the good parts,” she said. “The horse book parts, not the hospital parts.”
“Okay, baby,” I said. “The good parts.”
She closed her eyes.
I sat with the pencil motionless in my hand and understood that she knew.
She was nine years old.
She knew.
And she was still trying to take care of me from that bed.
I let her.
She died early on a Sunday morning when the hallway was quiet and the whole building seemed to be breathing slowly.
I had been awake all night.
Around five,
