Lena began to cry. Not the quiet, professional tears she shed at work. Ugly, loud, snotty sobs. She cried for the heart-shaped croissants. She cried for every patient she’d ever lost. She cried because she was a nurse who couldn’t heal her own brother.
At the hospital, Marco was a ghost in a dimly lit room. Tubes snaked from his arms. His face, once round and ruddy from oven heat, was pale and hollow. His eyes were open but looked at nothing. paris milan nurse
When the train emerged into the pale Italian dawn, the mountains were jagged and beautiful. Milan glittered like a cold promise. Lena began to cry
Lena held her breath.