Phil Parisi

We got to the door.

I pulled on it.

We went out.

I didn't ask her if she needed anything, not even her keys.

We went right to my car, got in,

I started the engine and reversed out of the driveway.

She couldn't bring herself to speak as we left her neighborhood.

She sat slumped against the passenger side door as if lightly drugged, uninterested in offering any response to my questions beyond refusing medical attention with a couple of limp shakes of her head.

My mind became cluttered with confusing options.

In the end, I chose the simplest one.

I let her drift in silence behind closed eyes and drove us back toward my apartment, a 15-minute ride at that time of night.

In the parking lot, I helped Tess out of the car and guided her down a hall to where I was living with my fiancé.

They knew each other some, and I told Kristen that she needed to watch Tess close for about an hour, make her comfortable, while I went back where I'd just come from.

I said I'd have to give her the details later.

Right now, I had a powerful feeling I shouldn't wait any longer to go back and make sure nothing was wrong at her house.

Tess, as visibly exhausted as I've ever seen a human being, managed to rouse herself just as I was headed out the door and looked up at me with big, watery eyes.

I don't think I was even restoring them at all, she said.

I think I was just washing them.

Over and over and over.

My hands hurt a lot.