As I put my stethoscope up to her back to listen to her lungs, the thin paper gown shifted, revealing the inked skin of her shoulder. I paused and put my finger up to the faded tattoo of a tiny footprint flanked by angel wings.
She’s part of the club, I thought. She knows loss.
“Who’s this for?” I asked in a voice that was almost a whisper, ready to share my secret, to envelope her in this cloak of grief with me.
“For him,” she said, pointing to her living child in the room with us.