Chapter One

River

Angelica’s mother picks the dragon book again, even though I’m pretty sure the kid has heard it enough times to recite the whole thing in her sleep if she ever opens her eyes. I don’t say that, obviously. I’m not an asshole all the time.

I settle into the chair beside Angelica’s bed and read about a girl who refuses to leave a dragon trapped in a cave just because everybody in her village decided monsters aren’t worth saving. Angelica’s mother stands near the window with both hands wrapped around a coffee cup that stopped steaming before I arrived. She watches her daughter instead of me, which is how it should be. I’m not here to become important. I’m here to fill some of the silence without demanding anything back.

When I finish, I close the book and set it on the rolling table. “Same time Thursday?”

“If your classes let you.”

“My classes have never let me do anything. I ignore them and come anyway.”

Her smile is small and tired. “You’re good with her.”

“I read out loud and insult fictional villagers.”

“You show up.”

The words land harder than they should. I stand before my face can do something stupid and emotional in front of a woman who has enough to carry.

Lora waits outside with a clipboard against her chest. “Brody next. His dad approved another space story, but maybe don’t destroy Earth this time.”

“That happened once.”

“You killed the moon too.”

“The moon made a brave and necessary sacrifice.”

“You wrote the story.”

“Which means I know its intentions.”

She shakes her head and walks with me toward the volunteer desk. St. Mary’s smells like sanitizer, burnt coffee, and whatever they’re serving downstairs that’s pretending to be soup. I’ve volunteered here for almost three years. I started because medical schools like applicants who can prove they care about people, which is a cynical reason dressed in a respectable shirt. I stayed because the first kid I read to squeezed his mom’s hand after weeks of nothing, and even though the doctors warned everyone not to build a miracle out of one movement, his mom smiled for the first time since I met her.

The hospital has a way of making ordinary things feel enormous. A hand moving. A set of eyes opening. A person showing up again when they promised they would.

Susan, the volunteer coordinator, waves me over before I can reach Brody’s room. “I need to ask you about another trial visit.”

“I’m already carrying two regular assignments.”

“I know. This one would be quiet companionship twice a week, thirty minutes at a time. The patient transferred out of acute care and doesn’t have a consistent visitor yet. You’re good at talking without requiring somebody to answer.”

“That sounded almost like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

She turns the clipboard toward me. Chevelle Daniels is printed near the top with the room number, approved activities, and a list of things volunteers aren’t allowed to do, as if some of us need a written reminder not to touch medical equipment or interrogate nurses for information.

I should say no. The answer is clear enough that I feel it before I decide anything. I’m already stretched thin between CMU, the bank, Angelica, Brody, and the hours I keep pretending sleep can borrow from tomorrow. Taking another assignment is a bad idea for practical reasons alone. I check the printed schedule against my phone and find a place for the two weekly visits without moving Angelica or Brody. It means one earlier morning and one later afternoon. Both are manageable if I stop pretending midnight is a reasonable study hour. “Has anybody taken the first visit?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

“I can do it after Brody.”

Susan watches me for a second. “One trial visit. If the team says the stimulation is too much, you stop. If family asks for privacy, you stop. You don’t ask for test results, you don’t read anything on the chart, and you don’t decide one movement means awareness.”

“I know.”

“That phrase worries me when you say it.”

I sign anyway.

Brody gets his space story first. His dad is asleep in the corner with his boots stretched into the aisle, so I keep my voice low while a kid with a stolen ship gets lost near a planet nobody bothered to map. Brody’s eyes stay closed. His fingers don’t move. I finish the chapter, leave the next one for Thursday, and tell his dad goodbye even though he never wakes.

Chevelle’s room is quieter than Angelica’s and darker than Brody’s. The blinds are open just enough to put pale stripes across the floor. Machines hum without urgency. A television hangs black on the wall. She lies beneath a white blanket with her head turned slightly toward the window, her hair loose against the pillow and her face thinner than it should be on somebody this young. I stop at the threshold.

Lora adjusts a pillow near Chevelle’s shoulder. “You can come in. Keep your voice low. She has sleep and wake cycles, but the team hasn’t established reliable awareness.”

“Does she react to anything?”

“Sometimes sound. Sometimes movement. Sometimes nothing. Don’t turn a twitch into a promise.”

“I won’t.”

She gives me a look that says she has met men before and therefore knows better than to trust confidence delivered that quickly. There’s a paperback on the shelf with a bright cover and a woman holding a sword. I pick it because choosing my own book would feel too deliberate. Then I sit in the chair far enough from the bed that nobody could mistake me for family. “Hey, Chevelle,” I say. “I’m River. Volunteer Services decided you needed somebody to annoy you with books.” Nothing changes.

I open to the first page and discover the heroine describing her own eyes in a mirror. By page three, the villain has laughed darkly twice and announced a plan nobody with working judgment would say aloud. I keep reading because bad writing is still sound, and sound is better than a room asking nothing from her except survival. Half an hour later, Lora appears at the door and points toward the clock. I close the book. “I’m supposed to stop now,” I tell Chevelle. “Apparently rules continue existing even when the book is this bad.” Her face stays still.

I set the paperback back on the shelf, then change my mind and place it on the rolling table where I can reach it next time.

Lora catches me near the elevator. “You took that one hard.”

“She’s young.”

“So are Angelica and Brody.”

“I know.”

She studies me, but she doesn’t push. “Don’t make promises she didn’t ask for.”

“I didn’t.”

“You told her next time without actually saying next time.”

The elevator opens before I have to answer. I step inside and press the lobby button. I make it through the bank shift, finish a discussion post for class, and ignore three messages from Jack before driving to his rental after dark. Fynn’s car is already in the dirt beside the driveway. Jack opens the door before I knock.

“You look like shit.”

“You always know how to make a person feel welcome.”

“I save warmth for people who answer their phones.”

Fynn is on the couch eating cereal from a mixing bowl. He lifts the spoon. “There’s pizza, but Jack ordered mushrooms, so legally it’s yard waste.”

“I didn’t come for food.”

Jack steps aside anyway. “Then you came because you did something stupid.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

I sit in the chair across from them and tell Jack I took another hospital assignment. He asks the name. I give it to him.

“You should back out,” he says.

Fynn looks between us with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “That was fast. Do we hate Chevelle?”

“No,” Jack says. “We hate River’s schedule.”

“That’s fair. His schedule has always been hostile.”

Jack ignores him. His attention stays on me. “You already have two patients, school, and the bank. You don’t need another room to build your whole week around.”

“It’s two half-hour visits.”

“You never do anything halfway when you decide it matters.”

Fynn points his spoon at Jack. “That’s unfair. He half-asses sleep, vegetables, and emotional communication.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome.”

Jack reaches for the pizza box and closes it before Fynn can take another piece. “Keep it inside the volunteer lines. Sit in the chair. Read the book. Leave when the visit ends. Don’t start skipping labs because you think a hospital hallway is a better use of your time.”

“I know how to volunteer.”

“You also know how to turn one commitment into six.”

“That’s called work ethic.”

“That’s called why you look forty at twenty-four.”

Fynn studies me. “I was going to say thirty-seven.”

“Both of you can go to hell.”

The conversation moves to whether Jack is still banned from ordering pizza after the mushroom decision. Fynn argues that mushrooms aren’t food. Jack argues that cereal eaten from a mixing bowl removes Fynn’s right to judge anyone. I eat two slices and let their noise scrape the hospital quiet out of my head.

Before I leave, Jack points at me with the television remote. “Class tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“Bank after.”

“Still aware.”

“Then hospital on the scheduled day. Not every time you get restless.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“Nobody would take that job.”

I go home, set my alarm, and put the terrible fantasy paperback beside my backpack so I don’t forget it Thursday.