The sight before me is so heart wrenching, I can’t process what I’m seeing. She’s here. Curled into a ball on that piece of shit mattress, the same one she’d been photographed on by the looks of it, Saylor’s petite form is engulfed by a dirty, blood-streaked baggy t-shirt. But the thing that has my breath suspended, my heart slowing to a nearly nonexistent thud, is the utter stillness.
