“I’ll just put this with the other ones. You get some rest, now.”
      Meredith pulled a box from the dresser and added this correspondence to the stack. Each letter was edged with hand-drawn hearts and flowers (he couldn’t find nice stationary at the base) and always inquired about his mother before revealing his own news. A selfless son, that Gil. If Meredith ever found the time to meet a man--a strappy college professor, or maybe a pilot--their kids would be just like Gil. Just like him. She organized the letters according to postage date. They always arrived much faster than one would think.
      Meredith tried her best to forget the man, about Gil’s age, who had appeared at the door. His hair was shorn, but he wore no uniform. He claimed to be Gil’s friend, and thought he could help answer some questions.
      “Are you kin?” he asked, leaning against the bureau in the foyer.
      “No, I’m his mother’s home care attendant. Still, I’d like to know what happened. His mother is very ill. It might do her some good to know the details.”
      “Well, you wanna know the truth? Or you wanna know the army version?”
      “The truth, naturally.” Meredith felt oddly uncomfortable.
      “Funny story, really. See, Gil and I liked to go out to this bar downtown. Not the prettiest girls there, but they were always willin’, if ya know what I mean!”
      Meredith pulled her cardigan close and buttoned it to the top.
      “We was always getting’ shit-faced and chasin’ tail. Took the edge off. Well, this one night he and I was with a couple ladies. Only, Gil’s gal had a thing with the bartender. He wanted to kick us both out. How was we supposed to know, right? Anyway, Gil got to showin’ off and ended up firing his gun clean through his own privates, if ya know what I mean! By the time we got that poor sommbitch back to the base, it was too late. And I tried, ma’am, I really did.”
      That was months ago.
      No longer did she worry about Lily finding the little stash, the last known effects of her son: his dogtags, an engraved watch, and his tri-fold wallet, filled with scraps torn from menus and cocktaill napkins--all bearing the nameless phone numbers of women he never called back. Meredith had placed the wallet and its contents in the garbage pail beside Lily’s bed. Since his death, Gil had become gentle and kind. He volunteered at a local orphanage near the base. He rescued a man from a burning tank. He carried an amputee on his back for ten miles and disarmed landmines with a surgeon’s skill. That was her Gil. A true hero.
      Meredith watched Lily resting, probably thinking of her son and the last time she baked him a pie. Meredith checked the I.V., then placed two fingers to the corner of Lily’s neck, just below her jaw line. The pulse was slow, but continual. Two weeks or more are certainly possible, Meredith thought. She scowled to herself at the idea of Dr. Rayzor, his grim prognosis and curt remarks.
      She found a comb on the bedside table and began shaping Lily’s wiry, sweat-soaked locks. She traced a deep purple vein with the tip of her index finger. It felt pregnant, like the pudgy exterior of an earthworm. The I.V. needle fit tight inside, a line of bruises from her wrist to her bicep.
      “You’re so innocent,” Meredith said, and lowered her head to Lily’s chest, taking ownership of each flimsy breath.