Viola McCoy
The clinic is quiet, save for the scratch of my pen against the ledger and the occasional beep from the front desk monitor. It’s the first morning I’ve felt a little less hollow. Not whole—but not crumbling either.
Until the bell rings.
I glance up, expecting an elderly patient or one of the nurses returning from break. But instead, I see a small figure standing in the doorway.
Big eyes. Light-up sneakers. Crayons tucked in the crook of one arm.
And dimples.
Missy.
My heart lodges in my throat. My grip tightens on the pen until it creaks.
She beams when she sees me. “It’s the pretty lady!”
Pretty lady.
The air whooshes out of me.
She skips toward the counter and before I can react, she’s already walked around and into the employee area, wrapping her arms around my legs.
“Pretty lady,” she says again, softer this time. “Where have you been?”
I can’t breathe. I don’t even know what to say.
Her voice is so sweet. So innocent.
I finally croak, “How… how are you here?”
She grin
