Chap­ter 16: The Vis­it begins in a ster­ile hos­pi­tal room in Read­ing, where Chona remains uncon­scious, her frag­ile state watched over by those clos­est to her. Though she can­not speak, her pres­ence anchors Addie and Moshe, who trade brief but mean­ing­ful obser­va­tions each morn­ing. Addie insists she sees move­ment, slight signs of aware­ness, though doc­tors warn oth­er­wise. Moshe, weary from his night­time work at the the­ater and drained by grief, nev­er ques­tions her hope. His eyes remain locked on Chona’s face, as if will­ing her to open her eyes. The staff pass silent­ly, some cold, oth­ers indif­fer­ent, their stares betray­ing dis­com­fort with the com­pa­ny Chona keeps—Black friends sit­ting vig­il beside a white Jew­ish woman.

Whis­pers and sharp glances echo through the cor­ri­dor, espe­cial­ly when Addie and Nate step out­side the room. Their pres­ence offends some nurs­es, not for any­thing said, but sim­ply because they exist in a space con­sid­ered off-lim­its to them. The hos­pi­tal, like the town it serves, draws lines that those of col­or are expect­ed not to cross. But Addie cross­es them any­way. She walks tall beside Moshe, wip­ing Chona’s brow, chal­leng­ing the unspo­ken rules that try to keep their com­pas­sion con­fined. These qui­et acts of defi­ance aren’t dra­mat­ic, but they are steady and clear. In a place of judg­ment, Addie’s loy­al­ty is loud­er than the staff’s prej­u­dice.

As Moshe leans beside Chona each morn­ing, he lis­tens to Addie speak in soft tones about move­ments she’s noticed—fluttering fin­gers, a twitch of the eye. Whether imag­ined or not, her belief is unwa­ver­ing. Doc­tors chalk it up to reflex­es, dis­miss­ing her claims as false hope. But Addie clings to the signs, believ­ing Chona hears them. With so much pain around them, hope is the only com­fort they can afford. Nate vis­its too, often qui­et, watch­ing from the side, adding his strength to the room. Togeth­er, the three main­tain a sacred rhythm—holding vig­il, exchang­ing news, and shield­ing Chona from the hos­pi­tal’s cold dis­in­ter­est.

The back­sto­ry adds weight to their pain. Chona, a woman admired for her fierce advo­ca­cy and com­mu­ni­ty efforts, is now the sub­ject of whis­pered scan­dal. It’s rumored Dr. Roberts, a respect­ed fig­ure in Pottstown, was involved in an inap­pro­pri­ate inci­dent at her store. Some believe it caused the episode that led to her coma, while oth­ers dis­miss it or pro­tect him. Addie, how­ev­er, knows too much to stay qui­et. Her voice, low but res­olute, reveals frus­tra­tion at a town that pro­tects its own and ignores the rest. Racism and clas­sism inter­twine in Pottstown, where truth is often a casu­al­ty to appear­ances.

Nate echoes her anger. He’s lived it for too long—watching how jus­tice depends on the col­or of your skin. He’s seen too many peo­ple like Chona, who tried to bridge divides, pun­ished for stand­ing too close to the fire. In Pottstown, silence keeps the pow­er­ful safe, and lies grow thick in the spaces where no one dares to look. Addie and Nate want bet­ter, not just for Chona but for every­one like her—those who speak out, who stand between com­mu­ni­ties, and who pay a qui­et price. Even now, as Chona lies motion­less, they believe her spir­it resists the injus­tice that put her there.

Out­side the hos­pi­tal walls, the world con­tin­ues with its usu­al indif­fer­ence. But inside, the space around Chona feels like sacred ground. Addie keeps her voice soft, hum­ming songs Chona once sang, plac­ing cool tow­els on her fore­head, offer­ing sto­ries instead of silence. She talks about Chick­en Hill, their shared past, and how Chona nev­er backed away from a fight that mat­tered. Nate brings updates from the out­side world, bits of news, sliv­ers of life. Each vis­it is an act of love, one not rec­og­nized by the insti­tu­tion but unde­ni­ably pow­er­ful. Their pres­ence is more than duty—it’s rebel­lion against every­thing that tried to keep them apart.

The chap­ter clos­es not with res­o­lu­tion but qui­et resolve. Addie and Nate share a glance down the long hos­pi­tal cor­ri­dor, their faces weary but firm. They know the road ahead will be hard­er still. Racism, injus­tice, grief—these things don’t leave when a patient opens her eyes or takes her last breath. But nei­ther do loy­al­ty and courage. In that small room, with flu­o­res­cent lights buzzing and machines beep­ing, the past and future col­lide in silence. Chona’s life, and all she stood for, remains wrapped in the arms of friends who refuse to let her go qui­et­ly.