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Two bodies came in beneath white sheets.
Behind them was a tiny little girl strapped to a gurney, clutching a stuffed rabbit so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes moved frantically around the trauma bay like she was searching for someone who could rewind time.
Her parents had died before the ambulance even reached the hospital.
I was not supposed to stay with her. Nurses tried gently guiding her toward a quieter room while social services were called, but the second someone attempted to move her away from me, she grabbed my arm with both hands.
Hard.
“I’m Avery,” she whispered through trembling breaths. “Please don’t leave me. Please.”
I sat beside her for hours.
I found apple juice somewhere in pediatrics. Read her the same children’s book four times because she liked the ending. A little bear got lost and still found his way home in the end. Maybe she needed to believe people still could.
At one point she touched my hospital badge and looked up at me with swollen eyes.
“You’re the good one here.”
I had to step into the supply closet afterward because suddenly I couldn’t breathe correctly.
The next morning, social services arrived and asked if Avery knew any relatives.
Grandparents.
Aunts.
Uncles.
Anyone.
She shook her head.
She knew her stuffed rabbit’s name was Mr. Hopps. She knew her bedroom curtains had butterflies on them. But she did not know phone numbers or addresses.
Every time I stood up to leave the room, panic flashed across her face like her brain had already learned the cruelest lesson imaginable:
People leave.
Continued on the next page
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