Left hand moves.
Church. Sort of. Steeple. Sort of.
Her hands move the keyboard gently under my weakened hands.
Me: Wonder? How am I? Really?
Her: Not great. Things are shutting down?
Me: What’s left.
Her: Tubes and skin. The great reconstruction isn’t going well.
Me: Hands hurt.
Her: Wait a day.
Me: Tomorrow, shoot me up with all you got.
Her: All we got is what got you here.