Page 42 of The Strawberry Field
There are no facts. No confirmations. Just noise. But I know what damage it can do.
As a doctor, I’ve seen careers destroyed over accusations. I’ve seen people leave medicine not because they failed—but because they couldn’t afford the cost of defending themselves.
Jake was never a quitter. But now I wonder what he was protecting. Who he was trying to spare.
The Jake I knew… the Jake I saw today… he doesn’t match the picture painted in those stories.
I close the laptop and sit in silence. The house is still.
The truth is, I want to ask him.
Not because I’m nosy.
But because I need to believe something can still be true in a world where so much feels like a lie.
And maybe, just maybe, he’s the one who can help me believe again.
Chapter Sixteen
Jake
THE ALARM CLOCK clatters to life with its usual overzealous cheer, dragging me out of sleep. I cross the room and smack the off button, groaning as I do.
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with that thing. I like early mornings, the quiet, the productivity, but some days, the interruption feels more cruel than helpful.
I shower, shave, and get dressed, and as soon as I step back into the bedroom, Hattie jumps down from the bed. She always waits until I’m ready before she gets out of bed.
We make our way to the kitchen, and I let her out into the yard while I start the coffee. She’s scratching at the door before I’ve taken my first sip.
I let her in, and she pads straight to her food bowl, tail wagging in anticipation.
“Okay, okay,” I say.“Can I get a few sips in?”
Her tail thumps the floor with polite insistence.
I take a long pull from my mug and get to work on her breakfast.
I stopped buying commercial dog food years ago, after reading too much about what actually goes into some of it. The rendering plants, the“meat byproduct” labels that could mean anything from roadkill to euthanized animals, it turned my stomach. I couldn’t support that industry. Not for Hattie. Not for anyone’s animal.
So I started cooking her meals myself.
Chicken with green beans, carrots, small potatoes, and brown rice. I prep a few days at a time. She thinks I’m a five-star chef, and honestly, I don’t hate the praise.
This morning is no different. I warm the broth, pour it over her food, and set the bowl down. She eats like it’s a feast prepared just for her—which, I guess, it is.
“If only people were as easy to please,” I say.
She wags her tail but doesn’t look up—too busy licking the bowl clean.
I take my coffee out onto the deck. The morning is cool, the air just damp enough to smell like soil and dew. The sun is rising pink over the lake, a soft ball of color edging up above the trees.
And I feel… grateful.
Not in the abstract sense, but grounded. Present. Aware that this place I get to live in is more than I deserve.
But there’s something else this morning.
Something more than just the sunrise or the quiet.
