I told her about waking in the morgue, keeping my voice steady for her sake.

She listened without crying, only gripping the clasp of her purse until her knuckles whitened.

Finally she said, “I’ve been ashamed for years because I thought I hadn’t fought hard enough.

Now I wonder whether I was ever told the truth.”

“You were given a story designed to stop questions,” I said.

“That’s different.”

She looked at me then, as though she had been waiting a long time to hear somebody say it.

“Can they find out what happened to him now?”