“Yet remarkably resilient.”
“That depends on who’s trying to break it.”
That draws another small smile.
I take another sip of coffee as I cross my legs.
“Actually, I had a question.”
“Only one?”
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“How considerate.”
I reach for one of the anatomy books stacked nearby. The pages are crowded with notes and highlighted passages, many of the scribbled annotations in my own handwriting. Flipping to a diagram, I tap the page and hold the book up for him to see.
“What exactly makes tendons different from ligaments?”
Mr. Higgs perks up at the sight of the diagram. I swear the man enjoys teaching more than anything else.
For the next twenty minutes, the conversation falls into an easy rhythm. He explains. I ask questions. He answers them. Then I ask more.
Every answer seems to lead to another question, and Mr. Higgs never appears to mind. If anything, he looks pleased by it, launching into explanations with the same enthusiasm he had the first time he handed me one of his anatomy textbooks.
Somewhere along the way, the morgue stopped being the only reason I came here.
Because understanding the human body fascinates me.
Maybe because I spent so much time feeling trapped in my own body.
Maybe because knowledge feels powerful in a world where so much is beyond my control.
Or maybe because two years ago, while I sat in this building waiting for news about my missing friends, anatomy gave me something else to focus on besides the possibility that I would never see them again.
Mr. Higgs supplied textbooks. I started reading them and never stopped.
Eventually the conversation shifts.
As it always does.
One minute we’re talking about anatomy, debating muscle groups and nerve pathways, and the next the room grows noticeably quieter.
The relaxed back-and-forth of the conversation fades. Mr. Higgs leans back in his chair, his attention centering fully on me. He removes his glasses and picks up his coffee mug.
The exhaustion of hope presses down on me all over again.
I’m not surprised considering after two years, I know exactly what comes next.
Every Wednesday ends the same way.
First the books, then the questions and finally the list.
The newest Jane Does.
The unidentified remains.
The women nobody has claimed.
