Page 59 of The Strawberry Field
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sawyer
WE STOP AT a gift shop in town to pick up a few things for Hannah—a soft, plush basset hound with droopy ears and big, soulful eyes, and a pair of pink footie pajamas. I guess at her size, hoping they’ll fit.
The hospital is smaller than the ones I worked in, but something about it feels steady. Solid. Like it belongs here in this community.
Before walking in, Jake and I put on masks, a sign at the front door declaring them mandatory. At the front desk, a volunteer, a woman with soft white hair and kind blue eyes, smiles from behind the glass.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
Jake speaks first.“We were hoping to visit the little girl who was in the car accident yesterday.”
The woman nods, her expression sobering.“Hannah Thompson. Visitors are restricted to immediate family. But… apparently, she doesn’t have any listed.”
Just then, a man in a white coat walks past the desk, eyes on a clipboard. He glances up.
“Oh, hey, Jake.”
“Hey, Robert.” Jake gestures toward me.“This is my friend, Dr. Sawyer Berkley. Sawyer, this is Dr. Murphy.”
“Nice to meet you,” we say at the same time, nodding instead of shaking hands.
“You’re here about the child, I assume?”
“Yes,” Jake says.“We brought a few things and wanted to check on her. But it sounds like we can’t see her?”
Dr. Murphy glances at the volunteer.“Given the circumstances, come with me. Let’s see what we can do.”
We follow him down a long hall to the elevator, and then through a set of doors he opens with a key card. As we ride, he makes quiet small talk, asking about my work in New York. Whether I plan to return.
“I don’t think so,” I say, the answer coming more easily than I expected.
“I imagine it was tough,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply, and leave it at that.
As if he can sense the weight behind my silence, Jake presses a warm hand to the center of my back. Just once. Just enough. Tears threaten, but I blink them back.
We exit onto a quiet hallway. Dr. Murphy leads us to a room on the left, knocks gently, and opens the door. He gestures for us to step inside.
The girl in the bed looks impossibly small. Her face pale. A bruise under one eye. Her chest rises and falls slowly beneath the blanket. Dr. Murphy steps to her side.
“Good morning, Hannah,” he says.“How are you feeling?”
She studies him for a moment before answering in a soft voice,“Okay.”
“These are the two people who helped you yesterday after the accident,” he says.“They brought you a few things and wanted to check in on you.”
Her eyes find mine first, then Jake’s. They’re solemn. Older than they should be.
“Hi, Hannah,” I say.
Jake hands me the plush basset hound, and I place it gently on the bed beside her.“We thought you might like someone to keep you company.”
I immediately regret the wording. But her eyes light up, just a little, and she runs a hand across the dog’s soft head.
“Thank you.”
