The body on the table isn’t my mother, but he needs me to say it is. All of them do. And I hate them all for trying to make me say it. For wanting me to say it so they can move on, and save people who can be saved, while I can never move on, not now, and she will never, ever, ever be saved. My eyes water. My eyes turn into lakes of water, but still I don’t make a sound. I’m like that person on the bed in front of me: a machine, an automaton.
