She moved like every step had to be negotiated with her own body.
A small American flag clipped to our mailbox snapped in the wind as I backed out of the driveway.
I almost turned around once.
Not because I doubted Maya.
Because years of living with Robert had trained me to hear his voice even when he was not there.
Too expensive.
Too dramatic.
You always overreact.
Then Maya leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.
I kept driving.
Riverside Medical Center sat off a busy road with
a pharmacy on one side and a gas station on the other.
I had passed it a hundred times without thinking.
That day, the automatic doors felt like the entrance to another life.
At 3:46 p.m., I wrote Maya’s name on the hospital intake form.
The receptionist asked for her date of birth, insurance, symptoms, and emergency contact.
