Avery had probably heard stranger sentences in her career.
But maybe not many.
A nurse came to the doorway.
“She’s asking for the big dog.”
Dana sighed.
Avery blinked.
“The pitbull?”
“The guardian angel,” Dana said dryly.
Avery pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Tell me he’s outside.”
“He is.”
“And not, by some administrative nightmare, in a pediatric trauma room?”
“He’s in the hallway,” Dana said. “For now.”
Avery lowered her hand.
Then she looked at Mike.
“Can he be handled?”
Mike stared at her.
“He can be respected.”
Avery held his gaze for a beat.
Then nodded.
“Good enough.”
Mia was perched on the edge of a hospital bed in borrowed pink sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt with cartoon stars on it.
The clothes didn’t fit.
Nothing that night fit.
Not the room.
Not the questions.
Not the fact that she was safer under fluorescent lights with strangers than she had been in her own bedroom.
When Goliath appeared in the doorway with Dana’s hand resting lightly on his collar, the whole shape of Mia changed.
Her shoulders dropped.
Her breathing slowed.
Her eyes focused.
It was the first truly childlike look on her face since Mike had opened that shed door.
Goliath crossed the room with exaggerated care.
He circled once.
Then lowered himself beside the bed and rested his square head on the mattress.
Mia touched the scar over one eyebrow.
“Did somebody hurt you too?” she whispered.
The nurse at the monitor looked away.
Dana looked at the floor.
Mike, standing in the doorway because he suddenly didn’t trust himself to get any closer, felt his throat close.
Children recognized each other’s wounds even when they couldn’t name them.
Mia slid down until she was curled on her side, one hand still in Goliath’s fur.
Avery sat in the chair by the wall, legal pad balanced on one knee.
