The little girl was crying.
Her mother had taken her to work with her that day but now the little girl wanted to go home.
"We're not going home," Her mother told her.
The little girl cried harder. Her mother's voice was flat and cold.
She didn't recognize it.
"We have to fix it." Her mother wasn't talking to the little girl anymore.
Her mother let go of her hand, drifted across the room, muttering to herself.
The little girl stood alone in the cold, white room, crying and calling for her mother who seemed to no longer be able to hear her at all.
"We have to fix it," Her mother said again to no one in particular.
The little girl quieted, the occasional sniffle the only sound breaking the silence.
Somehow, even then, she knew.
There was no fixing this.