The next morning, I went to the hospital.
The burn on my leg had begun to fester.
The doctor frowned as he cleaned the wound, his tone half reproach, half
pity.
“How did you get burned like this? Where’s your family?”
“I don’t have family,” I said softly.
He didn’t ask again—only sighed.
Laughter drifted from the next examination room.
“That girl only burned her wrist a little,” a nurse said between
giggles,
“and her boyfriend rushed here in the middle of the night—dragged the
hospital director out of bed, demanding compensation.”
“Tch. Rich people,” the doctor muttered, shaking his head.
“But that girl’s lucky,” the nurse replied. “At least someone cares.”
I lowered my eyes, the corners of my lips barely moving.
Yes. Being cared for is a kind of luck.
Mine, though, had run out five years ago—
the night of that operation.
After the bandages were done, I sat alone on the bench.
Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the world outside.
Then, from the end of the hallway, I heard a voice—
low, familiar, and unmistakable.
“Me?”
I looked up.
Lucas was standing there, Kendall’s hand in his.
She was wearing a pale pink coat, her eyes bright—like the whole world
belonged to her.