I could not tell her that. I did not know.
I called Ernesto from my hospital room on the sixth day. I made the call while Lucía was in the corridor speaking with a nurse, because I did not want her to hear the conversation until I had thought through what I was asking. Ernesto is seventy-three, two years older than me, and has been both my lawyer and my friend for nearly thirty years. He is the kind of man whose presence in a situation makes the situation feel more manageable, not because he is optimistic but because he is thorough.
He answered on the second ring.
I told him I needed to be moved. Not discharged, not sent home, moved, transferred to another facility, somewhere the children could not find me immediately. I told him enough of what I had heard that he understood without my having to say everything twice. He was quiet for a moment, the way he is quiet when he is thinking rather than when he has nothing to say, and then he said he would come before dawn and that he would bring the car.
“Can you travel?” he asked.
