Arturo sits quietly in a chair in Aleksy’s private room. The patient has just been moved out of Intensive Care. His left arm is heavily bandaged. His thin young face is clammy white and lifeless.
The door slowly opens. A waifish woman about forty, her face prematurely lined, stands there hunched over in a wool coat, a scarf over her head. She enters haltingly, clutching a black purse in front of her. She looks at Arturo without speaking. He jumps up to offer her his chair; she sits down gratefully.
The woman takes the patient’s right hand, holding it up to her cheek; her eyes are dry and show great pain.
“I’m so sorry,” Arturo says. “He’s … he’s going to be alright.” He pulls another chair over to the other side of the bed for himself. “The doctor told me he’s going to recover.”
“He’s
