ANNA

Francesca was sitting in a wheelchair in the door frame with a nurse behind her, furious, full of rage. She shot me a death glance and then placed her hands on the wheels of the chair and came closer. Instinctively, I got up a little on the pillow. Her menacing look did not weaken me at all. She was angry that her father had told me intimate things about her life. The man was suffering, and he considered that if he unloaded a little, he would release a bit of his pain. ...