Ismell her before Mary says a word.
I’m in my office between patients, updating charts, when it drifts through the crack under my door. Faint at first. Then unmistakable.
Honey and citrus.
My pen stops. My breath catches.
She’s here. After ten years, she’s here, and I’m frozen at my desk like I’m eighteen again.
The memory surfaces before I can stop it.
Ten years old. Walking home the long way because Tommy Reese called me a nerd and I don’t want to pass his house.
There’s a girl by the creek.
I know her. Not personally, but I’ve noticed her. Hard not to. She’s in Mrs. Henderson’s class, always surrounded by people, always laughing. She gives her apple to Ben Wilson every day because he’s always hungry. She talks to the shy kids when no one else does.
She’s not laughing now.
She’s kneeling in the mud, school clothes ruined, cradling something small and brown in her hands. A bird. Its wing is bent wrong.
I should keep walking. I’m not good at this. I never know what to say to crying people. I never know what to say to anyone, really.
But she’s talking to it. Soft words I can barely hear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”
She knows it’s not okay. She has to know. Even I can see the bird is dying.
But she’s saying it anyway. Kneeling in the mud for a bird that can’t be saved.
Something in my chest cracks open.
I walk over and kneel down next to her, mud soaking through my jeans immediately.
She looks up, startled. Her cheeks are wet.
“I found a bird,” she says. “I think it’s hurt.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
I should say something helpful. I’m supposed to be the smart one. But all I can think is that she’s beautiful, even with mud on her knees and tears on her face.
“Maybe we can find a box,” I hear myself say. “Keep it warm.”
Her whole face changes. Like I’ve given her something precious.
“You think that’ll help?”
No. Probably not.
“It might.”
We spend an hour trying to save it. Find a shoebox. Line it with tissues. I hold the bottle cap while she tries to get the bird to drink.
It dies in her hands anyway. She cries harder, and I feel useless.
“I wanted to help,” she whispers.
