. .” Moira was trying hard to understand what Stan was saying. The stroke had left him paralyzed on the left side, his speech so impaired he could only say: “Lishun tamee, shellee orshar ...” “Don’t try to talk, sweetheart, save your energy.” Moira knelt beside his wheelchair, held tight to his limp hands. The doctor had administered something called tPA; Stan would, with luck and the right therapy, recover most of his strength and speech. If, that is, he worked hard at it, did his exercises. But now he was just sitting there, propped up in the wheelchair, his head lolling forward, mumbling the same litany over and over: “Geridoee, orshar . . .” When the nurse came to announce, “Time for physical therapy, Mr. Earthrowl,” he waved the woman away with a tremulous finger. “Cann, cann,” he said, and shut his eyes. There was a nick in his chin where someone had shaved him and missed, a tiny drop of dried blood. Moira was filled with a sudden panic. Was this Stan, the cheerful, industrious, good-humored man she’d married, with whom she’d had a bright, beautiful daughter?
