He printed two copies on Thursday morning.
One for his mother. One to replace the one he'd given Caelan, which he hadn't asked back because he'd meant what he said — there would be more images. There would be many more. This one could be Caelan's.
He put the copy in his bag.
Went to the hospital.
She was having a medium day.
Not the clarity of Saturday. Not the thin quality of the bad ones. Something in between — present enough, tired enough, the specific calibration of a body that had been through something and was managing the aftermath.
She looked at the image for a long time.
He sat beside the bed and watched her look at it.
The way she held it. Carefully. The same way Caelan had held both copies on the train.
"They're facing each other," she said.
"Every scan," he said. "Six weeks."
She was quiet.
"Your father and I," she said. "We used to sleep that way. Facing each other." She looked at the image. "He said it was because he didn't want to miss anything."
