Sometimes she did not know me when I gave her the medicine, and when she knew me, she did not care.

Would she ever care any more?
She looked strange and small in the shadows of the bed.

Her hair had been cut off after the first few months; her short curls were almost covered by the ice bag.

Her cheeks were red, red, but her hands were so white as they had never been before.

In the still night I wondered if she cared to live.
The night lamp burned on.