“Daddy,” she whispered when she noticed him. “Why can’t I feel my legs?”
Michael sat beside her bed, forcing his voice to remain steady even as his chest tightened. “The doctors say they need time to heal,” he replied, choosing words that sounded hopeful even though he was not sure he believed them himself. “We are going to be patient together.”
The wheelchair stood folded against the wall, partially hidden behind a curtain, but Rebecca had already seen it. Her eyes drifted toward it again and again, each glance carving something deeper into Michael’s heart.
It was hours later, long after visiting time should have ended, when Michael noticed that he was not alone in the hallway. A boy sat several seats away, thin and quiet, his attention fixed on a small stack of colored paper resting on his knees. He folded slowly, carefully, as though each crease mattered. There was something oddly calming about watching his hands move.
Eventually, the boy stood and approached him.
“Sir,” the boy said softly, “is the girl in room three your daughter?”
Michael nodded, surprised. “Yes. Why?”