I didn’t say anything else for a moment. I just held her and let her cry. Because whatever came next, whatever explanation, whatever rage, I needed this one pocket of time where she was only my child and I was only her mother and she was alive.
A nurse hovered by the door, giving us a minute and not giving us a minute at the same time.
When Lucy’s sobs finally slowed into hiccups, I leaned back just enough to see her face. Her lashes were wet. Her lower lip trembled. There were faint red marks on her forehead where she’d pressed against something— glass, maybe. She looked exhausted, but her eyes kept scanning me like she needed to be sure I wasn’t going to vanish.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, hands moving over her arms, her shoulders, her hair.
She shook her head quickly. “I was thirsty,” she whispered. “And it was hot.”
I swallowed hard. “I know.”
Her grip tightened again. “I waited,” she said, voice tiny. “I thought they were coming back.”
The nurse stepped forward gently. “Ms. Walker,” she said, “I’m going to explain what we know.”
“Okay,” I said too fast. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.