She moved her chin toward the windowsill.
White freesias in a plain glass vase. Different from mine—a larger bunch, more stems, still tightly closed in the way of flowers just cut.
The same flower. The same plain glass vase.
I sat with that for a moment, not interpreting it, just registering.
"He held my hand," Mary said. "For a while. He thought I was asleep." She looked at the window. "He has a careful face when he thinks no one is watching him."
"You said that before."
"It bears repeating." She returned her gaze to me. "He stayed until they said I was stable and then he left. He didn't know I was awake." A pause. "I didn't tell him."
"Why not?"
She made the small dismissive gesture with her hand—the one that meant because some things are better observed than participated in. It
