Too Right

“She needs time. What she’s really missing is a sense of safety. When her mind feels at peace, she’ll start to make sounds again. Words will come. Eventually.”

Calix looked down at her.

Her face was buried in his chest like a sulking child.

He could only see the crown of her head, but he could picture the rest. And it made something twist inside him.

“She’ll be fine,” the doctor added. “Give her comfort. Give her time. That’s all she needs.”

* * *

In the end, the doctor’s visit hadn’t done much.

They got some ointment for her cuts and scrapes, but what Calix really wanted—what he’d been hoping for—was to hear her speak again.

He’d clung to a sliver of hope, only to be left with a vague, useless answer: No telling when.

“Emotional stability, huh?”

As he dabbed ointment onto her knee, Calix suddenly looked up, eyes searching hers.

She shot him a look—annoyed, restless, like she had a thousand things to say and no way to say them.