He was in the intensive care unit. Visitors weren't allowed, but it was Christmas and there was no one there, so I snuck out. The boy in the bed didn't look like Lorenzo. Her helpless little body – wrapped in bandages and sheets – had tubes and wires sticking out everywhere; his face was swollen and disfigured. I held his hand in mine and told him who I was. I didn't know if he knew I was there – he couldn't speak, eat, drink or move – or even if he was conscious. A nurse spotted me and asked if I was a relative. I admitted that I was Lorenzo's teacher. Instead of asking me to leave, the nurse told me that hearing is the last sense a person loses, so if I wanted to talk to him, maybe he could hear me. While I was talking to him, I started to