When she finished, she took his hand again. “I wish I had a hundred years,” she said, very quietly.
“A hundred years I could give to you.” He didn’t answer her.
A few seconds later, the medicine had sent her to sleep, but it didn’t matter.
They’d had the talk. There was nothing more to say.
“Conor?” his grandma said, poking her head in the door sometime later, Conor didn’t know how long.
“I want to go home,” he said, quietly. “Conor–” “My home,” he said, raising his head,
his eyes red, with grief, with shame, with anger. “The one with the yew tree.”
WHAT’S THE USE OF YOU?
“I’m going back to the hospital, Conor,” his grandma said, dropping him off at his house.
“I don’t like leaving her like this. What do you need that’s so important?”
“There’s something I have to do,” Conor said, looking at the home where he’d spent his entire life.
It seemed empty and foreign, even though it wasn’t very long since he’d left.
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