“I’m here,” I said, leaning closer so he didn’t have to fight to be heard. “You’re okay. We’re taking care of you.”
He shook his head weakly, frustration flickering across his face. “No… no, you’re not hearing me.” His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven. “Don’t call her.”
“Who?” I asked gently, though I already suspected the answer.
“My daughter,” he whispered, his grip tightening just a little. “Don’t call Lila. Promise me.”
That caught me off guard.
“Mr. Mercer, your family—”
“No,” he interrupted, a sudden edge of desperation cutting through his voice. “You can’t. You don’t understand what’ll happen if she finds out.”
There’s a moment, sometimes, where your training and your instincts don’t quite align, where the protocol says one thing but the person in front of you is asking for something else entirely, something that doesn’t fit neatly into guidelines or checklists.
“Help me understand,” I said quietly.
His eyes filled—not dramatically, not in a way meant to persuade, but slowly, like something he’d been holding back for too long.
“She’s inside,” he said.
I frowned slightly. “Inside…?”
“Correctional facility,” he clarified, each word costing him effort. “Seven years now. Got mixed up with the wrong people. Did things she shouldn’t have. But she’s not… she’s not who she was back then.”
He paused, coughing weakly, his chest struggling against the rhythm we were trying to impose on it.
The dog—his dog, I was certain now—let out a low, soft sound, pressing closer to the bed.
Calvin’s hand twitched toward him, fingers brushing golden fur with a familiarity that spoke of years, not months.
“She’s got a shot,” he continued, his voice dropping. “Parole hearing in three months. But more than that… she’s got something better. Something real.”
I glanced at the chart, then back at him. His vitals were slipping again.
“Tell me,” I said.
