Mother Caridad held the strip of medical tape beneath the desk lamp and turned it carefully between her fingers.
There was nothing extraordinary about it. It was no longer than the first joint of her thumb, with one edge folded over as though it had been pulled hastily from someone’s skin. Yet the faint medicinal scent brought back a memory she could not immediately place—a white room, a metal tray, Doctor Paloma speaking in a calm voice while rain tapped against the infirmary windows.
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