“Yeah. I wish I’d listened to him a little better,” Mr. Walker said with a sigh. “I just want him to be happy.”

A doctor walked into the waiting room, approached them. He was a heavyset man with a barrel chest that strained to be freed from the confines of his blue scrubs. He had the rugged, hard-drinking look of a lot of the men who lived in the bush, but his hair was closely cropped and, except for a bushy gray mustache, he was clean-shaven. “I’m Dr. Irving. You must be Leni,” he said, pulling off his surgical cap.

Leni nodded, got to her feet. “How is she?”

“She’s going to be fine. Her arm is set in a cast now, so she’ll need to slow down for six weeks or so, but there should be no lasting damage.” He looked at Leni. “You saved her, young lady. She wanted to make sure I told you that.”

“Can we see her?” Leni asked.

“Of course. Follow me.”

Leni and Mr. Walker followed Dr. Irving down the white hallway and into a room with a sign that read RECOVERY on the door. He pushed open the door.

Mama was in a fabric-curtained cubicle. She was sitting upright in a narrow bed, wearing a hospital gown; a warming blanket lay across her lap. Her left arm was bent at a ninety-degree angle and was encased in a cast of white plaster. Something wasn’t quite right with her nose and both eyes showed signs of bruising.

“Leni,” she said, her head lolling a little to the right on the stack of pillows behind her. She had the lazy, unfocused look of someone who’d been drugged. “I told you I was tough,” she said. Her voice was a little misshapen. “Ah, baby girl, don’t cry.”

Leni couldn’t help herself. Seeing her mother like this, living through the crash, all she could think about was how fragile Mama was and how easily she could be lost. It made her think sharply, keenly, of Matthew and how quickly and unexpectedly death could sweep in.

She heard the doctor say goodbye and leave the room.

Mr. Walker went to Mama’s bedside. “You were leaving him, weren’t you? What other reason would there be to be out in this weather?”

“No.” Mama shook her head.

“I could help you,” he said. “We could help you. All of us. Large Marge used to be a prosecutor. I could call the police, tell them he hurt you. He does, doesn’t he? You didn’t break your nose in the accident, did you?”

“The police can’t help,” Mama said. “I know the system. My dad’s a lawyer.”

“They’d put him in jail.”

“For what? A day? Two? He’d come back for me. Or you. Or Leni. Do you think I could live with putting other people at risk? And … well…”