Diane stared at me.
Then she started to laugh. Really laugh. In the back row of a hospital chapel at five in the morning, with tears all over her face.
So did I.
At 8:20, the doctor came out again.
“Her fever’s breaking,” she said. “Her pressure’s stabilizing. We’re not out of the woods. But she’s turning.”
Wyatt put his face in his notebook and shook.
Graham put his hand on the back of my son’s neck again.
This time, I didn’t feel cold when I saw it.
On Day Six, the nurses started making Harper write a sentence every four hours.
It’s a test, Wyatt explained. The new cells can affect the brain sometimes. Confusion. Trouble with words. If your handwriting changes, it’s an early sign.
Every four hours, a nurse handed Harper a clipboard and asked her to write the same sentence.
On Day Six, at noon, Harper wrote: My name is Harper Quinn and I am in Philadelphia.
