The girl needs to remain under observation for twenty-four hours, which means she can only leave tomorrow. This upsets me, but just knowing she is being well cared for and monitored helps me bear the feeling.

She didn’t say anything to us, but she made intense eye contact. I so desperately wanted her to say something, at least how old she was. She seemed quite young, but could she be a minor? Her guardians must be out there, looking for her. Or maybe she didn’t have any guardians or people who cared about her disappearance. It was hard to tell.

Donovan was the picture of worry. My friend always had a slightly commanding tone, which made his oratory better than mine most of the time. But now he spoke softly and hesitantly, choosing his words carefully when addressing her, undoubtedly afraid of saying something wrong and breaking her further.

Despite being tough and assertive, Donovan had a heart of iron, and he was an honest and loyal person. He didn’t cry as much as I did (after all, the role of the weepy friend always fell to me), but he was just as sensitive.

Donovan and I talked more to the girl. We talked about our company, the houses we owned (besides the apartment in Ipanema, I had three more properties), and a bit about the history we were making in the country. We wanted her to know a little more about the men who were determined to keep her alive.

A nurse entered with two others. They brought a cart with spare cardiopulmonary resuscitation equipment. I also saw some medications and syringes.

“Excuse me, good afternoon. We’re here to give the patient her second dose of medication,” she pointed to the girl, who seemed inert and empty again.

I discreetly pointed to the resuscitation equipment, and she whispered:

“Just as a precaution.”

I understood. It seemed strange, after all, if she wasn’t in life-threatening condition and was being constantly monitored, there shouldn’t be a need for such worry. But they were the medical professionals, not me. I put my hands in my pockets as I stepped aside to let the nurses through. Donovan did the same, looking at me enigmatically. I shrugged.

As the nurse administered the prescribed medications through the catheter, I pondered what the next steps should be. Dr. Solloman had said that the care and attention needed to be doubled from this point on, that her sense of self-preservation had simply broken and now she could kill herself at any hour of the day or night. While she was in that state, it was vital that my alertness remained high. Not only that, but I should make the apartment inviting and safe; not giving fate another chance, like leaving her alone in a closed bathroom with a filled bathtub.

... I would never forgive myself for that. But now was not the time to dwell on my guilt. The focus was the girl.

“I know you must be very tired, dear,” the nurse said directly to the girl. “But we need some information about you.”

“She doesn’t speak,” Donovan interrupted.

“No need to use words,” she explained. One of the nurses brought a form. Some things were already filled in, like the address (mine), gender, height, and blood type. While she was being medicated, they had pricked her finger for analysis and disease detection. She was clean, thank God, and her blood type was AB+.

The nurse placed a pen within the girl’s reach, along with the paperwork. She didn’t react.

“Just your age, then, so we know how to handle the final procedures,” the nurse’s voice wasn’t exactly empathetic, nor was her expression. I started to feel a dislike for her, but I didn’t say or do anything.

I thought the girl really wouldn’t do anything, but with a heavy heart, I saw her trembling hand reach for the pen.
A sepulchral silence. She went directly to the underlined space for “age:” and wrote two numbers. Then she dropped the pen, sulky, and resumed staring into nothingness.

The nurse said nothing, just took the document and left with the others. I followed her.

When we were outside, I called her:

“Wait!” I tried not to speak too loudly, after all, we were in a hospital.

She stopped and turned to me.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“I…” I hesitated. “Can I see?”

I nodded towards the papers. The other two nurses went their way, uninterested. She seemed indifferent and handed me the form.

I avidly searched for the crucial information in the sea of words. Then I found what I was looking for.

In irregular but perfectly legible handwriting, there were the numbers 2 and 1.

She was twenty-one years old.

I was so shocked I almost dropped the papers. I silently thanked the woman, who took the papers back and continued on her way.

I remained standing, lost in thought.

She looked younger, much younger. I imagined she was around seventeen at most. She was so thin and gaunt. Besides, she was short and her face didn’t convey the sobriety of an adult, but rather a silent and terribly evident despair.

Even though she wasn’t as young as I had imagined, she was still spectacularly young. And she had already given up on living, determined to end everything.

Slightly relieved that she was of legal age, but still very worried about how to proceed with her current mental state, I returned to the hospital room.