JACQUELINE
Amy blinked up at me, her lids heavy and slow, her little fingers curling tighter around the blanket. The meds were finally kicking in.
“Will you still be here when I wake up?” she asked, her voice soft and sticky with sleep.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to lie. Not to her.
“No,” I said gently, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. “But I’ll be at your house waiting to welcome you home.”
Her eyes lit up. “Okay,” she whispered, then turned her head toward Blair. “I like your new friend.”
Blair chuckled.
"Her name is Jacqueline." Blair grinned.
"But call me Jackie." I said to Amy, who nodded drowsily, her eyes beginning to flutter closed.
And for a moment, the room felt light. Like none of us had bleeding hearts or bruises, we were pretending not to notice.
When Amy finally drifted off, her tiny chest rising and falling with the kind of peace only children seemed to know, Blair stood and gathered a few things around the room. I gave her mom a small wave as
