And in the bottom drawer, under everything else, one old, worn folder. The cardboard was soft and faded. The corners were bent.
It had my name on it.
My maiden name.
HANNAH REEVES.
I opened it.
Inside was a photocopy of a newspaper article. Very small. From our town paper, thirty-eight years ago. LOCAL GIRL INJURED IN PLAYGROUND FALL.
Under that, a stack of notes. The first page was dated twenty-seven years earlier. Long before we met. It was written in a young man’s handwriting, big and messy.
At the top of the page it said, First year. Neuro-ophthalmology. Find out everything.
There were more pages after that. Dozens. Every year, a few more. Notes from lectures. Notes from conferences. Names of doctors. Names of studies.
And at the very bottom of the folder, folded into a small square, there was a piece of paper.
Lined paper, torn out of a child’s notebook. Yellowed. Soft.
