She sat with me. brought her apple juice in a pediatrics-stored sippy cup. She insisted that I read a novel about a bear who got lost on his way home three times because it had a happy conclusion, and perhaps she wanted to know that happy endings were still possible.
“You’re the good one here,” she added, touching my hospital badge. I had to excuse myself to the supply closet to catch my breath.My name is Avery. I’m afraid.
Please don’t walk away from me.
Please.
The following morning, social services showed up. A caseworker inquired if Avery knew any relatives, including grandparents, aunts, uncles, and others.
Avery gave a headshake. She was clueless about addresses and phone numbers. She was aware that her bedroom curtains were pink with butterflies and that her teddy rabbit was named Mr. Hopps.
She was also aware that she wanted me to remain.
She was clueless about addresses and phone numbers.
Her face would flash with dread each time I attempted to leave. It was as though her brain had learnt in a single, terrible moment that occasionally people depart and never return.
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