At the elevator, Kenneth touched my elbow gently.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
He nodded. “That’s a reasonable answer.”
I looked down the pediatric corridor, at the nurses’ station where my colleagues were pretending not to watch too obviously.
“I need ten minutes,” I said. “Then I’ll go back to work.”
“Kirsten.”
I met his eyes.
“You don’t have to prove you’re strong by pretending this didn’t happen.”
The words nearly undid me.
Because that was exactly what I had been about to do.
Chart notes. Staff meeting. Patient rounds. Smile. Wash hands. Keep moving.
I had built survival out of competence. It had worked, mostly.
But this was not an ordinary wound.
“I don’t know how to be anything else right now,” I admitted.
Kenneth’s expression softened. “Then be exactly that until you can be something else.”
The elevator doors opened.
Connor stepped inside without looking back.
Melinda paused.
For one fragile second, she and I stood facing each other with Elliot between us.
“I’ll send everything,” she whispered.
I nodded.
“And Kirsten?”
I waited.
“He laughs like you.”
The sentence struck me in a place no legal filing could reach.
Melinda’s eyes filled again.
“I didn’t understand why at first,” she said. “He has this little half laugh, like he’s trying not to smile too much. Connor said I was imagining it.”
I could not speak.
The elevator doors began to close.
Connor reached out impatiently and pressed the button.
Melinda stepped inside.
Elliot looked over her shoulder at me, wide-eyed and solemn, his stuffed giraffe tucked under one arm.
Then the doors shut.
I stood there long after they were gone.
That evening, rain started just as my shift ended.
It came down in fine silver lines against the hospital windows, turning the parking lot lights blurry and soft. I sat in my office with the door closed, still wearing my lab coat, the filing summary spread across my desk.
I had treated four patients after Connor left.
A toddler with asthma.
A six-year-old with a stubborn fever.
A teenager recovering from appendicitis who wanted to know if his scar would look “cool.”
A newborn whose mother cried from exhaustion and relief when I told her the test results were normal.
I had spoken gently. Listened carefully. Washed my hands between rooms. Smiled when needed.
