Maya lay beneath three scratchy hospital blankets, her face looking smaller than I had ever seen it against the stiff white pillowcase. Her skin was dry and burning hot to the touch, and her lips were cracked, a tiny fleck of dried blood clinging to the lower lip.
Even in her restless, feverish sleep, her right hand remained pressed flat over her surgical incision, her fingers curled tight against the pain. I wanted to take her hand, but I was afraid of moving her arm and dislodging the clear plastic tube of the IV.
I sat on the low, vinyl-covered chair beside her bed, leaning my forehead against the cold metal rail.
“I am going to fix this, Maya,” I said, my voice barely louder than the steady, rhythmic click of the infusion pump.
Her eyelids fluttered slightly, but she did not wake, her breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs that smelled of hospital air and dry heat.
