Abstract
Across the hall from the room where my sister may or may not be dying, there is a woman who moans help all day long. Should we help her? I eventually ask my parents. Help who? my father says. The woman who keeps saying help, my husband says. No, she doesn't need any help, my mother says. What lovely sunflowers, I say. What lovely orchids. How kind. Have you sanitized your hands? my mother says. You have to sanitize your hands.
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