed fond of city life—and as they passed the various joints where students often gathered for a fun time, he found himself peering in, hoping for a familiar face. Each time, though, he was dragged away by Sugar Belle, laughing as she pulled him from the windows.

He had missed this, he realized through the trip. The simple wandering, meandering, adventuring in a place of utter familiarity with someone familiar and yet still being able to be caught off-guard by the sight of, say, a pigeon with a miniature Santa hat, or a street-corner magician vanishing on the count of three, or a back-alley musical ensemble where the curious gathered; all that one could possibly experience, with someone they liked.

I bet Ink would like this, he suddenly thought.

It was enough to slow him down. They were passing a print shop, now, in whose window were some posters and advertisements. Sugar Belle noticed his pause.

“Mac? Come on, don’t just leave me behind like that.”

“Oh, sorry, Sugar Belle.” But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. Something in the print shop had caught his attention, and as he stared at it, a distant memory began to form.

It is the end of January, or the beginning of February; Mac doesn’t remember, but that, he supposes, isn’t important. What is important is that he has just chosen this time to return from a morning of helping cart out several old boxes that the Apple Family didn’t need. A lot of things are on his mind, most pressingly is his upcoming date with Sugar Belle. He hasn’t been in on a date in years, and he worries he might have lost his touch.

Well, that isn’t entirely true, he thinks. Really, that dinner with Ink? That was a date. Maybe a friend date, or a good friend date, but still a date. And not a bad one, at that. Thinking of it brings a smile to his face, and he begins whistling a little as he enters the house. He smells of sweat and wooden sawdust, and he plans on taking a shower quickly.

It is quiet in the house. Apple Bloom has gone off crusading with her friends, and Applejack this morning said something about Rainbow wanting them all to get in extra band practice. Granny Smith is in the dining room, writing a letter, so Mac decides not to bother her. He makes himself a cup of hot chocolate, thinking of the future. It is all he can think about at this time.

He goes upstairs with his cup of hot chocolate, but a glaring light from Ink’s room stops him in his tracks. Walking towards it, he presses open the door and finds the girl sitting at her desk. Her hair is growing long, now. It is starting to go past her shoulders. She said a while ago that she would cut it, but she has yet to see a barber. So it is long, and as dark-purple as ever, and he has to admit privately that it looks good; but he would never say that out loud, because he knows that it is a reminder that her mother didn’t recognize her, and moreover, he does think she looks cuter with shorter hair—

He stops that thought short and tosses it away, unsure where it came from.

Ink is sitting in her chair. The window blinds are pulled back and she has a clear view of the field below. But the intense light is coming from her laptop, on whose keys her fingers rest. They are idle. She appears to be staring into space, entranced by something on the screen.

Mac approaches. He is not sure of what to do, but he is aware of the eccentricities of writers, having read about them in those totally-not-female-contour-and-author-interview magazines. He is aware that some may go off at him for interrupting. So he is slow when he comes to Ink. She does not seem to register his presence.

He looks at her screen. It is her document, her story. Is it? No, it’s a blank one. He has no idea where her story document is, and it does not look she is intent on adding anything to this one.

Abruptly, the document vanishes. Ink has closed it, but it is as though she hasn’t moved. Her eyes do not trail from the screen; her fingers are still.

“Ink?” Mac calls.

That shakes her from her trance. “Huh? Mac?” She turns, surprised to see him there.

“Are you okay, Ink?” he asks softly. He decides not to say anything about the story. “Your laptop’s brightness is up real high.”

“O-oh. Is it?”

He nods. He reaches over and taps the brightness key a few times to bring it down. “There. Don’t want t’ strain your eyes with something that intense.”

“... Thank you.”

He stops his movements as Ink returns to looking at the screen. “Ink,” he says again, “are you sure everything’s all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says. She isn’t; she knows, and he does, too.

“Is it about the writing?” he presses. “Do you want to bounce off some ideas on me?”

She hesitates. Then she shakes her head. “No, I…”

She can’t find her voice for a few seconds. Something has seized it. Something terrible, Mac concludes. “Ink, you can tell me.”

Slowly, she reaches for her phone which had been in her pocket. She pulls up a website. A blog post is written there. It’s about surgery, and it’s about aneurysms. It was made by a doctor. She scrolls to the bottom, where a commenter is asking the doctor for an estimated cost.

“For a medium-sized aneurysm in the situation that you’re describing,” he has replied, “I estimate the cost to be a good $36,000 to $58,000.”

The commenter’s name is Ink Quill.

The phone is put down. Mac nearly drops his cup, so he sets it down, too. “Ink,” he breathes. His thoughts race to reassure her. “It’s— it’s just an estimate, it ain’t—”

“Nurse Golding estimated almost $40,000,” Ink says quietly. “That’s not counting the additional cost of therapy, both physical and mental, that Mom would need after this. If she gets out—”

“She will get out.”

“... that remains to be seen.”

It does, and it tears Mac up inside to see that stark, horrible realization settle so complacently on Ink.

Ink shakes her head. “I’m wrestling with costs, with bills that are sure to come, and here I am, trying to write something. It’s stupid of me. I have to figure out a way to get that much money…”

There are bags, deep, dark bags, under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping well. And if Mac’s own eyes aren’t mistaken, hers are red; she has been crying. Guilt stabs through him. Why wasn’t he around to help?

“I can take out a loan,” she ventures, but she seems to be talking to herself. “Maybe sell some of my older stuff. I’d ask my relatives, but they’re so far and few in between…”

“We can chip in,” Mac says.

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to.”

She hesitates. “Mac… There are four of you in this family. Money’s tight as it is. You want to go to college. I can’t… I can’t take any of that from you.”

Before Mac can say anything, she shuts her laptop and gets up, nearly knocking his cup of hot chocolate over. “It doesn’t matter,” she mutters. “I’ve thrown it away. Tossed the story to the side. I have to focus on the present, now…”

Then, she is gone; gone, without so much of a goodbye.

And Mac has no idea what to say.

“Big Macintosh?”

Sugar Belle walked up next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mac, you’re staring rather intently at that window. Do you want to buy something in there?”

He shook his head. “No, I… I was rememberin’ something important.”

Sugar Belle pursed her lips. “More important than me?”

“Yes.” The answer came out quicker than he expected, and he winced. “I-I mean—no—that is—it’s very important right now, Sugar Belle, I’m sorry.”

“It’s about Ink.” She sounded almost disappointed to hear that. But then she let out a strange, almost forceful breath. “All right. Mac, what’s on your mind?”

In quick succession he relayed to her his memory, and the disappointment in her voice quickly changed to that of shock and sympathy. “Goodness. That poor girl can’t catch a break, can she?”

He nodded sadly. “No, she can’t. I’m just wishin’ there was some way to help…”

“Mac. You’re trailing.”

He heard her, but he didn’t respond. He was looking now at one of the posters on display.

“I’ll be right back.”

He left Sugar Belle and went inside, where he talked to the manager of the print shop about that poster; to him the questions were brief, insignificant, done more out of curiosity, and so he didn’t remember them. He came back out with a fresh copy, one not soaked with snow or rain. A big smile was on his face.

“Are you going to explain what that is?” Sugar Belle asked.

He spread the poster out in front of her. “Take a look!”

Mac flipped the poster over. “Those interested in this competition,” he read, “can submit short stories, poetry, or excerpts from a longer narrative up to 20,000 words in length. The deadline for submission is February 28th, and results will be announced by late May. Regardless of placement, all submissions are eligible for publication in Canterlot’s Literary Magazine, which is sponsoring the event. All submissions will also be given a consolation prize of an autographed copy of each judge’s upcoming book.”

Sugar Belle read over the front again. She let out a whistle. “Wow. 60,000 dollars. That would be enough to pay off the estimated cost.”

“And Ink, I bet, would love to share what she’s been writing,” Mac said.

“Of course, she’d still have to win…”

“She will,” Mac affirmed with a sharp nod that made clear his faith. Sugar Belle looked doubtful, but since she had not seen Ink’s writing firsthand, he supposed he could allow her that.

Then again, he hadn’t seen much of Ink’s writing. But no! She would win. He believed it.

“Come on,” he said, quickly walking away from the store. “I gotta show Ink this. She’ll love it!”

Sugar Belle, after a moment of hesitation, followed after of him.

Mac’s footfalls were rapid, and he hardly slowed for Sugar Belle to keep up. She once or twice called him out in annoyance, and those once or twice times he listened and paused, but after those few times his pace would not be obstructed. Soon the city parted and gave way for the suburbs. A moment later, those suburbs became the fields he had long known.

Snow was scarce, and mud was everywhere. He did not care, and splashed happily through the wet deluge while Sugar Belle followed at a slower, more careful pace. Through wilted grass blades and soaked dry-grass he walked; past the dead trees, and also the stubborn ones that refused to die; until he saw his home in sight. The lights were on. Ink must surely be inside.

“She’ll love this,” he muttered, gripping the poster tightly within his hands. He hoped she’d love this. Besides, Mac couldn’t think of a reason why she wouldn’t, and he figured he knew Ink well enough to say what she would love and would not love.

He and Sugar Belle came to the doorstep with heavy footsteps. Sliding a key into the lock, he unlocked the door, then pushed forward.

Apple Bloom was there, surprisingly. “Apple Bloom?” Mac asked.

She gave Sugar Belle a nasty look (one that Sugar Belle ignored) before answering, “Ah finished crusadin’. Just came back.”

“Where’s Ink? Is she home?”

“Yeah, she’s home.” She pointed to the living room. “You won’t believe with who, though.”

Mac frowned at that, then walked past her. He heard giggling coming from the living room.

“Cut it out, Braeburn!”

No way.

Mac rounded the corner and stopped, his eyes falling upon the two who sat too close to each other on the couch. Two pairs of eyes turned. One face flushed, and the other flashed a grin.

“Howdy, Cousin Mac!”