want to tell her, so she can fix the broken pieces of my life. That’s what she does; she makes everything better. But not this. She won’t understand my grief, my fears, my need to control what’s left of my life. When she reaches for the door handle, I hug her back to my chest, pinning her arms to her side. With my lips at her ear, I whisper, “I don’t pretend they’re dead. They are dead. They’re all dead.”
