Mom found the letter. It’s dirty with blood and asphalt. It was in the pocket of my jeans. I threw the jeans away. They were torn. But before throwing them away, she went through the pockets. Two euros. A rubber band. A card with Bart Simpson on it. Erasers. A letter. My blood is on that letter, coagulated and dried. And it frames the name of Beatrice. This is the second time I’ve given blood for her. And this makes me happy, just like the first time. I read over the letter. It’s a good letter, even if some of the words can’t be read, sullied as they are with blood. I must find a way to give it to her. If only I could get up from this bed by myself!