“She doesn’t know I’m here.”
He looked at her.
“Then how did you—”
“I followed the news,” she said.
“About you being sick.”
“About the blood type.”
She looked at her arm.
At the scar.
“I had myself tested two years ago,” she said.
“When I found out about you.”
“When I understood what I might be.”
He closed his eyes.
Opened them.
“What do you know?” he said.
“About who you are.”
“Enough,” she said.
“My mother doesn’t talk about it.”
“But she kept a photograph.”
“In a box.”
“Under her bed.”
“Of you.”
“And her.”
“Before.”
He looked at the window.
At the park outside.
At the ordinary afternoon continuing.
Entirely unbothered.
“She never told me,” he said.
“I know,” the girl said.
“Would you have wanted her to?” she said.
