My name is Sarah, I am 42 years old and I am American. My daughter Hannah is 17 years old.
Six months ago, a drunk driver ran a red light and hit her.
She was returning home from her part-time job at the bookstore.
And every day, at precisely 3 p.m., the same thing happens.
Five minutes from our house.
Now she is in room 223, in a coma, connected to several machines.
I practically live there.
And every day, at precisely 3 p.m., the same thing happens.
Then he smiled at my unconscious child.
The door opens.
A large man enters.
Grey beard. Leather vest. Boots. Tattoos.
He gives me a respectful nod.
Then he smiled at my unconscious child.
"Hi, Hannah," he said. "It's Mike."
Sometimes he reads a book.
Jenna, the nurse, always lights up when she sees him.
He sits next to Hannah, takes her hand in his, and stays there for an hour.
Sometimes he reads a book.
This went on for months.
Sometimes, he simply speaks in a low voice.
At exactly 4 p.m., he put his hand on the blanket, got up, nodded to me, and left.
This went on for months.
One day, I asked Jenna, "Who is this guy?"
He was not related.
Yet, the nurses spoke to him as if he were one of us.
One day, I asked Jenna, "Who is this guy?"
That didn't answer any questions.
She hesitated.
"He's... a regular. Someone who genuinely cares about others."
That didn't answer any questions.
But he didn't seem mean.
So one afternoon, after he left, I got up and followed him down the corridor.
"Excuse me," I said.
He turned around.
Up close, it was even bigger.
But he didn't seem mean.
"Yes?" he said.
"She also told me not to bother you unless you wanted to talk."
"I am Hannah's mother," I said.
"I know. Sarah, don't you?"
That troubled me.
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