“You could have written back,” she agreed eventually.

I always believed it was too late. Until Monica taught me how to use the computer, until she told me about what it could do, until she said maybe she would be able to find you.

Your girl came into the room then, led by a nurse. She gave me all of the proper greetings and well wishes. Either her parents rammed this etiquette into her, or she could not bear to be seen as out of touch with a culture that elevated elders above all. She looked different this time—hair unkempt, glasses smudged. My heart softened for her, driving all the way here, shepherding my little family back and forth to see me. And if that hadn’t softened me to her, the way Monica straightened, brightened, even, as soon as she came in, would have made me partial to anyone.

“There’s no point staying,” I said. “Go home. I think I may have left the stove on.”

“We can keep you company,” your girl offered.

“I’d like to be alone.” I was itching to get back to my writing, the urgency pressing ever since my fall.

“Alright,” Monica said. She stood and reached for my hand. I gave it a short squeeze, my promise not to scare her in such a way again, a promise I would not be able to keep forever. “I’m going to use the bathroom first.” She glanced between me and your girl, gave a small smile, then hurried out.

“Thank you for driving all this way,” I said at the same time as she said, “I’m glad to see you’re feeling well.”

A light laugh to brush off the collision of our words.

“Were you scared?” she asked, her eyes finding mine. Thick glasses—no wonder she normally wore contacts.

“Not really,” I admitted. “When you get to be my age . . .” Once I had recovered from the shock of landing at the bottom of the stairs, I had even felt a bit of relief. That I would be finally free of my guilt over my choices and over you.

“Monica was scared,” your girl said softly. “She called me in the middle of the night, and I could barely get through to her.”

“Thank you for driving all this way,” I said again.

“I—” She glanced at the door, then back to me. “It wasn’t only for Monica that I came.” Her words came out very fast. “I was worried for you. And for your story.”

You swirled above her, your chin on her head, gazing down at me with lazy eyes.

“My story?” I repeated.

“Yes.” Another glance at the door. “I know we disagreed about this the last time we spoke. But I thought maybe now, after your close call, after you saw how much Monica was shaken, you would be more willing to share your story.”

“Stop—”