She is leaving the hospital.

She is leaving us. I want to sit in the back seat and hold her, but we rig up a way for her to be more comfortable, and there isn't room up there.

Becky looks like a blown egg, all shell and air--and that's exactly how I feel.

Mom's breath sounds heavy. She dozes, but we don't talk in case that would wake her. And then there's the fear that she doesn't wake up, that she slips away before we can get her home.

I tell myself we should have known. The statistics were never good for this disease. But that doesn't change this gaping yawn inside of me, inside of us.

More road, and more road, and then the night.