She had not saved herself.

Her son had saved her, with a courage she was still, months later, trying to find words large enough to honor.

And the recorder in the velvet box was there to remind them both of the one thing neither of them ever intended to forget.

That evening, after dinner, she stood at the window and watched the rain come down over the Chicago skyline, and for a moment the sound of it pulled her back — the IV lines, the dark, the door opening.

Her heart began to race.

And then, from his room, she heard Sam laughing at some silly cartoon before bed, and she breathed, and the fear let go.