The first thing Christy remembered clearly was the sound of Margaret turning a page.
It was a small sound, barely distinguishable from the quiet rustle of the curtains beside the window, but Christy had grown familiar with it over the past two months. Every night, Margaret sat beside her bed with a book in her hands and read until Christy's eyelids grew heavy. On mornings when the nights had been particularly difficult, she read during breakfast, too, her voice filling the spaces where conversation might otherwise have made Christy uncomfortable.
Margaret never seemed to mind repeating herself.
