The hospital’s air conditioner hummed like a persistent insect. Giulia slept, her face illuminated by the pale glow of the heart monitor, which traced calm green lines in steady rhythms. I wondered if she was dreaming. If, somewhere inside that small head, there was still room for dreams that weren’t fever and the fog of medication.
Isabella stretched in the armchair beside the bed, the bones in her neck cracking softly. She didn’t complain. She never complained. But I noticed the shadow of exhaustion in the corners of her eyes.
“You should go home,” I said quietly.
She turned her head toward me slowly, as if I had interrupted a deep thought.
“And leave you here alone, staring at the IV pump like it’s a terrorist threat?” She pointed to the machine, which I had, in fact, been studying
