They once drew from four strings Elgar's Cello Concerto in E minor. Her arms danced about mahogany stained pine as partners, pulling to and fro. Haunting echoes of Jacqueline du Pre and her troubled brilliance. Now they search for the hint of a vein. Stretches of pale flesh once lined by purple blue channels, rivers and streams erased from a map. Rivulets atop her hands dry. She pokes and prods between fingers with the fine point of a syringe, looking for an opening to inject blessed numbness. Her cello gathers ghost notes of dust. My daughter's hands, instruments of betrayal.