There were so many things I could have said. Any one of them would have ended the scene, and would have determined who I was going to be hereafter. I swallowed them all, seeking the one that meant Henry Marchen, the one that meant early mornings and late nights and fights with Human Resources and a brother I never saw and a Shoemaker’s Elf who might eventually be able to kiss me out of a coma. It wasn’t easy. She didn’t have as much of a story behind her. “Birdie Hubbard,” I finally managed, ripping every word out of the blackness behind my eyes, “you are under arrest.”
