On the other side of the glass, a nurse adjusted Maya’s blanket with such ordinary kindness that I had to look away.

What I wanted most was to rewind the afternoon.

I wanted to pick Maya up from school myself, stop for the strawberry milkshake she always requested on Fridays, and take the long route home so she could tell me about every injustice committed on the playground.

Instead, I stood outside a hospital room and tried to separate what I knew from what I feared.

Maya had told me what happened.