Sarah had suffered severe nerve and tendon damage, and even after surgery it was unclear how much of the impairment would be permanent, but all of that was so tragically moot. Sarah herself would never be permanent. That was the real sadness of seeing her hand so encased and held in that restraint against her flat little chest, that any incapacitation was really meaningless, hardly an inconvenience. She had said nothing, made no sound, lucid or otherwise, since the frantic drive to the emergency room. In fact, there was no evidence that she was even aware of any difference in her being, except that she was clearly confused by being constrained from free movement.

The idea of making arrangements for care, the task of locating and contacting a facility that was acceptable, seemed, in the abstract, nearly impossible, but when confronted with stark truth, real life, it had to happen, and so it did. We found a place that was not so far from us near the town of Sierra Madre, set up against the foothills just as we were. I imagined that the similar and familiar setting might provide some level of comfort for my daughter.

The staff was kind enough, if understandably numb to our situation, or any, for that matter. Sarah’s room looked like any boarding school dorm room, except that it was conspicuously missing any hard edges. The head- and footboards of the bed were curved and upholstered. The one small table was, of course, round, made of wood with a vinyl bumper along its circumference. The name of the place was at once innocuous and portentous, perhaps even ill omened.

A middle-aged Korean woman named May managed the place. She was perhaps the most positive human being I had ever met. If she had possessed a tail, it would have wagged nonstop. Instead she possessed a wide smile that was so bright it seemed creepy. For a moment I wondered if her electricity might even cure my daughter, but only for a moment. She did lean close and talk to Sarah like she was the person she was. She did that every time.

“Are we not hungry today?” May asked when the food would fall from her slack lips. “That’s okay, dear. Sometimes I’m not hungry too.”

I came to sit with Sarah and found May in the room, holding her good hand, smiling. She remained for a while after my arrival, her little belly pushing into her lap.

“She had a good night,” May said.

I wondered what that meant. It was clear that May was moved by the fact that Sarah was a child. There were no other children in the facility as far as I could see.

“My daughter died when she was seven,” May said.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“That was thirty-one years ago. Cancer.”

“Does it get easier?”

She looked down at her knees for a second, then at my eyes. “No.”

I nodded.