He was quiet for a long time.
The machine kept counting.
“Yes,” he said.
“Eventually.”
“Would you have done anything about it?” she said.
Another long silence.
The honest kind.
The kind that doesn’t rush toward a comfortable answer.
“I don’t know,” he said.
She nodded.
Like that was the answer she had expected.
And had decided was acceptable.
“She’s not well either,” the girl said.
He looked at her.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“She’s not sick like you,” the girl said.
“Not her body.”
She looked at her hands.
At eleven years of watching a woman.
Carry something.
That was too heavy.
For one person.
“She’s tired,” the girl said.
“Of carrying it alone.”
He looked at the girl.
At eleven years old.
Who had tested her own blood.
At nine.
And walked into a hospital.
Alone.
To save a man she had never met.
Who might be her father.
And was.
“What’s your name?” he said.
She told him.
He repeated it.
Quietly.
Like he was learning something.
