st the windows of the Davenport

e y

enport' s wheelchair, bathed her, f

their accident, had taken me in. Then Tori

from the w

, became her world,

my chest that never went away. I h

cut through the sound of the storm. "

he clock. Alm

n the worst weather, for the "special" pills

clicked. This woul

," I said, keepi

ped against a mountain of silk pillows, her beautiful

. The ache is unb

et. Unbearable. Like my hope, slo

her. For the sli

face, the rain soaking th

macist giving me the usual sympathetic look as he h

e, another small twist of her pow

se coul

oted. That had to mean

ping and cold, t

ithout a word, her e

slow," she

rm is ba

dn't a

the curve of her cheek, th

, and a w

m, my movements

a cycle of service

d break through, that one day she would loo

le hope, but i