“Not dead. Obviously,” she said, stretching as she rose. “But you need to eat before school. We’ll talk about what we’re going to do when you get home.”
“I could stay with you?—”
“And get behind in mathematics? I think not.” She shooed him along. “Wash your hands, and I’ll be right out.”
“I’m almost ten, not five,” Gilbert answered from the kitchen.
“And you still forget to wash your hands.”
Reluctant to leave her patient alone, but needing to start herday, Daisy stared down at the man’s face—at his thick lashes, his forehead, his lips. She’d washed away a good amount of dirt, but even with the lower half hidden behind his beard, something scratched at the back of her mind.
He was resting, his eyes closed once more, laying perfectly still.
Too still?
Please live.
It was the same thought that had echoed over and over in her head for most of the night—that had kept her spooning liquid into his mouth. It had prevented her from leaving him alone for more than a few minutes.
He was a person who, for reasons unknown, had been brought to her by angels, the universe, or… fate?
He was wholly dependent on her—a perfect stranger.
Please live.
He made no sound. No movement.
Nothing.
Daisy held her breath, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Only when she was certain his breaths weren’t labored did she stretch her shoulders, exhaling slowly. She needed to get Gilbert off to school and package the batch of soap she’d mixed the day before.
With a careful glance at the unconscious man, she reached over him, grabbing a loaf of linen-wrapped bread and the jar of butter before making her way into the kitchen.
Gilbert sat at the table, a book spread open before him, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“We didn’t have a proper supper last night, Gil.” Daisy cut into the bread. “I imagine you’re near starving this morning.”
He glanced up, but instead of answering, he asked, “Why would the police beat that man up?”
Daisy stilled, her fingers tightening around the knife. It was the same question that had plagued her for half the night.
Gilbert, at the tender age of nine, had seen too much—lost too much. As a result, he was not ignorant as to the cruelties life could serve up.
“Do you think he’s a criminal?” he pressed. Then his eyes widened with realization. “He could be a murderer!”
Daisy sighed. “We don’t know anything for certain, Gil.”
Last night, she had explained the little she knew—what she’d seen, what she’d overheard, and why they couldn’t leave the man to die. Because although she was his older sister and guardian, she and Gilbert were a team, and he understood the importance of keeping their garden a secret.
Living in the city had taught her quickly—any protected space was vulnerable. To vandals. Vagrants. Or worse.
Her growing space was too important to risk.
But above all else, Daisy would have Gilbert understand one thing.
Life had value.
