It fits in a box the size of a shoebox and one folder and one filing cabinet drawer.

I never touched him.

That is the sentence.

Everything in this account, all twenty-six parts of it, is a long way of arriving at that one, and I have written it down perhaps two hundred times in four years and it has never once got easier and I have stopped expecting it to.

My son was alive for fifty-one hours in a building I was in and I never put my hand on him.

Not because of medicine.