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So I pray.
I pray for her son and for us, but I mostly pray for her. Because she seems like she needs it the most.
And by the time I’m done, she’s not crying anymore, and that’s something, at least.
"Thank you so much, Toni," I say, looking at my almost completely full cup of black coffee. "This was delicious."
She smiles. "You’re very welcome, father," she says. "Anything I can do to help."
"We’re here to help you," I say, grabbing her hands in mine. She’s trembling a little. She must be really scared. "We’ll do everything we can for you and your son."
She nods, sniffling. "Thank you, father," she says.
And just like that, Misha and I walk in silence to her son’s room, and she’s all but forgotten in the living room as she waits for us to save her son.
