June still missed him. Vincent. While she sat in the hospital room, listening to the beep-beeping of machines, she knitted her longing into a patchwork scarf. June could no longer retrieve a static memory of Vincent's face. At least not all at once. The blue eyes, scratchy, stubble chin, an earlobe, a collarbone—they came in fragments, tiny snapshots of a whole she could no longer grasp. She found the knitting therapeutic and it kept her mind off the questions the social worker was asking, where her father would end up if he got out of here, who would take care of him… and Carol.