“Nurse Ratchet? You would do that to me?”
Cassie cracks up, then stops herself. Ugh, ribs are theworst.
“Shouldn’t you be…I don’t know, resting? At least sitting down?”
“I was in bed for weeks, and I need to move around. It does suck, though, to be a PICU nurse with bruised ribs. Because you know what kids like to do?”
“Hug,” I say, knowing exactly where she’s going with it. “And they like to hug hard.”
“Yes, they do,” she says, taking a shallow breath. “You’d think my own rugrats would’ve prepared me for this, but no.”
“Seriously, do you need to sit down?” I pause before cracking up. “I just sounded like Kinley right there. She is so—”
“Bossy,” we say at the same time.
“Yes,” Cassie says. “She’s been nagging me ever since I fell. I should’ve never told her.”
“She means well, and she’s probably even right, but damn,” I say, leaning forward on my cane.
She looks at me and taps her chin. “Hey, are you up for some community outreach? They’re going to be a while with Lucy.”
“Sure.”
Cassie starts down the hallway marked South Wing, and I guess I’m meant to follow her, though getting out of this chair is a lot harder than getting into it.
“As long as there’s a place where you and I can sit down so Kinley doesn’t yell at us.”
She laughs and pauses, holding on to the wall. “Don’t make me laugh. It still hurts.”
“Absolutely. I shall be boring for the rest of the afternoon.”
She gives me a not-very-serious glare, and I follow her into a brightly colored space with Children’s Medical Center painted on a sign arching over the doorway. We enter a room labeled Activity Center, and despite the small size, it’s pretty well-appointed.
She lifts her chin toward a section of instruments hung on the wall, including an old beat-up guitar.
“Think you might be able to sing something kid appropriate?” she asks.
I hesitate, knowing my voice isn’t back in perfect form. Still, I don’t suppose it’d be so bad to perform a few simple songs in the children’s section of a hospital.
“Sure. One of my favorite things to do when I’m off the road is visit veterans and children in hospitals, and I’ve got a pretty decent family-friendly repertoire. Just know that I am still recovering, and my vocal control is iffy. Also, my emotional regulation is still not one hundred percent, so if they make fun of my voice, Iwillcry.”
I try to say it like a joke, but I don’t want to test that theory.
“I’ll make sure they don’t make fun of you,” she says, patting my arm.
The previously empty room suddenly becomes a busy place.
“It’s two o’clock playtime,” she explains.
One kid has absolutely no hair on his head, another has her arm in a sling, and one has both legs out in casts in a specialized sort of wheelchair.
“You’re Mackenzie Nash,” says the bald kid.
“I am. What’s your name?”
“My name is Joshua and this is Cara, and this is Thomas,” he says, pointing to the kid in the casts.
“Oh, dude, both legs? Did you fall on the ski hill too?” I ask, holding up my booted foot.
