Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 60978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
She continued down the hall, and I returned to my work. This was temporary. Just part of getting back to real life. I’d survived worse.
I finished the floor and wheeled my bucket toward the supply closet. Three months down, three to go. Then I could put this behind me, along with prison and the man I’d been there. At least I had things planned that way. Whether or not life threw me another curve ball remained to be seen.
When I heard heartbreaking sobs echoing down the hallway, I saw the curve ball coming. I was just too Goddamned stupid to get out of the fucking way. Oh no. I walked straight toward it.
The soft crying cut through the silence of the pediatric wing like a blade. Sharp, gasping little cries raised the hair on the back of my neck. I had finished mopping the east corridor and was returning the cleaning supplies and I knew I needed to ignore it. Not my kid, not my problem. The nurses were paid to handle this stuff and did it way the fuck better than I ever could. But my feet stopped moving of their own accord, and I found myself standing in front of room 416.
The door was partially open, a thin rectangle of light spilling into the dimmed hallway. Getting involved with patients was definitely not in my community service description. If anything, the hospital administration had made it clear they preferred I stayed as invisible as possible.
The crying continued, punctuated by hiccupping breaths. Where the hell were the nurses? I glanced toward the station, but it was temporarily empty, the staff likely busy with other patients. The crying intensified, twisting something inside my chest.
“Ah, fuck it,” I muttered under my breath. Just a quick check to make sure the kid hadn’t fallen or anything, then I would find a nurse.
I pushed the door open wider, peering inside. I knew security cameras pointed at the door inside a patient’s room where the visitor’s chairs lined the wall. As long as I stayed near the wall, security could see my every move. With pediatric rooms, they often had cameras positioned to be able to see the child’s bed if both the curtain and the door were open. Which would work in my favor if I scared the child worse.
The small figure in the bed almost disappeared among the white sheets and blankets. A little girl, maybe five or six years old, curled into herself. Her right arm was encased in a bright pink cast that looked enormous against her tiny frame. Her left thumb was firmly planted in her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she stared at the blank television screen on the wall.
When she noticed me in the doorway, her crying paused momentarily. Wide eyes, wet with tears, she assessed me from beneath a fringe of light brown hair. She didn’t seem frightened by my appearance, just curious through her misery. Before I’d gone to prison, I’d had tattoos, and I’d gained several more in the years since. While I didn’t look as hard and frightening to a kid as some of my brothers, I didn’t have the same good looks I had when I was the hot up and coming star.
“Where’s my mommy?” Her voice was small and raw from crying, the question hitting me with unexpected force.
I looked around the room, noting its emptiness. No jacket draped over the visitor chair, no purse tucked in the corner, no half-drunk coffee on the side table. Just medical equipment, beeping softly, and the sterile hospital furnishings. The absence felt wrong, like a puzzle with a crucial piece missing.
“I, uh, I don’t know, kid.” I stepped fully into the room, feeling oversized and out of place. My boots seemed too loud on the linoleum floor. “You want me to find a nurse?”
Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “No. The nurse said Mommy had to go talk to people. But she’s been gone so long. My mommy wouldn’t leave me alone at night. She always sings me to sleep. No matter what.” Her lower lip trembled, and she clutched a threadbare stuffed rabbit closer with her good arm.
I stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed, unsure what to do. I’d seen the same anxiety in the faces of most of the kids who came through Haven with mothers who’d been beaten down by life in one form or another. But something about this little girl’s distress pulled at me, making it impossible to simply walk away.
“What’s your name?” I asked, moving a step closer.
“Lily,” she whispered around her thumb.
“I’m Cash.”
She sniffled, studying me with surprisingly direct eyes for a child her age. “Why do you have pictures on your neck?”
Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. “They’re called tattoos. Got a bunch of them.” I tapped my covered arms. “All over.”