“If she was brave enough.”
His wife looked at her husband.
At the man she had married.
Who had brought something into their life.
Before she was in it.
That was now sitting in a chair.
In a torn dress.
With bare feet.
And a scar on her arm.
From giving blood.
To save him.
She looked at the girl.
“Are you hungry?” she said.
The girl blinked.
It was not the question she had expected.
“Yes,” she said.
His wife stood up.
“I’ll get you something,” she said.
She walked to the door.
Stopped.
Turned back.
Looked at the girl one more time.
At the torn dress.
The bare feet.
The face that had his jaw.
His eyes.
His particular stillness.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For coming.”
The girl looked at her.
“He needed the blood,” she said.
“Yes,” his wife said.
“But that’s not why I’m thanking you.”
She walked out.
The girl looked at the man in the bed.
He was watching his wife leave.
With an expression the machine couldn’t measure.
“She’s not angry,” the girl said.
“No,” he said.
“Are you surprised?” she said.
He looked at the girl.
At eleven years old.
Who had walked in here.
Expecting the worst.
And prepared for it.
“Yes,” he said.
“You shouldn’t be,” she said.
“Good people rarely are.”
Part 4
He called her mother that evening.
From the hospital bed.
The girl sat in the corner.
Listening.
