Human Lives Saved

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“Shot you?” she said.

I guided her fingertips to the wound.

“Oh, Fred,” she said. “When?”

“At the end.”

“When he—?”

I nodded before remembering her long witness upon night: Veronica could hear and feel, not see.

“Yes,” I said. “Before he gave up. It made him give up.”

Then, after a longer moment: “No. No. It didn’t. How can I say that? It was me. Me. I made him give up!”

I said this and felt glad she coldd hear and feel, not see.

He stood at the plate window with hands entwined gently at the back of his tweed, an Auguste Rodin bronze named Contemplation, in corporate clothing.

He watched those outside.

From where I stood I could see their signs: We’re Animals Too! Prevent Cruelty! Don’t KILL For CURES. They gathered Friday afternoons and Saturdays in an average week. Today they mustered at mid-week to coincide with media coverage of a breakthrough. Of what level of breakthrough, they possessed no knowledge. Cameras would soon cover building and grounds; lenses might light briefly on bodies, faces and signs; and a few of the crews might nod their heads to hear a word, thrusting a microphone forward. That mattered; nothing else.

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