Mend the Living by Maylis de Kerangal

and that he is headed up the Whanganui River from Cook Strait, setting off from another estuary and another city, and that he is heading deeper into the interior, alone in his canoe, absolutely peaceful, peaceful as she had known him to be, eyes serene; with regular movements, he passes Maori villages along the banks, portages around waterfalls, the light craft hoisted on his back, and advances farther and farther to the north, toward the central plateau and the Tongariro Volcano, where the sacred river draws its source, retracing the path of the migration to new lands; she sees Sean clearly, even hears his breath swell in the canyon as in an echo chamber, where reigns a suffocating calm – Revol watches her, worried by her panicked face, but needing to wrap up, so I’ll see you with him then, and Marianne nods her head, okay.
    Scrape of chairs against the floor, creak of door hinges, they walk toward the end of the corridor, where, without adding a single sentence to their meagre dialogue, Marianne pivots and moves away slowly, not knowing where to go, passes the waiting room, straight chairs and a low table cluttered with well-thumbed magazines, mature women smiling from the covers with healthy teeth, shining hair, toned perineums, and soon here she is again under the immense nave of glass and concrete, on the tiles with thousands of scuff marks, she passes the cafeteria – multicoloured bags of chips, candies, and chewing gum on display shelves, pizzas and burgers in primary colours on signs aligned neatly above, bottles of water and pop standing in windowed fridges – stops suddenly, sways on her feet, Simon is lying in there somewhere, how can she leave him behind? She wants to turn back, but she keeps going, she needs to find Sean, she has to reach him at all costs.
    Marianne heads for the main door that opens slowly, far off; four figures cross the threshold and come toward her, figures that soon emerge from the blur cast by her myopic eyes: it’s the parents of the other two caballeros , Christophe and Johan, the four of them in a line, and again winter coats that weigh shoulders down, scarves rolled into neck braces to hold up falling heads, gloves. They recognize her, slow down, and then one of the men quickens his step to break rank and when he reaches Marianne folds her in his arms, and then the other three embrace her in turn. How is he? Chris’s father is the first to speak; the four of them look at her, she’s paralyzed. Murmurs: he’s in a coma, we don’t know yet. She shrugs her shoulders and her mouth distorts: and you? the boys? Johan’s mother answers: Chris, fractured left hip and fibula; Johan, both wrists and clavicle fractured, also his rib cage, but none of his organs were pierced – she remains sober, of an outrageous sobriety, meant to show Marianne that the four of them are aware of how lucky they are, of their monster’s ball, because for them, it’s only breakage – their children were wearing seat belts, were protected from the shock, and if this woman minimizes their anxiety to this extent, abstaining from any commentary, it’s also to show Marianne that they know about Simon, know that it’s serious, very serious even, a rumour that will have run from the ICU to the department of orthopedic and trauma surgery where their sons are, and that she won’t have the indecency to add anything else and, finally, there is this distress she feels, this guilt that holds her back, because the choice was between their two sons for the seat belt – Chris had to drive, so it could just as easily have been Johan in the middle and then she would be the one in Marianne’s place at this instant, exactly in her place, swaying before the same terrible abyss, disfigured in just the same way, and she’s suddenly dizzy at the thought, her legs go weak and her eyes begin to roll back, her husband feels her wavering and puts an arm under hers to steady her, and as Marianne sees this woman