“Bit-Bit, the cop and his partner have been fired. But you know good and well, them white folks could easily let them go with no more punishment than that. The cop’s name is—”

“No. He doesn’t get to have a name.”

When I passed out, I was taken to the same hospital as Mom—Mount Sinai. We get up to her floor, and a nurse tells us why I won’t be allowed to see her. I see her lips moving, but very little of what she says means anything to me. I head for Mom’s room, and a doctor blocks my path.

“You’re the daughter, I understand? I’m Dr.—”

“No names. Please. I need to go in and see her.”

My uncle tries to convince them that it’s okay to let me in. They tell us we can’t enter because they are prepping Mom for surgery. The doctor does offer us an update. “Luckily, the bullet didn’t do nearly as much damage as it could have done.”

Yeah, that’s exactly how I feel—lucky.

He tells us there’s swelling in her brain and they need to relieve the pressure. My uncle demands I get three minutes with her. The two of them debate. But soon, their voices are mere background noise. I march toward her room.

“You can’t go in,” the doctor insists.

I turn back and look at him, and whatever he sees makes him back off. I enter her room.

She’s not in there. She’s been replaced by a small, fragile, grayish woman, a woman who could be swayed and bent by a gentle breeze. I don’t know who this woman is, not by looking at her. But what my eyes can’t recognize, my heart knows. This is my mom. I don’t let the tears or the lump in my throat stop me. I pull it together. I’m not here to cry for her. I’m here to remind her of something.

“Okay, Mom. You remember when I got lost on Halloween and I couldn’t find my way back? I thought I was so grown, wanting to trick-or-treat alone. You followed me. And when I started crying, you came out and took my hand. You said, ‘Stop crying. You are never alone in this world. Now, fix your face and start focusing on finding your way back.’ Well, it works both ways, okay? So stop crying and find your way back. If you love me, don’t take my air away . . .”

It’s hours before the surgeon comes back out to talk to us. He says it went well. That should mean my mom will come out of surgery like nothing ever happened. That’s what my heart wants. But that’s not what the guy with the degree tells us. He says all we can do now is wait to see if she wakes up.