It's Saturday. She walks in expecting things to be worse, and she's right. She almost wishes she were wrong. She almost wants to apologize for getting angry with him when he wouldn't eat. She almost wants to stoop down beside his head and ask him softly if she hurt his neck the day before. The second almost is weaker, and she gives in. She has to kneel down to be level with the cot on which he's been lying for too long. Every morning when she comes to check on him he's in the same position-- legs straight, arms across the chest, on his back, looking like a corpse. She suspects he hasn't moved for a long time, but she can't remember how long it's been since she's seen him sitting up. That's the scariest part, but being this close to the smooth skin of his cheek and the soft curl of his hair tucked behind his small ear isn't much better. She fights her natural inclination to be as far away from him as possible and leans toward him. Is he alright? Has she hurt him recently? No, she hasn't. Not recently.
(It's Wednesday and she's on the fence again, but the man doesn't walk by today. It's possible he found a better place to walk. It's possible that he's cured and he's now on a ship to India, the first stop on his trip to tell the world of the miracle of the young girl who cured him. But it's not likely.)
