Chapter 4
Navy man stayed by EMERGENCY doors. Red light washed over camouflage. Glass doors reflected fluorescent ceiling. His boots didn't move.
I lay under light blue blanket. Nasal cannula hissed against my nose. Right hand held two fingers up. Fingers trembled. Left arm stretched toward nurse. Palm ached where her gloved hand held it.
Nurse stood beside my bed. Navy scrubs pulled tight at shoulders. RN badge caught light. Stethoscope swung when she turned. Her white glove stayed on my wrist. Her eyes didn't leave doors.
Doctors hovered right side. White coats bright under fluorescent panel. One clutched small white and blue medication box. Box label glinted blue and yellow. Both watched Navy man now, not me.
Older woman behind rail sucked breath. Short gray hair shook. Dark cardigan bunched at her elbows. Braided girl pressed knuckles against metal rail. Braids swung forward. Both stared at Navy man like they'd seen ghost.
Nurse spoke first. Voice low, even. "Sir, you know her?"
Navy man stepped forward one step. Camouflage rustled. Stubble shadowed jaw. He looked at me, then away fast.
"Petty Officer Daniels. I'm her dad," he said. Words clipped short. "Her father."
Blanket felt heavier. My chest tightened. He hadn't said dad in months. He'd said call him sir at home. Mom left last year. Older woman — my grandma — made sound in throat.
Grandma's hand jerked toward braided girl — my sister. "He was supposed to be at base," Grandma whispered. "You said you were at base."
Sister clutched rail harder. Knuckles white. She didn't look at him. She looked at my fingers.
I lifted right hand higher. Two fingers, then dropped one. One finger pointed at him. Then two again. Signal felt urgent inside ribs. Breath caught in cannula.
Nurse saw it. Her brow furrowed. She glanced between my fingers and Daniels.
Daniels saw my hand. Face went pale under stubble. "She's confused," he said quick. "Fever does that. She doesn't know what she's doing."
Same line doctor used earlier. Lie. My stomach knotted.
Grandma flinched. Sister whimpered. Nurse's glove tightened slight on my arm. She'd heard that lie before.
I shook head small against pillow. Rash burned on cheeks. Tried to keep two fingers steady. Then one. Two-then-one. Meant his story incomplete. Meant 313 still hidden.
Nurse leaned close. Cool air from scrubs brushed my face. She spoke soft, only for me.
"Okay, honey. We do yes/no," she said. "Yes is two fingers. No is one finger. Blink once if you understand."
My eyes watered. I blinked once. Slow.
"Good girl," she whispered. Breath paused. "Is this man your dad?"
I held up two fingers. Yes. Fingers shook but stayed up.
Daniels exhaled loud. Shoulders dropped.
Nurse didn't stop. "Did something happen at his base? Something about 313?"
My heart hammered against gown. Blue pattern blurred. I held up two fingers again. Yes.
Grandma gasped behind me. "What base? What is 313?" Her voice cracked. Cardigan sleeves twisted in hands.
Sister stared at Daniels. Eyes wide, wet. "You said 313 was nothing," she whispered. "You told Mom it was nothing."
Daniels turned toward sister. Jaw tight. "Maya, not now," he said. Sharp.
Nurse blocked view slight with her body. Navy scrubs made wall between me and him. Her RN badge faced him like shield.
She looked down at me again. Stethoscope slipped. She asked next question slow, clear. "Is 313 a room? A place we need to check?"
I held up one finger. No.
She adjusted. "Is 313 a person?"
One finger. No.
Her eyes widened slight. She tried again. "Is 313 number he told you not to say?"
Two fingers shot up. Yes. Hard, fast.
Silence fell over ER bay. Fluorescent panel buzzed overhead. Medication box crinkled in doctor's hand. Daniels stood frozen near doors. Red EMERGENCY light flickered on his camouflage.
Grandma stepped closer to rail. Hand hovered near my blanket but didn't touch. "Daniels, what did you tell her?" she said. Voice low, angry now, not scared. "What did my granddaughter hear?"
Daniels didn't answer. Stubble jaw clenched. Eyes fixed on my two fingers.
Sister kept clutching rail. Tears ran down cheeks. She looked at nurse, then at me. "She's not delirious," she said small. "She remembers everything."
I kept two fingers up. Looked at nurse. Tried to breathe steady. Cannula fogged. One finger would mean no. Two meant yes. Two meant trust her.
Nurse nodded once. Glove squeezed my wrist gentle. Her other hand moved to cover my blanket edge, steadying me.
"We believe you," she whispered to me, not to them. "Two for yes. One for no. We stay right here."
Daniels shifted weight. Boots squeaked. He looked toward double doors like he wanted out. But doors stayed shut. Red sign glowed.
May you like
Grandma didn't sit. Sister didn't let go of rail. Both stared at Daniels now, not at doctors. Family fracture showed plain under fluorescent light.
My hand dropped to one finger, then back to two. Signal incomplete still. 313 still needed explaining. But now someone counted with me.
