“Can you…can you come closer?” He rises off the stool but stops short. Distraught, he clamps a hand on his head. “Look, I’d already be on that bed, holding you—” “Then why aren’t you?” His face nearly cracks. “You don’t remember me.” “I want to.” I hate that I can’t see what I’ve already lived through. “I know,” he says. “I know.” He’s looking around the room. Don’t leave.
