He probably cannot hear or understand us. That’s what Dr. Saul and Dr. Foss and all those stupid brain scans suggest. I want to caress his face, his arms, and his stomach, to do all I can to tell him with my hands that he is not alone. That’s the clearest language I have, and using my fingers I try to hear if Henri is still inside this strange mannequin that bears his name.

I touch him, but Henri’s face remains waxen, his lips silent, and his fingers do not close around mine. Not this time. Not yet. Perhaps. Never before have I derived such comfort from a lack of certainty. As long as nothing is sure, nothing is lost.

Next song: “Assassin’s Tango” by John Powell. We used to dance to this. We made love to it too. Sometimes we danced and made love at the same time. Sometimes we merely lay on the roof to this song, my hand touching his, and said nothing. I’ve never talked to a man less than to Henri, and yet I’ve rarely felt so close to anybody.

My fingers glide slowly down his back and along his legs to his feet. I can feel his pulse, his warmth, and the latent tension in his muscles. Is he running or flying, dancing or diving? Is he making love?

“Dance with me,” I whisper. Where are you, Henri? Oh, where are you?

Sam glances back and forth between our faces. It’s the first time he’s been here when I do what I do every day. I carefully wash the soles of Henri’s feet and massage them with warm oil. I’m like a maid, the devoted Magdalena. I wash him. I speak his name. I dance with him. I maneuver his legs, his arms, and his hands in the hope that, one day, he’ll be able to stand upright again—even if it’s only to walk away from me. I must reckon with that, for his nature is not to stay.

I focus entirely on the task of relaxing his battered body. The first minutes of daily awkwardness soon pass. My hand on his chest, his hand on mine, our eyes closed, united as we once were when we danced. I feel as if I’ve never lived as intensely as in this moment. My life expands every time I caress Henri’s body. I’m feeling, I’m loving, I’m fighting. All the beautiful aspects of existence are more beautiful than ever, and all the trivial things have never seemed more remote. I feel as if I’m in the right place here.

DAY THIRTY-THREE

Henri