He switches over, though his accent remains thick and halting. “Placenta.” He mimes tearing. “Distacco? Bleeding, maybe. We watch. One hour, no more.
My fists clench at my sides. “The babies?”
If he’s intimidated, he hides it well. He nods. “She asks for you.” The doctor touches my arm—brave of him—and adds quietly, “Let us do our work. Soon. Soon, you see her.”
Then he turns and the doors swallow him whole. Behind me, the janitor mops my blood from the floor. Swirls of pink vanishing down the drain. Overhead, the fluorescents seem to increase in volume, like angry cicadas. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to be anywhere but here.
I see a sign over a nearby door: Obitorio.
I know that word. Morgue. That’ll work.
I push through and descend the stairs. The first thing that hits me
