Salvatore
Milene is standing in front of the medicine locker on the other side of the room, going through the contents, and making notes on a pad of paper. Probably doing inventory. It takes great willpower to remain seated instead of going to her and bringing her back with me, so she’s by my side.
“You let her button up your shirt,” Ilaria says while changing my bandage.
“I did,” I say.
Ilaria stays silent for a few moments, fumbling with the bandage, but I know she won’t let the subject slide.
“Was it a one-time thing? You didn’t want to distress her even more yesterday?” she asks, her tone a forced kind of casual.
“No. She’s been doing it for quite some time.”
My mother’s hands go still momentarily while dressing the wound. She looks up, an expression of shock written across her
