Thomas gave a nod of his head to acknowledge this, shy and proud. I thought about what he had done, what I had done, both of us that night. While I felt like shit about some of the choices I’d made, I now knew I could fight when I needed to.

Mom was quiet. She stood near Thomas at the foot of Wilson’s bed, holding the rail with both hands. I know the sight of Wilson shocked her; he made visible the violence we’d been through. Wilson’s broken bones and swollen body made it real.

Wilson looked directly at her. “Faye, I’m sorry,” he said.

“No. I’m sorry. We’re so sorry. It’s my fault you got pulled into this.” She started to say something else and stopped, then started again. “I would do things differently if I could. I wish I could change what I did.” She hadn’t said it to us, but she could to Wilson, and we were here too. Later, I would tell Ellen: “Mom will never get over it, leaving you on the road, even though she can’t say it.”

Marie chatted to Wilson about some bands. A nurse came in to check his blood pressure, and we shuffled toward the door. Wilson said something garbled.

“What?”

“Libby’s hair. Very New Wave. It’s good.”

I touched my bare neck. “I think I’m still really a hippie.”

“I’m working on her,” said Marie.