She calls herself Ava Littleford, and she sits on the edge of her bed now, lost in fantasy or memory, and either is acceptable. She has been alive and aware for so long she feels that everything is eclectic, and nothing makes sense when viewed singularly. If she has a reason for being here why has it not been made clear to her? Why must she suffer this interminable life alone and in solitude this way? Why has she had to endure the indignity of losing...