By the end of the week they've moved Tae upstairs to a private room. I poke my head in. Is he up? His eyes look open, but when I get closer to the bed I see that he's fast asleep, his brown hair now silky clean.

He sleeps peacefully one moment, then suddenly his eyes art up, then down. What kind of thoughts are in his head? Does he know what happened to him? Can he remember? Will it scare him and make him afraid to get back on his bike?

Just after I learned to ride with two wheels, I fell off and broke my ankle. For years after I'd wake up during the night with a start as my mind replayed the fall. it took me a long time to get on my bike again.

On the side of Tae's face that hit the ground there's a bandage, but it doesn't totally cover the beginning of a red scab. The area around it is green, yellow, and purple and swollen. The skin looks like plastic wrap pulled over the top of a bowl. An IV is attached to his arm and he's on a heart monitor. I watch the pattern of the green zigzag line as it goes up and down, over and over, turning the heartbeat into modern art. Is it normal scribble? When he was first brought in, he was on a ventilator, a machine that breathed for him. Now he's off it. That has to mean he's better.

I read a poem to him, even though he's sleeping, whispering the words. Can fields of yellow sunflowers erase the memories of blood and pain? Can he hear me? Will he turn toward me, the way the plant leans toward the sun for warmth, light, and survival? I want to know we've connected, but I search his face and swallow, involuntarily.

I close the book and squeeze his hand. He doesn't respond. He's a limp doll who I want to take home to keep on my bed, like a new stuffed toy. "Bye, I'll visit you tomorrow," I whisper.

I start to leave, then pause, guilty about walking out on him. I'm sure his parents are nearby, but right now he's so alone. I'm not supposed to fall apart. I'm here to help kids, but now I'm the helpless baby trying to cover my cries.

Suzy, you're such a mess.

Mina must have heard me because there she is at the door. "Are you okay, Suzy?"

"I don't know what it is that gets to me . . . He's not my my child, I don't have a little brother or even know any kids like him."

"We all struggle with how to deal with kids who are sick and hurt. It's hard for us all. it makes us realize how helpless we are to prevent it."

"But a kid . . . nearly getting the life smacked out of him . . ."

Kids have to be protected and spared, and if they'r e not, it's unfair, and their parents have failed them.

I can't stop crying. "I better go."

She shakes her head. "Things around here get to all of us. It never gets easier, but eventually . . . you handle it."

° ° ° ° °

I walk along the hallway and spot his parents sitting together on a bench, eyes hollowed, mouths pinched as if someone has stolen their insides. Outside the building, out of view, I crouch down, dropping my head to me knees. it feels like I'm going to be sick.