Melinda stepped inside.
Elliot looked over her shoulder at me, wide-eyed and solemn, his stuffed giraffe tucked under one arm.
Then the doors shut.
I stood there long after they were gone.
That evening, rain started just as my shift ended.
It came down in fine silver lines against the hospital windows, turning the parking lot lights blurry and soft. I sat in my office with the door closed, still wearing my lab coat, the filing summary spread across my desk.
I had treated four patients after Connor left.
A toddler with asthma.
A six-year-old with a stubborn fever.
A teenager recovering from appendicitis who wanted to know if his scar would look “cool.”
A newborn whose mother cried from exhaustion and relief when I told her the test results were normal.
I had spoken gently. Listened carefully. Washed my hands between rooms. Smiled when needed.
No one knew that beneath my calm voice, one sentence kept repeating.
