“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is there medicine for this?”
“I’m sure there isn’t.”
She lowers her head and cries. She’s sumptuous and I want to embrace her, rub her lovely head, kiss her temples and tickle her. If she could laugh again, our problems here would be solved. I cannot touch her. She objects. It hurts her. Air hurts her. She is doomed to life after death. “Perhaps there are other therapies, Sylvia.”
She is soft and delicate. I see she has painted something on her face. She has put on some make-up and it is running. I can’t stand here. She reaches to her night stand for a journal and begins drawing squares. “What does that do for you?”
“Would you please go away? Where is Jessica?”
“She’s working.”
“They’re going to kill us, Papa.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“I’ve seen blood in pre
