“Sit,” she said, gesturing to a worn velvet armchair.

I sat down, keeping my wet coat on.

Evelyn walked into the kitchen and returned a moment later without her tea.

She sat opposite me on a small wooden stool.

“I haven’t heard that name in over thirty years,” she said.

“Do you remember her?” I asked.

“I remember that night perfectly,” Evelyn said. “It was raining just like this.”

She rubbed her thin hands together, as if trying to warm them.

“The Westside Clinic was a charity hospital back then,” she said. “We took everyone.”

“But you didn’t take Helen,” I said.

Evelyn looked down at her lap.

“We wanted to,” she said. “She was very sick. Her fever was dangerous, and she was pregnant.”

My heart squeezed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“We had a new board of directors,” Evelyn said. “They had just taken over the funding.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“They brought in a new set of rules,” she said. “Only patients with specific insurance or a pre-approved sponsor could be admitted.”

“But it was an emergency,” I said.