Chapter 704
[ 505 words ]
Chapter 704:
“You look like you got about ten minutes of sleep,” Reed noted, making a note on a chart.
Just as Caroline was about to take a bite of toast, a tiny, pathetic whimper came from the corner of the room.
Dr. Reed’s pen stopped moving. Her eyebrow lifted, but there was no surprise in her face. Only dry, long-suffering amusement.
“Your unofficial therapy animal is awake,” she said. “And judging by that sound, he believes breakfast is a constitutional right.”
Relief, not panic, washed through Caroline. Dr. Reed already knew. She had known since yesterday morning, had chosen to look the other way, and had somehow turned one unauthorized puppy into a medical morale project with a straight face.
“I was going to feed him after I checked Hendon,” Caroline said, sheepish.
𝘛𝗁o𝘶s𝗮ո𝗱s o𝖿 r𝗲а𝗱𝘦𝗿𝘴 𝗼n 𝗀а𝘭ոo𝘃еl𝘴.𝘤𝘰𝗺
Dr. Reed gave her a look that could curdle milk. “The patient can wait thirty seconds. The dog cannot, apparently.”
She crossed to the carrier and crouched in front of it. Inside, Doodles sat with his splinted leg sticking awkwardly out, his tail giving a tentative thump against the plastic floor. He looked up at the formidable doctor with wide, impossibly innocent brown eyes and whined again, a soft plea for breakfast.
Dr. Reed pulled a small, foil-wrapped biscuit from the pocket of her lab coat and broke off a piece. She offered it through the wire door. Doodles gobbled it down ecstatically.
“The medical center has been requesting funding for a therapy animal for months,” Reed said dryly, as if continuing a discussion they had already settled. “Until command finds its conscience, this ridiculous creature is our pilot program.”
“Thank you,” Caroline breathed, the words heavy with gratitude. She owed Dr. Reed, and she knew it.
After moving the now-fed puppy into the small recovery alcove Dr. Reed had cleared for him, Caroline took her half-finished coffee and walked to the bed in the adjoining cubicle.
Beatrix Hendon was still in a sedated sleep. Her face was pale under the fluorescent lights, the dark purple and yellow of a massive bruise stark against her cheekbone. The IV line dripped a steady, life-sustaining rhythm into her arm.
Caroline checked the monitors. Heart rate, oxygen saturation, blood pressure. All stable. All within normal limits.
She pulled a metal stool over to the bedside and sat down, sipping her coffee. She looked at the woman in the bed. This was the same woman who had sneered at her in a D.C. subway station, who had looked at her with such disdain at the processing center. Now, she was just a patient. Broken and vulnerable.
A strange mix of pity and professional duty stirred inside her. She reached out and gently tucked the edge of the thin wool blanket more securely around Beatrix’s shoulder. It was an automatic gesture, the instinct of a caregiver.
Suddenly, Beatrix’s face contorted. A low moan escaped her lips. Her head began to thrash back and forth on the pillow, her bruised fingers clawing weakly at the sheets.
Caroline leaned forward instantly, her medical instincts on high alert. “Beatrix? Can you hear me?”
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