How Leonie Dies

When I was in grade school, during a cold winter afternoon in Nebraska, my sister, Kelsey, and I sat under blankets playing a card game called “Golf” in the living room parked in front of the fireplace. My mom had left somewhere with our other sisters, and my dad, who worked nights, slept in the back room. This was the nineties and totally normal, I guess—two kids left alone to tend an open fire. We thought nothing of it, had no fear or even sense of responsibility. Our seven and nine-year-old minds were focused only on the card game in front of us and arguing over who might be bending the rules or adding up the score wrong. It must have been a pretty intense game although I don’t remember it—nine holes of pure concentration—because it wasn’t until the smoke alarm went off that we looked up and saw that we were sitting in a cloud of smoke, that we couldn’t even quite make out each other’s faces just feet in front of us. Suddenly as if brought on by the screaming alarm, we noticed our eyes stung and we had the irresistible urge to cough. Suddenly we weren’t sure whether we were holding hearts or diamonds. And suddenly we knew what we had to do. Even though this was our first smoke alarm, we realized with total confidence that we’d been trained for this. At only seven and nine, Kelsey and I were already not emotional little people. We weren’t the kind of kids who would scream and get worked up even in the face of imminent death, even when we realized we were probably sitting in the middle of a blazing fire and our house was burning down around us. No, we were nothing but business as we threw our cards down in front of us and stood up. After all, if a few years of elementary school had taught us anything, it was what to do in a fire. The first step of course was to get out. That was easy enough. We wrapped our blankets tightly around us and without fuss, without whimpering, pushing, or stalling, marched to the door, just like we had in a million fire drills before, slamming it proudly behind us.

Good. We had done it. Easy enough. We were outside. Our teachers would be proud. But now, how far to run? To the sidewalk at least. We looked at the yard in front of us. Snow and ice covered the ground from the night before, still un-shoveled, a few inches deep. It must have been only a few degrees outside, which was why we’d stayed so close to the fire. We took a deep breath realizing the situation was not ideal, but we weren’t idiots. We were not going to go inside to grab coats or shoes just to be consumed by flames, so we hopped in our socks to the sidewalk ankles deep in snow, and then from what we gauged was a safe distance, stopped to look back and assess the situation. So far things had gone pretty well, just as we’d practiced every quarter at school. But this time as we stared at the house, we realized that there had been one small hiccup, because although Kelsey and I had made it safely outside, we now had to face the unpleasant fact that our dad had not. We discussed this briefly. Somewhere back in there behind the living room and down the hall, fast asleep in his bed, our dad was snoring peacefully, unaware of the blazing death swiftly closing in. But, as we considered this, we decided we just couldn’t worry about that. Couldn’t let family bonds cloud our judgment. Quickly, we reviewed the facts and, unfortunately, our training had been abundantly clear. No one could enter a house on fire—not for a family member, not for a pet, not for a special toy. We couldn’t, wouldn’t let emotions get the best of us. Best to follow procedure and get help. There was after all, a small chance that the firefighters might be able to save him in time if we hurried. Poor dad.

This was the first time in my life that I can remember being in any sort of emergency. But the truth was that it looked so familiar and felt so rehearsed that it seemed like nothing more than a simulation. And even though I wasn’t a particularly logical person, I was a calm one and the good thing about simulations was that you didn’t have to think at all, didn’t have to rely on your own brain or reasoning—just had to memorize the steps and follow. Very easy. Another good thing was that once you started following a learned procedure, you could watch yourself from a great distance as if you were looking at a story problem on a test you had to pass and, if you were good at memorizing things, you could choose all of the right answers without a single mistake. So, this is what we did. After checking ourselves to make sure we weren’t on fire anywhere and glancing back for a moment to see if flames were dramatically shooting out of the windows yet, we hopped over, shivering to the neighbors to call 911, and wait for the firetrucks to arrive and throw water on what would probably end up being just a skeleton of a house. We could just imagine our neighbor’s reaction, his disbelief and horror when he heard about the smoke alarm going off. We thought he might have to take us in for a time or adopt us if my mom couldn’t take care of all of us alone. It was a lot to take in, but we were impressed by our own composure, our ability to act fast and decisively under such stress. We took deep breaths and knocked on the door.

It was a minute before Terry answered and when he did, he was wearing his pajamas, yawning and unaffected as though it were perfectly natural for two little girls to be standing on his front porch in the middle of winter, shoeless. But despite his apathetic appearance, we had no doubt he’d spring into action when he heard about our crisis and that he had a chance to be a hero. We wasted no time in telling him what happened—the card game, the alarm, the smoke-filled living room. We needed his phone right away please, to call 911 and we’d appreciate being let in immediately as time was clearly of the essence. We breezed through our speech as though it had been rehearsed a hundred times, trying to be firm but calm. And then we waited. Holding our breaths.

But it was strange. Troubling. After all of that, our clear but impassioned plea, Terry did not move aside to rush us to the phone. He let out no cry of alarm, did not grab us by our shoulders to ask if we were okay, to marvel at how we had managed to get out. He just kind of frowned and let out a sigh. We looked at each other. Confused, calculating time. Maybe he didn’t understand...? But just as we were about to repeat ourselves, he lifted a hand and yawned again. Okay, what happened? Could we back up a bit with the story? He raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. Maddeningly casual. The smoke detector went off you said? We nodded and started to elaborate, now letting our emotions in a bit just so we could get in there to use the phone, the responsible thing to do. Yes, there was smoke everywhere, we said. Terry shrugged. Okay…well, wasn’t there someone home with us? Could we just ask them for help? Didn’t we have our own phone? He waved his hand as if suggesting we go back in there. Into the fire we had so narrowly escaped. Kelsey and I looked at each other again in disbelief. Was this guy for real? Did he not understand fire safety 101? We let out little disdainful laughs. Well, yes, our dad was in there, but did he not understand? There was a fire. Where there was smoke, there were flames. We couldn’t just go in and get someone. We had to save ourselves. Surely, he didn’t want us to die. Surely our dad wouldn’t want that. So, yes, if he just let us use the phone, we could…But Terry did not seem excited about that idea. In fact, he seemed nothing but irritated, even put off by our faithful adherence to the rules, our clear-headedness in this swiftly developing disaster. “Your dad’s in there?” he asked, laughing now and rubbing his face with his hands. “You left your dad in there?”

“Yes…” Kelsey and I hesitated for the first time, suddenly, unexpectedly unsure of ourselves. Was he implying we’d we done something wrong? I mean, we were going to call 911, so it wasn’t like we had abandoned our dad completely. There was still a small chance of survival, if he would just let us…Terry shook his head and rubbed his face. He took a step forward, making us take a step back, tripping over our blankets. “Okay, get back in there,” he said, shooing us off his porch. We hesitated, looking at each other. Wait…was this not exactly what we were not supposed to do? Was this some adult telling us to break a rule? To go into a burning house, no less? Had we made a mistake by following a carefully crafted elementary-school-endorsed system? Impossible! And then, worse than just thinking about how we might have broken some rule, as Terry glared at us, we had to consider the possibility of another, worse sin. We thought of our dad in there asleep. Wait. Was Terry suggesting that…had we…killed our dad? Were we...murderers? It was true our parents’ room was right behind the living room. Maybe we could have dashed in there quick and at least attempted to shake him awake. On the other hand…“Go!” Terry yelled, nearly pushing us off the porch. Hearts pounding, now certain we were murderers, we ran back to our house, blankets flying out behind us. We stopped for a split second before entering, looking at the door practically hyperventilating. We thought about putting our hands on it as we’d been taught or looking under the crack at the bottom for escaping smoke, but one look back at Terry gesturing wildly on his porch and we opened the door, breaking all procedure, throwing away the system and certain we would die.

Inside, it was almost eerily quiet. The beeping had stopped and as we tiptoed into the entryway, we couldn’t believe what we saw—the dark form of our dad bent over the fireplace waving something and swearing, nap interrupted, and very much alive. He must have heard us behind him as we slunk forward in our blankets, but shockingly, he did not appear grateful to be alive, or appreciative of our self-sacrificial entrance. Instead, he looked very, very much pissed. “You didn’t notice the smoke?” he yelled, giving the fireplace a kick. “What moron didn’t open the flue? Where’s your mother?” My dad didn’t believe in swearing, but his voice rose and shook with barely controlled rage as he coughed repeatedly and ran around opening windows. And for the second time that day, Kelsey and I were terrified. Terrified and confused. Somehow following the rules had gotten us into trouble—had only put someone in danger of being roasted alive in his bed—had drawn only contempt from family and neighbors alike. An unexpected end to the story we’d so carefully learned and followed. And so, Kelsey and I decided to do the only wise thing we’d done all day—we spent the remainder of the evening hiding in our rooms. We didn’t even dare pop our heads out to tell Terry not to worry, that we were fine.

  ***

The thing about procedures is that when you follow one, you are really following a story. Because what is procedure if not plot—telling you what will happen first and then next and next? And the thing is, even if you make mistakes, when stories turn out the way they’re supposed to, the narrative plays out smooth and organized in your memory years later—the setup, climax, denouement, the lesson learned. The little twists and adjustments to the narrative aren’t all that important. Our procedure didn’t work? No matter, just a slight variation then. If the ending is right, as it is in the fireplace flue story, the narrative retains its arc, its nature is unchanged. But when things go wrong and the unthinkable happens, it doesn’t play out like that. Instead, the narrative splits and shreds, bursting again and again in your memory every night when you’re just trying to sleep and make sense of life again. It comes back cut and like all cut things it cuts you too.

The story of my daughter, Leonie’s, death ends much differently from the smoke alarm story when I was kid, but the strange thing is that it started out almost the same. There was me and a procedure I’d learned to use in emergencies. At the beginning, her death didn’t look like anything more than a story I’d already read and acted out, a story whose ending I could see. There was a time of course before I had this procedure when fear and suspense still played a part in our decisions about Leonie, when the ending was still a mystery, when we still held our breaths. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that time, that time of fear and closeness. Because when I think about why Leonie died, why I didn’t see it coming, I wonder if I just wasn’t afraid enough.

We were still scared when she got a cough at just over a month old. I remember carrying her on my shoulder, walking up and down the hall with her tiny body and counting the seconds between her soft, grunt-like cries. We put little hats on her head that was still shaped like on oversized bullet to please her Salvadoran grandma who insisted it was the best remedy for a cold, and we made sure her monitor was Velcroed around her chest at night so we could hear if her heart stopped, even for a moment. I didn’t sleep for years after Leonie was born. Something like an electric current ran through my body whenever she moved, whenever that alarm went off, when she cried or didn’t cry. I felt constantly on edge like a wild dog, hackles raised. Hydrocephalus was new to me and the way she kept struggling with colds and coughs was new too. My body never quite settled even in sleep, and the muscles in my back stayed squeezed and contracted as though in them, they held her life. At the beginning I had no system or series of steps to fall back on—no memorized protocol on which I could throw all responsibility—and without that, I could just pretend to be calm when I was filled with only waverings and second guesses.  

But then, without my realizing it, Leonie stopped surprising me. Over time, I understood the faulty rhythms of her breaths and spasms and could recognize, with no need for thought, what came first and then next and next. I developed a system I didn’t even know I had—an automatic response that protected both of us for years. More and more her little body became as familiar to me as my own—fragile but predictable. As a doctor once told me, her brain was like an old car—“a clunker,” he said. Maybe that was rude, but I knew what he meant. Her whole body was like that. And like every fragile thing that’s dear to you, that you absolutely need, I became in tune with all of her—the little lights and clicks, the squeaks and twitches, the brief stalls and sputtering starts. Not that it was hard to recognize her pattern. Early on, Leonie started to get the same kind of illness that came with any little virus again and again—a terrible, grueling illness that started with a cough and vomiting and ended with a fever, a harsh desperate wheeze, and with Leonie’s body caving in at each exhale. I would stay up all night and watch her shoulders as she sucked in breaths. They raised with each intake of air like bony wings under a heavy invisible weight pulling for each slow, arduous beat. It looked terrible. It looked a lot like dying. But after years of caring for her, my fear faded or maybe just hid itself under a carefully developed and practiced procedure—a procedure that worked once and then again and again until I knew exactly what would happen, for how long, and how difficult it would be.

I learned exactly what to do. I learned to monitor Leonie’s pulse rate and oxygen saturation. I suctioned her and gave her breathing treatments and used machines to help her cough. When she was three years old, they gave her a surgery to help prevent her frequent vomiting, but it never quite stopped. Instead, she did it forcefully, sobbing with each retch as my husband and I bent her over in our arms, rubbing her back and smoothing her sweaty hair. During vomiting spells, we slowed her feedings and gave her Pedialyte. When she was sick, we put cool cloths on her forehead and back to keep down fevers that seemed to shoot up alarmingly fast; we ran steam baths and had three Vick’s machines in our small apartment; and until she breathed perfectly again, and the vomiting stopped, she slept upright in my arms, her breaths matching mine. After a while, everything began to run smoothly. Doctors told us we knew what we were doing, and we began to believe we did. We were exhausted and alert, but each step was memorized, all her ailments known. I thought the seizures were her last surprise. They came late and lasted long—she didn’t have one until she was four. But we had been warned about them so much over the years, we recognized them immediately. Leonie never convulsed—her eyes just locked, and she became unaware of us for twenty or thirty minutes. Sometimes her oxygen saturation dropped which terrified us, but the neurologist told us not to worry. We learned when to give her Diazepam and we positioned her carefully as she vomited, massaging her until she fell asleep.

So, that was her story, a refrain that swelled up over and over again in her life until we heard it coming and believed we could recognize it, play with it, even predict the future. That’s how her death starts now in my mind. Just like any other story—like the closed flue. It’s the shattered end that haunts me ruthlessly coming to me in flashes at four in the morning—snaps of symptoms, pieces of procedure ripped and tossed and scrambled in my mind. But maybe what’s really most chilling is the beginning of the story, insidiously normal—the clunky scenes where Leonie starts to cough and vomit, and I respond as usual with breathing treatments and suctions. At first, one scene follows another just as usual, except now when I look back, I see the boots of destiny stomping steadily toward the end before the arc breaks and the setup collapses. Before it explodes and I am left with just these fragments.

And this is how she dies:

First, there is a trip to Nebraska for Christmas, Leonie wheezing while we open gifts; there’s a birthday party too—she squeals and kicks as she watches her cousins jump on trampolines and shoot baskets; and there is a vomit episode that evening on her light blue, Frozen shirt—a quick change of clothes.

Then it’s New Year’s Eve and ice-skating while Leonie dozes on the side of the rink in her wheelchair, waking up and smiling when her cousin holds her hand. That night, my nieces and nephews click together glasses of sparkling grape juice blowing hard on their noisemakers. Leonie’s eyes go blank, her mouth twists into something like a silent scream, but after I confiscate the toys, squeeze her shoulder, and stroke her hair, she calms and is herself again; she grins in the picture we take of the group.

A storm is coming in that night. I hear the rattle of the windows, the whip of the wind outside. Her body is limp, and eyes glazed as she lies on the bed and I check her oxygen saturation, so focused on her breathing, on my system, so good at making her breathe. Not much coughing, but she is so tired and vomiting.

I pull the too-small puffy white coat over her purple sweatshirt and hug her to my chest as I carry her out to the car, to get to the ER before the storm. I see her face, calm and interested, as we drive together in the dark on quiet streets.

We have been here before. I know these rooms, the triage—the weight, the blood pressure, the oxygen. The doctor has long blond hair, a condescending smile. She holds Leonie’s hand and checks her mouth for dehydration.

There is the wait as I scroll through my phone and read about someone who has died; and then there is the sound of the nurse laughing as Leonie looks at everyone, on alert, her mouth wet, her last feeding tolerated. The nurse cheerfully mixes apple juice with medicine for nausea and cannot quite get the syringe into the tubing. She giggles as drops spill on our legs. I position Leonie’s head on the bed as they do the x-ray of her stomach. I know what to do before they tell me. And then it’s over. The nurse calls out happy new year to us as the doctor leans to look out the window, watching for snow. Nothing yet, but it’s coming, they say.  

I don’t know anything is wrong. I don’t know anything is wrong as I sit down two nights later, on another cold night, to play a card game of Golf with my family before I leave for Miami. Leonie has a fever and now she has a cough too. I knew his would happen, and when I see my prediction come true, I think this will always happen, that the future will be as I see it, as I make it. I am a palm reader and I know the lines of my baby’s hands better than I know my own. There is no question about what will come next, what I must do. I play the old game with her on my lap, a cool washcloth on her forehead. The fireplace where years ago the smoke had poured out is in the next room, but I don’t think about that. I don’t remember how years ago, I sat in front of a fire unable to see the smoke, to imagine how soon my eyes would sting, tears pour down my cheeks, my lungs burn. I take risks on every hand, picking the bad cards on purpose, counting on other people to discard theirs. This time I’m unlucky and I come in last. But I don’t think about that either.

That night, Leonie is so congested she can’t sleep. It’s four in the morning and our plane takes off for Miami the next day. It’s okay. I know exactly what to do. I get up, drowsy and irritated, but without fear, and follow the steps—I give her the suction, the breathing treatment, the Tylenol, the Vick’s, until she breathes clear and easy and settles into me. It happens like it always does. I do it almost in my sleep, almost in a dream, and so I can’t see it’s a nightmare.

If I want to, I can look at the video that my oldest, Fiore, took when we were on the plane. I can see Leonie laughing, still tired, but looking at the people as they walk down the aisle. I can see the way I nuzzle her neck with my nose and how she smiles. I remember her cough, now nastier on the flights, the way people look at us sideways as I cover her mouth with a mask and whisper to her to fall asleep. The cough sounds like it always does so that even when I look back now, squint at the video, I almost can’t see it coming.

Leonie smiles at my husband when he meets us at the airport, her arms stretched out. I think maybe she is rallying, but the next day she is vomiting too much, so we take her to another ER for fluids. They don’t let us in before everyone else like they often do because today doesn’t look like an emergency. She sleeps in her chair in the waiting room, which is strange, but I think it might be the flu. She has a cough. She is calm.

This time, there is a cross-eyed doctor, young and fumbling and the attending who stops by briefly to order tests. Now her lungs sound bad, but I already know this. Of course they do. It’s always her lungs. Now there are steroids, a lung x-ray and breathing treatments, a Covid test, a flu test. And how many times have I sat on the same bed, holding Leonie, doing these same tests, watching her struggle this same way? The strange listlessness looks like it could be a seizure, or a prelude to the familiar and I feel relief as her symptoms settle where they always do, in her inflamed and thickened lungs. And so, I sit with her for eight hours as she sleeps on and off. I scroll through my phone and order new shoes. She vomits and a nurse wipes it up with a towel. She says she’s happy she “got it out.” Her breathing seems to improve. I take a picture of her sound asleep. We both doze off together and rouse as they come in constantly to listen and listen to her chest because her lungs, her lungs, her lungs.

We are almost ready to go, and the doctor comes in to look at the chart and ask me some questions. And now the narrative gets strange, not because anything out of the ordinary happens but because when I remember it, I recognize this as the hinge—the point on which it all turns—the narrative is cracked—the life of my little girl decided. When I remember it, it’s as though I’m pushing on a door again and again, watching this hinge, this scene, the door as it opens and shuts. This is the part that repeats and repeats and repeats.

“Is she hitting herself? Is she agitated?” the doctor asks, his eyes crossing. They are like mine. I also have crossed eyes and mine are crossing too. We see each other, eyes crossed, wires crossed, everything crossed.

I still remember the way he slaps his head gently as he asks this, the way he goes to the sink to wash his hands. I am stroking Leonie’s cheek. I have never seen her so far from agitated, so warm and comfortable, so relaxed. And so of course I say, no. It’s the correct answer. I’m not wrong. He can see this. I can see this. I know this and so I know the answer. I know it’s the lungs.

I look at him with my crossed eyes and he looks back at me, one of his eyes on mine, the other on some far away point over my shoulder. I see in his straight eye that this is not a serious question. And maybe—I don’t remember—but maybe now that his hands are washed, he’s already listening to her again. And so, probably just to make conversation, probably just to show him I know what he’s getting at, why he’s asking this question, maybe because I want them to treat her lungs and I want to get home, I add…I add—

But just wait.

Because this is the moment.

This is the point.

It’s where I add—

I add, I add, I add,

This:

“I don’t think it’s the shunt.”

And this here, this is the hinge. This is where the door slams shut. This is where she is going to die.

Because of course I don’t think it’s the shunt. Of course it’s the lungs. Of course I don’t think. I don’t think when I still have time. I don’t think when there are still hours left, when I can still save her.

I feel the hours ticking. And how is it I’m anxious about the past? As though I could stop it now. As though I could rush, rush, rush to fix it, to find the point right before the light fell out of her eyes and she was already gone. Because I don’t even know when she dies. I don’t even know when it ends. And so, all I have is this hinge. This moment.

And in this moment is me.

The doctor doesn’t question me. I’m not even sure if he hears me, except that he mumbles, stethoscope in ears, “No, I don’t think so either.”

“No, I don’t think so either. It’s not the shunt. It’s her lungs.”

“Right, it’s not the shunt. Of course it’s not the shunt. It’s her lungs. I know it’s the lungs.”

“Is she agitated?”

“No, she’s not. It’s not the shunt. Of course it’s not the shunt. Don’t check the shunt.”

“Is she hitting her head?”

“No, it’s not the shunt.”

“It’s not the shunt. I won’t check the shunt. I won’t check it because it’s not that.”

“No, don’t check it. She won’t die. It’s not the shunt. She’s not dying.”

Something is wrong. The story is repeating, these lines we say, these lines we didn’t say, won’t stop. I push the door and it squeaks and sticks on the hinge. I don’t think it’s the shunt. No, no. Neither do I. Neither do I. Not the shunt. Me neither. It’s the lungs. It's the lungs. The shunt is okay. It’s always okay. It will always be okay. No agitation. Tolerated 30 mLs of slow water. Cough. Fever. Wheezing. Not the shunt. Never the shunt. Just the lungs. The squeaking gets louder now—the door is stuck, and I have to shove hard.

Something else is wrong. The door is hot. I touch it and burn my hand and I know that behind it is fire. Smoke billows from underneath and the doctor’s voice fades, my voice fades under what sounds like a roar. Now, I know what is behind the door, but in front of it, I feel only a sucking, my breath pulled from my body. I close my eyes and see everything that is hers disappearing—her bed, her wheelchair, her machines, her diapers swallowed up in smoke, but it’s not a premonition. It's because I must be looking back. So, I stand in front and cover my eyes as it cracks and bursts open, as the squeak becomes a scream, a siren, a wail. As it explodes.

But stop.

No, no, no. This is out of order. This is not what happens yet. As I said, the narrative is broken. What happens next is not an explosion. What happens next is not so clear. What happens next is creeping, quiet drawn-out death that slithers up in sleep.

Because what happens next is that Leonie sleeps.

Or I think she sleeps. But now I don’t know. I don’t know if she is alive. I don’t know when she dies. I don’t know when we still had time. There is just this sleep.

She doesn’t fuss in her chair while we wait for Noé to pick us up and take us home. She doesn’t smile at her sisters in the car. She doesn’t vomit until later that night, until Noé is in line at the pharmacy to get Zofran just as the doctor prescribed. She doesn’t laugh hysterically when her sister dances naked after her bath. She doesn’t smile during her own bath.

Because there is her last bath. I put conditioner in her hair, running it through to the ends. Is she with me? I don’t know. Why can’t I remember her eyes? All I know is that she shivers and fusses as I soothe her, as I pull her legs through dinosaur pajamas and put socks over her feet. I tell her nurse not to come because she has a virus, and I don’t want anyone to get sick. I mop the floor as she sleeps on the couch, a phone under my ear, talking about other things.

I pick her up and she wakes for just a moment, calm and a little distant, drowsy, fading. It is the last time I will see her eyes before the heart attack, but now I can’t remember them. Could she still see me then? Did she look at me? Where are her eyes?

She closes her eyes, so I hold her close and rub her back. I watch a show on TV about a child dying and as I fall asleep, I think of Leonie dying, but it’s just a dream, it’s just someone else’s story. Someone in Russia in another time, far, far away.

We sleep together on the couch like we always do until her breath matches mine. She snuggles into me soft and silent, safe in my arms, safe in this story—this story that has snatched her back from death so many times. This story that even now is snatching her away from me.

She sleeps. Sentenced to death—silent and sinister like an empty house that fills slowly with smoke. She sleeps like my dad slept when we left him to die, while we rushed to safety. But this story isn’t going to end that way. It isn’t even going to stay a story. It will be forever shredded up, without meaning, without an end. I will never find her alive behind this door, never have a chance to shake her awake, open the windows, let the freezing air in. Instead, I will hug her against me as the invisible death swallows us. I won’t look up, won’t imagine how we will both be burned, how only she will die, and I will be left with the scars. Instead, I will let my eyes close as her shunt, slipped from its place, lets water pour into her brain and slowly, slowly our time runs out. I will never find her again, never again catch the thread of her story as her heart stops under my frantic hands, her breath stops under my open mouth, as she leaves me all alone to watch our house burn, to pick up the ashes and carry them away in my scorched hands, all the lines I ever read now festering blisters—as I stand and watch it all collapse again and again on an endless loop—as I stand freezing and lost and homeless and naked and screaming in the snow.