Grace just stares at me. “You seem better,” she says. “I’m not, really. I mean I’m still in a lot pain,” I try to say it softly, to reflect the pain that I’m in. And it’s not a lie, I am. “Like in my back. Right now.” I touch it to show her. “And my hip. And my ribs.” I hunch forward. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. To show her the pain that’s— “You seem better,” she repeats. “Well, I’m not,” I say, insisting. Why am I insisting like this?
