“Every little bit adds up, Arthur,” she said, her words coming out quick and sharp. “Especially with the sixty-dollar co-pay we just had to hand over at the desk.”
I looked back at the dark lens of the camera, a cold circle of glass reflecting nothing but the gray kitchen light.
“I suppose you are right,” I said.
Hazel did not make a sound, her eyes fixed on the empty space between her sneakers.
The hum of the refrigerator seemed louder in the silence that followed. I picked up the blue folder and tucked it under my arm, wanting to get Hazel out of the kitchen before the soup on the stove started to burn.
By four o’clock, the wind had picked up, rattling the loose pane in the living room window. Hazel was still sitting in the stiff wooden chair by the television, her hands folded in her lap.
“Let us get you on the sofa, honey,” I said, stepping closer to her.
I reached down to slide my hands under her arms, but before I could lift her, Gwen came into the room carrying a heavy wool blanket.
Hazel flinched, her entire upper body jerking back against the wooden slats of the chair.
Gwen stopped, a quick, bright smile appearing on her face as she stepped forward and draped the wool over Hazel’s knees.
“Here we go,” Gwen said, tucking the edges tightly around Hazel’s small legs. “Nice and warm.”
Hazel stayed completely rigid, her shoulders pinned back, her eyes staring straight ahead at the blank television screen.
“Are you hurting, Hazel?” I asked, leaning down to look into her face.
“No,” Hazel said, her voice barely a whisper.
“She is just tired from the clinic ride, Arthur,” Gwen said, turning back toward the hallway.
I watched Gwen walk away, her heels clicking against the oak floorboards. Hazel did not relax, her hands gripping the edges of the blanket so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Do you want some soup?” I asked.
Hazel shook her head once, her eyes still fixed on the wall.
“I will be right outside on the porch if you need me,” I said, but she did not look at me.
I stepped out onto the gravel driveway, the cold autumn air settling deep into my collar.
Roy, our neighbor from across the fence, was leaning against his red pickup truck, holding a plastic bag of raked leaves.
“How is the little girl doing, Arthur?” Roy asked, his voice low and steady
“She is recovering,” I said, leaning against the fence post. “The doctors say the next few weeks are the most critical for the stitches inside.”
Roy nodded, looking down at his boots for a moment before he spoke again.
“I heard some loud noises coming from your place yesterday afternoon,” Roy said. “Sounded like someone dropping a heavy box or some furniture shifting around three o’clock.”
I thought about the timeline, remembering that I had been three miles out in the southern township, surveying a county line.
“It was probably just Hazel dropping her heavy schoolbooks,” I said. “She has been a bit clumsy since the anesthesia.”
“Must have been a lot of books,” Roy said, turning back toward his yard.
I walked back up the driveway, the house looking quiet from the outside, the curtains drawn tight in the living room window.
I stood by the truck for five minutes, listening to the hum of the distant highway.
The clock on the wall of the pediatric clinic lobby showed exactly nine in the morning when we walked through the glass doors the next day.
Gwen had stayed behind in the passenger seat of our sedan, saying she had a headache from the glare on the highway.
Hazel walked slowly beside me, her small hand reaching out to take a grip on my sleeve.
She used only two fingers, pinching the fabric of my heavy work coat just above the wrist.
Nurse Evelyn Pierce came out of the back hallway, holding a metal clipboard.
She stopped in front of us, her pen tapping three times against the edge of the board.
“Good morning, Hazel,” Evelyn said, her voice calm and direct. “Let us take a look at how that healing is coming along.”
Hazel did not answer, her eyes dropping down to the yellow linoleum floor.
“She has been very quiet since we got home,” I said, looking down at the top of my daughter’s head.
Evelyn tapped her pen again, three quick strikes against the metal.
“Is everything going smoothly at home, Arthur?” she asked, her eyes moving from me to Hazel.
“Yes,” I said, though my fingers went to my wedding band, twisting the metal around my knuckle. “Gwen has been keeping her rested.”
Hazel’s grip on my sleeve tightened, her two fingers pinching the fabric until I could feel the pressure against my skin.
“We will need to do a full physical evaluation today,” Evelyn said, gesturing toward the inner hallway.
I looked down at Hazel, but she remained silent, her small fingers still clutching my cuff.
The morning light did not help the look of the kitchen when I came downstairs at eleven. On the edge of the laminate counter sat a blue stoneware bowl, tilted slightly so that a thin crust of dried chicken broth clung to the outer rim. Next to it, the trash can lid was slightly ajar, exposing a crumpled white slip of paper right at the top of the heap.
