Page 57 of The Strawberry Field
The randomness. The finality. The sheer cruelty of it. One moment, a woman is driving her granddaughter to preschool. The next, she’s gone. No warning. No chance to say goodbye.
And that child, waking to a world without the person she trusted most.
I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head into my hands. And let the tears come. For the loss we witnessed. For the helplessness. And for Sawyer, because now, I understand.
I understand the exhaustion that must come from carrying that kind of loss day after day. The quiet way it breaks you down. No wonder she left the hospital. No wonder she felt like she couldn’t keep going.
I don’t regret what I’ve said to her—about hope, about healing. But I understand now. I reach for my phone and dial before I can talk myself out of it. She answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
There’s a pause. The kind that feels like it’s holding something fragile.
“There’s something I need to say,” I tell her.
“What is it?”
“This morning, seeing what we saw, it made me realize I assumed too much. I thought I understood what you’ve been through. What it must have felt like to keep watching people die. I didn’t. And I’m sorry if I ever came across like I had any idea what that cost you.”
Her voice comes gently through the line.“You didn’t. Jake, you have nothing to apologize for.”
I don’t speak. I let her keep going.
“I’m just glad it was you,” she says softly.“If I had to go through something like that, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have been with.”
Her words settle over me. For the first time in hours, something inside me eases a little. And the bond between us deepens.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sawyer
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I drive over to Carl’s to fill up my car and grab a few groceries. I’m low on staples and decide I’d rather avoid the bigger grocery store in town.
At the pump, I insert my credit card and wait while the tank fills. The air is cool and still, and for a moment, I wonder what Jake is doing today. He didn’t mention coming over. I tell myself not to expect anything, but the thought still lingers.
I glance at the mask on my passenger seat and decide not to wear it. Inside the store, I’m not the only customer forgoing the mask. I think we’re all tired of what it represents: fear and its reluctance to let go of us.
I grab what I need, milk, eggs, a loaf of bread, bananas, and another jar of peanut butter, then head to the register.
The same woman is behind the register. She smiles when she sees me. It’s nice to see her smile and know that she sees mine.
“How are you today?” she asks, ringing up my items.
“I’m good,” I say.“You?”
“Can’t complain,” she says, then studies me more closely.“Oh. Wait. Are you the doctor who helped with that accident on 834 yesterday?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised.“I am.”
She places a hand over her heart.“God bless you, dear. I can’t even imagine.”
Yeah,” I say quietly.“It was tragic.”
She nods.“Such a shame. You get in the car, thinking you’ll be back home in ten minutes, and…” She trails off. We both understand.
“And that little girl…” she continues.“The way people are talking, I reckon she’ll end up in the foster care system.”
