Sorrel turns to her; her eyes widen before the lids flutter shut again.

“A good sign?” Tears run down Eve’s cheeks.

“An excellent sign.” The skin around those dark eyes creases in a smile.

Eric is there when Sorrel opens her eyes again later that evening; she smiles at her father. His mouth tightens in an effort not to cry. When he leaves that evening he presses his lips against Sorrel’s forehead. Eve stands up, thinking he will kiss her too, but he nods without smiling and leaves the ward.

Dr. Ari comes to the ward the next day; by then Eric has arrived. He ushers them both into a side room. Eve reaches for Eric’s hand but he hunches forward to listen.

“So it seems our little Sorrel was lucky,” Dr. Ari begins.

“Lucky?” Eric frowns.

“The oxygen deprivation was only partial. A small amount of air had continued to circulate in the chest.”

She and Eric have read a copy of the police report: the magnetic seal in the freezer had become faulty in the damp shed over time. Sorrel, pushing desperately at the lid, must have managed to lift it a fraction. The thought of Sorrel struggling for her life is unbearable; beside her Eric shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Her speech?” Eve asks, dreading the answer.

“Speech should recover fully; memory might take longer. I should warn you some memories may never come back.”

The specialist’s face is set in tired lines despite his cheerful voice. He has two days’ growth of beard; he might have been working all that time. He is watching their faces as he talks, as if to check how they feel about the information he’s given them. He might have a little girl Sorrel’s age at home; he seems to know exactly how they are feeling.

“The hippocampus is a small area of the brain responsible for processing memory. It’s particularly sensitive to lack of oxygen.”

“Are you saying that there’s some microscopic damage to the brain despite her normal scan?” Eric glares at Dr. Ari as if he blames him for what has happened.

Eric’s upset, Eve wants to explain to the specialist, angry at what’s happened to his daughter, not with you, but Dr. Ari is experienced, he has probably seen this reaction before.

“‘Damage’ is a misleading word,” Dr. Ari says gently. “A child’s brain has a great recovery capability. You should think in terms of months or a year. In the meantime, we’ll be moving her to the general pediatric ward where she’ll be for two or three weeks of rest and monitoring.”

“Recovery capability,” Eric repeats contemptuously in the hospital cafeteria later. “If he means she’s really brain damaged he should just tell us.”

“He didn’t mean that at all.” Eve sips the weak tea; it’s late, they are the only people in the cafeteria. “He was telling us she’s likely to recover. In the meantime, it’s a blessing. Who’d want her to remember that hideous incident?”