the child’s mother wails. “But he’s here, right in front of you,” the therapist insists, pointing at a plastic comb, a pile of muddy clothes, some underwear, eyeglasses.
“But this isn’t the same, those glasses aren’t even his.”
The child opens the office door, squishing his way across the high-pile carpet as if atop a sea of blood and for the first time takes his mother’s hand.xv
