Chapter 7: What She Leaves With

"It's a photograph of me," I said. "I think. She keeps it in a drawer."

Hannah tucked the blanket around my arm.

"A six-year-old who knows what's in his mother's drawer," she said, "has been looking in it at night."

My mother glanced between us.

"Who is this boy?" she asked.

"Her coworker's son," I said.

Hannah said nothing to that.

She wrote something on my chart, and then she looked at my parents.

"Ten minutes. Mrs. Brandow, if you want her out, say so, and I'll walk her out myself. But he's asked to see her, and he's awake."

"I did ask," I said.

"I'll stay," said my mother.

"So will I," said my father.

Lorna came in with her shoulders pulled in.

She had been on that floor since six that morning, and she looked it.

Her knees were gray with dust, and her eyes were swollen almost shut.

She didn't come to the bed.

She stopped three steps from the end of it, beside the window.

Outside, the wind was throwing sand against the glass, a long dry hiss that never rose or fell.

It had been the sound of the whole seven years.

"Elliot," she said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know."

"I didn't. I only wanted you to stop. I never wanted you on the floor."

"I know," I said again.

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