Page 16 of Rescue

“It really hurts,” she whispers, her voice trembling as tears spill over.

Before I can say anything, Abigail strolls towards us across the lawn, concern etched on her face. “What’s wrong? Layla, are you okay?”

Layla thrusts her hand toward her mum dramatically. “I got a splinter, Mummy! A big one!”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Abigail crouches down, gently brushing her daughter’s hair back. “Come here, let me see.”

But Layla shakes her head, pulling her hand away. “No! Doctor Jon has to do it. He isthe doctor.”

Abigail raises an eyebrow at me, her lips twitching with amusement despite her worry. “It’s just a splinter, darling. I can—”

“No! Doctor Jon has to,” Layla insists, turning her tearful gaze on me. “He helps children like me!”

I sigh, resigned. “Looks like I’ve been recruited.”

Abigail straightens up, crossing her arms. “Fine. What do you need, Doctor?”

“Tweezers, a sterilised needle if you have one, antiseptic, and a plaster,” I say. She nods and hurries back into the house.

Layla looks at me, sniffling. “Will it hurt?”

“Maybe a little,” I reply honestly. “But I’ll be careful.”

Abigail returns quickly, handing over the supplies. I lay them out on the table beside me, keeping my movements deliberate to show Layla she has nothing to fear. “Alright,” I say, gesturing for her to sit on the bench. “Let’s fix this.”

Layla climbs up, her big eyes watching every move I make. I clean the area first, her tiny wince tugging at my chest more than I care to admit. With the needle, I carefully loosen the splinter.

“You’re doing great,” I say, keeping my tone calm. “Almost done.”

When I finally pull the splinter free with the tweezers, Layla gasps, her face lighting up. “You got it!”

“See? All done,” I say, holding up the offending piece of wood.

She beams, wiggling her bandaged finger after I’ve cleaned it up and applied antiseptic. “Thanks, Doctor Jon! You’re a really good at this.”

Abigail watches the whole thing with an expression I can’t quite decipher. As Layla runs back into the house, already chattering about her “operation,” Abigail lingers.

“I hope she is not bothering you. I think she likes you,” she says softly, her voice tinged with something like gratitude.

I shrug, packing up the supplies. “Kids have strange taste. But no, she is not bothering me at all.”

Abigail leans against the doorframe, watching me with that ever-present warmth in her eyes. “So,” she says casually, though there’s a playful lilt to her voice, “are you joining us for dinner again tonight?”

I glance up from the supplies I’m repacking. “What’s on the menu?”

“Fish finger sandwiches,” she replies with a grin. “Nothing fancy, but Layla loves them. Bit of a tradition in this house. You’re welcome to join if you don’t mind the chaos.”

The corner of my mouth twitches into a smile before I can stop it. “Fish finger sandwiches, huh? Haven’t had one of those in years.”

Abigail raises an eyebrow. “You sound like you might be tempted.”

I nod, leaning back against the bench. “I’ll admit, they were my favourite when I was a kid.”

Her face lights up. “Really? Then you definitely have to join us. Layla will love that.”

I hesitate, the familiar instinct to keep my distance creeping in, but something about Abigail’s open expression and the thought of that little girl’s chatter over fish finger sandwiches makes it hard to say no. “Alright,” I say finally. “Count me in.” I have yet to make it to St Claire for dinner. Every day Abigail or Layla or both sell me on their planned supper.

Abigail smiles, pushing herself off the doorframe. “Brilliant. Dinner’s at six, as usual. You know where the kitchen is.”

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