As is usual when I accompany Mrs. Pisano to her mother’s place, I’m standing by the wall, my gaze fixed beyond the window. Her mother had fallen asleep on the sofa, and my charge headed out of the main room, saying she’ll wash the dishes before we leave. I’m mulling over her actions when the sound of breaking glass carries from the small kitchen area. My head snaps to the side, zeroing in on Mrs. Pisano, who’s standing in front of the sink, holding her hand under the stream of water.
“Ravi?”
“I’m okay, Mamma. Go back to sleep.” She looks down at her hand. “Shit.”
I cover the short distance between us and stand behind her. The blood is oozing from a nasty cut in the middle of her palm. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” she mumbles as she tries to grab a kitchen towel with her other hand. “I
