Chapter 1 #4
Several women stood frozen outside one of the bedrooms, uncertainty written across every face. Nobody wanted to make things worse, but nobody wanted to leave the young woman alone either.
I slowed before entering.
Never rush someone already trapped inside their own panic.
The room looked as though a tornado had passed through it.
A bedside lamp lay shattered across the floor.
Blankets had been thrown into one corner.
An IV line hung loose where it had been ripped free, bright spots of blood staining the tape still clinging to the woman's forearm.
She sat on the floor against the far wall with her knees pulled tightly to her chest.
Sunshine sat several feet away.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
Simply sitting.
Her voice remained soft and even.
"That's it."
She breathed slowly.
"In through your nose."
Out.
"You're doing so well."
The young woman's breathing hitched again.
"I can't..."
"Yes, you can."
Sunshine never looked away from her.
"I'm right here."
Only then did Sunshine glance toward me.
Not startled.
Not relieved.
Just acknowledging I'd arrived.
She gave one tiny nod.
Almost imperceptible.
I understood immediately.
Don't rush.
Don't crowd.
She's almost there.
Without speaking, I lowered myself onto one knee several feet from both of them.
"My name's Remedy."
The woman squeezed her eyes shut.
"I know."
"Would it be alright if I stayed here?"
She hesitated before giving the smallest nod.
"I won't touch you unless you ask me to."
Her breathing remained ragged.
Sunshine quietly continued matching each breath with her own.
Eventually...
The woman unconsciously began matching Sunshine's rhythm instead.
Once her breathing slowed enough to think clearly again, I spoke.
"Melissa told me your arm is hurting."
The woman looked down.
Only then did she seem to realize blood covered part of her sleeve.
"I can fix that."
She didn't answer.
"You get to decide."
Another long silence.
Then...
"Okay."
I smiled gently.
"Thank you for trusting me."
Only then did I move closer.
As I carefully cleaned the reopened wound, Sunshine remained exactly where she was, still talking softly about the sunrise outside, birds in the garden, breakfast downstairs—ordinary things.
By the time I finished placing fresh stitches...
The woman's hands had stopped shaking.
She looked from me...
To Sunshine...
Then whispered something so quietly I almost missed it.
"I thought nobody was coming."
Sunshine reached over and covered the woman's hand with her own.
"We'll always come."
I looked at Sunshine.
She looked back at me.
Neither of us smiled.
Neither of us needed to.
For the first time, I realized something I'd somehow missed all these months.
I knew how to stop bleeding.
She knew how to stop people from believing they were alone.
Together...
Without ever planning it...
We'd done both.
Melissa quietly remained with the young woman while Sunshine promised to bring breakfast upstairs once everyone had settled. I gave the woman one final smile before gathering my supplies and stepping back into the hallway.
The house already sounded different.
Not quiet.
Harbor House was rarely quiet.
But calmer.
The panic that had echoed through the halls only minutes earlier had softened into murmured conversations, creaking floorboards, and the familiar sounds of morning beginning again.
Somewhere downstairs someone laughed, and for reasons I couldn't explain, hearing laughter inside these walls never stopped feeling like a small miracle.
"Room Four," Melissa reminded me.
I nodded.
"I know."
Mr. Dawson had likely spent the last ten minutes arguing with anyone unfortunate enough to walk into his room.
Sure enough, before I even reached his doorway, I heard his voice.
"I'm telling all of you, there is absolutely nothing wrong with me."
"You said your chest hurt."
"It doesn't anymore."
"Five minutes ago you said it felt like an elephant was sitting on you."
"Well, the elephant left."
I stepped into the room just as Bishop leaned comfortably against the window with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand.
Without looking at me, he smiled.
"Told you he'd say the elephant moved."
Mr. Dawson pointed dramatically toward me.
"Finally. Somebody with common sense."
"I'm flattered you think that's me."
"You'll tell these people I'm fine."
I set my medical bag on the chair beside the bed.
"I'll tell them after I examine you."
"I've been examined enough."
"You've also ignored half my advice this month."
"I prefer to think of it as selective listening."
Bishop chuckled into his coffee.
"That's a polite way of saying stubborn."
"I survived Vietnam."
Mr. Dawson crossed his arms.
"I think I can survive one little chest pain."
"Probably."
I pulled my stethoscope from around my neck.
"But I'd rather not test the theory."
His grumbling continued the entire time I checked his heart and lungs, attached the blood pressure cuff, and clipped the pulse oximeter onto his finger.
"You know these machines always make my blood pressure go up."
"That's because you complain the entire time."
"They're uncomfortable."
"They inflate for fifteen seconds."
"It feels longer."
Bishop finally took pity on both of us.
"You know Charlie would be disappointed if you skipped pancake day next week."
Mr. Dawson immediately frowned.
"That little girl's got enough people worrying about me."
"Apparently not."
I looked over the monitor.
Blood pressure still elevated.
Pulse settling.
Chest pain almost completely gone.
Stress.
Too much excitement.
Too much panic echoing through the house.
"You scared us."
Mr. Dawson looked away.
"I know."
His voice lost its usual sarcasm.
"When everybody started screaming..."
He swallowed.
"I was back there again."
Bishop's smile disappeared.
"So was I."
Silence settled over the room.
Neither of them needed to explain where "there" was.
War had many names.
None of them ever truly left.
I pulled the chair a little closer to the bed.
"You want the good news?"
Mr. Dawson sighed.
"Depends."
"I don't think you're having a heart attack."
"I already knew that."
"I do think your heart is reminding you that eighty-two-year-old men shouldn't pretend they're forty."
He looked offended.
"I was thinking fifty."
"I'll compromise at sixty-five."
Bishop laughed.
"I'd take that deal."
Mr. Dawson pointed toward him.
"I liked you better before you started agreeing with the doctor."
"You've never liked me."
"I tolerate you."
"You tolerate everybody."
"Not everybody."
He looked toward me.
"I like Charlie."
I smiled despite myself.
"Most people do."
"She still bringing pancakes next Tuesday?"
"If you'll promise not to scare me like this again."
He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
"I'll consider it."
"No."
I folded my arms.
"You'll promise."
He pretended to think.
"Fine."
"Good."
"But only because she puts too much syrup on mine."
"That's the only reason?"
"Absolutely."
I packed away the monitor while Bishop quietly set a fresh mug of coffee on the bedside table.
Neither of us mentioned who had made it.
Neither of us had to.
Sometimes caring for people looked like oxygen monitors and blood pressure cuffs. Other times it looked like a mug of coffee waiting exactly the way someone liked it before they even realized they wanted one.
As Bishop and I stepped into the hallway together, he looked toward the room where Sunshine remained speaking quietly with the young woman.
"You two make a good team."
I followed his gaze.
"We do?"
"You don't even realize you're doing it."
I frowned.
"Doing what?"
He smiled the way only Bishop could.
"You heal different parts of the same wound."
Before I could ask what he meant, he simply walked toward the stairs, leaving me standing alone in the hallway watching Sunshine gently laugh at something the young woman had whispered.
I wasn't entirely sure Bishop was wrong.
I had barely taken three steps down the hallway when a sharp crash echoed from somewhere downstairs.
Not loud.
Just loud enough to make everyone stop talking.
Melissa looked toward the staircase.
"I've got it."
Before she could move, Bishop gently rested a hand against her shoulder.
"I'll check."
I was already following him.
The first floor had begun filling with the quiet rhythm of breakfast. Volunteers carried trays toward the dining room while several women slowly gathered around the large farmhouse table. For a brief moment, everything appeared perfectly normal.
Then I saw him.
A ceramic coffee mug lay shattered across the hardwood floor.
Several feet away stood a man in his mid-thirties, breathing so hard his chest barely seemed capable of keeping up. His shoulders were rigid beneath a faded gray sweatshirt, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
Corporal Ethan Walker.
He wasn't looking at the broken mug.
He wasn't looking at anyone.
He was looking through the front window toward the tree line beyond Harbor House.
Sweat rolled down the side of his face.
His breathing became faster.
More shallow.
"Incoming..."
The words barely left his mouth.
"Bishop."
I didn't need to say anything else.
He understood immediately.
Neither of us rushed forward.
Combat veterans rarely responded well to feeling cornered.
Instead, Bishop slowly walked into Ethan's field of vision while I remained several feet to the side.
"Ethan."
No response.
"Ethan."
Nothing.
His breathing continued accelerating.
"I know where you are."
Bishop's voice remained calm.
"I need you to find my voice."
For several long seconds nothing changed.
Then...
Very slightly...
Ethan's eyes shifted.
Not to Bishop.
Toward him.
"That's it."
Bishop nodded.
"You're doing fine."
I quietly picked up a nearby chair and sat down rather than remaining on my feet.
People standing over someone often made panic worse.
Especially for soldiers.
"Ethan."
I spoke softly.
"Look at my boots."
He didn't.
Not immediately.
Then...
His eyes slowly lowered.
"There you go."
I rested my forearms across my knees.
"What color are they?"
Silence.
"What color?"
His lips parted.
"Black."
"Good."
"What color is the floor?"
He blinked.
"...Brown."