His wife was attending a legal conference in Denver. She was returning in two days. Two days that now felt like a cruel delay in a story he refused to accept.
The door creaked open softly.
Brandon looked up, expecting a nurse. Instead, a little girl stepped into the room. She was about seven years old, wearing a worn blue school uniform and sneakers that had seen better days. Her brown hair was tied in a loose ponytail that kept slipping free. In her hands she carried a tiny plastic bottle painted gold.
“Who are you,” Brandon asked, confused and wary. “You cannot be in here.”
The girl did not answer immediately. She walked closer to the bed with steady determination, as if she had done this before. She climbed onto a small stool and looked down at Lucas with solemn eyes.
“I am going to help him,” she said. “Do not worry.”
Before Brandon could react, the girl uncapped the bottle and tipped a small stream of water onto Lucas’s forehead. Drops ran down his temple and soaked the pillowcase.
“Hey,” Brandon exclaimed, standing abruptly. He grabbed the bottle from her hands. “What are you doing. You cannot just walk in and pour things on my son.”