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Show 147 girl were replacing them. "Have a good day," Hunt said. Along the route a bookstore window displayed the Abrahms' Paintings of Edward Hopper. Hunt went inside and bought his mother the paper edition so that it would be as light as possible on her lap. It was right. It pleased him. It was a proper gift. She was in her chair, head looped quite uncomfortably forward, but when she saw him in the doorway, she straightened up. "Hi," she said. "Did you sleep?" Hunt asked. "I think." "Good." "I wish I could remember, though." She smiled. • "You look better." "Oh: I'm a beauty." She nodded to the two i.v. lines running into her wrists. "They're trying to help," Hunt said. "I know." Her eyes teared up. "I know they are, Hunt. Everyone's being wonderful." "Well, a lot of people love you, you know." His voice clouded. She grew silent. Was she thinking? Was she taking some sort of inventory of the possible love of others? Or was the carbon dioxide, trapped in her lungs, unable to find appropriate passage, and sending in its fog-bank again? "Don't you believe me?" Hunt tried. "I'm sorry . . .?" |