Not the Point

We got Basti to the Charité hallucinating, after whatever happened—some thing we couldn’t explain to the cab driver, who helped anyway. The hospital had seen this before, wounds that don’t show up on machines. Hannah turned white as plaster. Caro the nurse had other intentions entirely. She was moving Basti through hallways like the rules didn’t apply, like the staff wasn’t even there, like she knew something we didn’t.

But he was done with what was supposed to happen. In his last real minutes all he wanted was to feel something—the air on his skin, the scent of freedom in his perfect hair, the city one last time. He wanted it enough that it happened, which is more than most people get.

Then there was Igor. From his country, from before he became a doctor, from when he used to cut meat for a living. That’s where I lose the thread.

Send us whatever you have left.