It was one of those days in June when the light seems reluctant to leave. Even though the streets looked dim—the lights were just coming on—the sky was a light, improbable turquoise, and as Jo leaned her head against the glass of the hospital window and looked out, she saw people going down the street, arms linked, talking, passing under the trees. She wondered if the day would ever really end. It had lasted centuries already. As soon as she had come into the ward with Sam—almost immediately—he had been hooked up to a drip and given a blood transfusion. Someone had stood by her side, the head nurse, and told her why it was necessary. She heard the words, but they fell through her. She couldn’t seem to make any sense of them. She had held on to Sam’s hand and soothed him. Talking. Talking about anything. Her heart had pounded until she felt sick. She didn’t look at the bag of blood hanging over him. She didn’t look where they had put a tube in his arm. She played round-and-round-the-garden a couple of times, but had to stop because it made him move too much.
