Chapter 7
Remedy
Emergencies never cared how peaceful a morning had been.
They arrived without regard for children's laughter, Charlie's latest theories about singing to tomatoes, or the quiet satisfaction of watching Sunshine smile more during the past twenty-four hours than she had in weeks.
Harbor House had taught me that healing was never a destination you finally reached.
It was a choice people made over and over again, even on the days life interrupted before breakfast.
The pager vibrated against my belt just as I finished unloading the last basket of vegetables into the Harbor House pantry.
Possible concussion. New arrival. Front entrance.
I was already moving before the message finished scrolling across the screen, responding with the same instincts years of emergency medicine had carved into muscle memory.
The front hallway buzzed with controlled urgency by the time I reached it.
Melissa directed volunteers toward empty rooms while Bishop spoke quietly with one of the sheriff's deputies standing near the entrance.
The deputy looked exhausted, and a layer of dust coated the legs of his uniform, suggesting he had already spent hours searching rough back roads before finally bringing the family to Harbor House.
He removed his hat as I approached.
"You Remedy?"
"I am."
He extended his hand.
"Deputy Carson."
I shook it quickly.
"What've we got?"
He glanced toward the woman sitting on one of the benches.
"Anonymous tip."
His voice lowered.
"We found them in an abandoned hunting cabin about twenty miles north."
I followed his gaze.
A young woman sat with both arms wrapped tightly around a little boy no older than four. Beside them sat a girl of perhaps seven or eight, clutching a faded blue backpack against her chest as though someone might take it away.
Neither child spoke. The little girl's eyes followed every movement in the hallway with the quiet vigilance of someone already preparing for danger before it had a chance to arrive.
I recognized that expression immediately because I'd seen it far too many times in children who had learned that survival depended on noticing everything around them.
"How long were they there?"
Carson sighed.
"We're not sure."
He looked toward the woman.
"She won't let go of the boy."
"That's alright."
"We thought you'd know how to handle this."
I nodded once.
"Thank you for bringing them."
He hesitated.
"They've been through hell."
"I know."
I approached them slowly, not because I was concerned about treating the injuries, but because experience had taught me that trust almost always arrived before treatment. Until people believed they were safe, no amount of medicine could truly begin the healing process.
I crouched several feet away from the bench.
"Hi."
The woman looked up immediately.
Fear flashed across her face before exhaustion quickly replaced it.
"My name's Remedy."
She didn't answer.
"I help people here."
Still nothing.
The little girl shifted slightly closer to her mother.
Even at her young age, the little girl instinctively shifted closer to her mother, placing herself between the sleeping boy and anyone she didn't yet trust.
I kept my voice calm.
"You don't have to tell me anything today."
Her shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
"I'd just like to make sure everybody's alright."
The woman swallowed.
"My son..."
She looked down at the little boy sleeping against her chest.
"He fell."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
"Did he lose consciousness?"
"I..."
Her eyes filled with uncertainty.
"I don't know."
"It's okay."
I smiled gently.
"We'll figure it out together."
Behind me I heard quiet footsteps.
I didn't have to turn around to know Sunshine had arrived. She possessed a quiet gift for appearing exactly where she was needed, never rushing into difficult moments or demanding attention, but somehow always knowing when her presence might help carry a little of someone else's burden.
She knelt several feet away from the children, careful to leave plenty of space.
"Hi."
The little girl looked at her.
"My name's Sunshine."
Silence.
Then—
"I like your backpack."
The little girl's fingers tightened around the worn blue fabric.
"It has butterflies."
"It does."
"I used to have one with butterflies."
The girl blinked.
"You did?"
"I carried books in it."
Another pause.
"What books?"
Sunshine smiled.
"My favorite was Charlotte's Web."
The little girl's eyes dropped to her own backpack.
"I got..."
She hesitated.
"...one book."
"That's wonderful."
"It's my brother's favorite."
The little boy stirred but didn't wake.
Sunshine nodded.
"Would you show it to me sometime?"
The little girl gave the smallest nod, almost too subtle to notice, yet it was enough. In moments like these, trust rarely arrived all at once. It began with gestures so small most people would have missed them.
I watched the exchange quietly while checking the little boy's pupils.
Normal.
Pulse slightly elevated.
Likely dehydration.
Small bruise near his temple.
Nothing alarming, but worth monitoring.
As I worked, I couldn't help noticing something else.
The woman had stopped shaking.
She hadn't stopped shaking completely, but her breathing had steadied enough for the worst of the panic to loosen its grip.
It wasn't because of anything I had done.
Sunshine had quietly given her daughter something else to focus on besides fear, and in helping the little girl feel safe, she'd given the mother permission to breathe again.
An hour later the family had settled into one of the larger rooms overlooking the gardens.
The little boy slept peacefully after drinking nearly two cups of water.
The mother finally accepted a warm meal from Daisy.
The little girl sat beside the window reading aloud to Mr. Pickles.
Charlie had volunteered him for emotional support without asking anyone's permission.
He'd apparently accepted the position.
I finished updating the medical chart before stepping into the hallway.
Sunshine stood near the window looking out across the gardens.
Her shoulders were tense.
Too tense.
"You alright?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"I will be."
I stepped beside her.
Neither of us spoke for several moments.
The gardens stretched below us, bright with late morning sunlight.
Children's laughter drifted through the open window.
Safe.
Free.
Exactly the way it should be.
"I almost called her Emma."
The words were so quiet I almost missed them.
I turned toward her.
"The little girl."
She kept looking out the window.
"For just a second..."
She drew a slow breath.
"...I forgot where I was."
I didn't ask who Emma was.
I didn't ask why.
She wasn't ready.
Instead, I leaned one shoulder against the window frame beside her.
"She smiled because of you."
Sunshine closed her eyes.
"She smiled because Charlie shared Mr. Pickles."
"Maybe."
I smiled faintly.
"But she talked because of you."
A breeze carried the scent of lavender through the open window.
Sunshine finally looked at me.
"I couldn't save them."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Her eyes widened almost immediately, surprise flashing across her face as she realized she'd spoken the words aloud.
I could have rushed to reassure her or offered the familiar promises people reached for when they didn't know what else to say, but instinct told me to remain quiet.
Some truths were too fragile to interrupt the moment they finally found their voice.
Sometimes...
People needed the freedom to hear their own words.
She looked back toward the garden.
"There were children..."
Her voice trembled.
"...I promised I'd come back for."
My chest tightened.
Not because I finally understood.
Because I realized how much she'd been carrying alone.
She wasn't asking me to fix anything or offer forgiveness. For the first time since we'd met, she was simply allowing me to see the weight she'd been carrying alone, trusting me not to look away when it became too heavy to bear.
And somehow...
That felt like one of the greatest acts of trust she could have offered me.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
Outside the window, Charlie's laughter floated across the gardens.
She and Nathan had somehow convinced Steel to push both of them on the old tire swing hanging beneath the largest oak tree.
Steel protested loudly.
"I've got bad knees."
"You don't."
Charlie pushed against his leg.
"You just said that because you don't wanna get dizzy."
"I absolutely don't want to get dizzy."
Nathan looked up at him.
"I'll help."
Steel looked between the two children.
"I've somehow become outnumbered."
Charlie nodded.
"Yep."
Within seconds, Steel was pushing the swing while pretending to complain about every step.
The children squealed with delight.
Sunshine watched them for another moment before quietly wiping beneath one eye.
"I used to know every birthday."
I looked at her.
She didn't look back.
"Every favorite color."
She smiled sadly.
"Emma loved yellow."
A long pause.
"Oliver thought dinosaurs should be librarians."
Despite everything...
A small smile tugged at my own mouth.
"I can see that."
She laughed softly through her tears.
"He said libraries were quieter than museums."
"Smart kid."
"He was."
Another pause settled between us.
"Ellie hated thunderstorms."
Her fingers tightened around the windowsill.
"I used to sit outside her room."
"So, she knew somebody was there."
The words came out before I realized I'd spoken them.
She looked at me in surprise.
"How did you know?"
I shrugged lightly.
"Because that's what I would've done."
She stared at me for several long seconds.
Then nodded.
"I never wanted her to think she was alone."
Neither of us mentioned the fourth child.
Not yet.
I had a feeling there was a reason.
One she wasn't ready to carry out loud.
The hallway behind us remained unusually quiet.
Most of Harbor House had drifted outside to enjoy the warm afternoon.
Only the occasional footsteps echoed through the old farmhouse now.
Sunshine finally drew a long breath.
"I've never told anyone their names."
My eyes met hers.