It was her mother’s name.
A woman nobody in this room.
Had spoken of.
In twelve years.
Part 2
They cleared the room.
The family.
The nurses.
Everyone.
Just the man in the bed.
And the girl.
And the machine keeping count of his heartbeat.
She sat in the chair beside him.
The one his wife had been sitting in.
For three days.
He looked at her.
At the torn dress.
The bare feet.
The arm with the scar.
“How old are you?” he said.
His voice rough from disuse.
“Eleven,” she said.
He looked at the ceiling.
Did the mathematics.
That he had been avoiding.
For twelve years.
“Your mother,” he said.
“Where is she?”
“Home,” the girl said.
