There was one afternoon during Jenna’s recovery when the hospital envelope arrived in the mail.

It contained a summary of appointments, care instructions and a note from the medical social worker asking us to schedule a follow-up conversation.

Jenna placed it unopened on the table.

“I can’t look at another piece of paper about what happened,” she told me.

“We don’t have to open it tonight.”

“Everything has become paperwork.

The police, the doctors, the social worker, the insurance company.

I used to be a person.