One Scrap of Paper from Oak Creek Hospital Rewrote Thirty-Four Years of What My Family Remembered
Frank’s chest rose once, slowly, and fell with a sharp rattle in his throat.
His right hand clenched into a hard fist, his fingers squeezing my wrist with a sudden, desperate strength.
“Frank?” I whispered, bending over the bed rail.
His gray eyes opened halfway, cloudy and unfocused beneath his pale brows.
“Kiddo,” he mumbled, his voice a dry rasp that barely rose above the monitor.
“I’m right here, Frank.”
“Gene took care of the papers,” he rasped, his chin twitching toward the corner of the room.
“Gene took care of all of it.”
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