Within These Walls (Within These Walls #1)(9)

That’s right.

I now remembered Grace telling me about Abigail’s grandfather. He was a writer and quite the talker. Grace had said she couldn’t make it out of his room without getting hit on or hearing one of the colorful stories of his past.

“Your soul is kind of like your heart. So, I guess your papa was telling you to write what you feel here,” I said, pointing to the place where her perfect tiny heart beat inside her chest. “Here, why don’t you borrow this?” I suggested, handing her the book from my hands.

She hesitantly took it, and her eyes floated up to mine. “Are you sure? You weren’t done with it.”

“I’ve read it enough times to have it practically memorized. It’s your turn.”

Her face lit up with a smile, and she dived into my arms, giving me a hug so big that I had to brace myself from the impact. I laughed and wrapped my arms around her small body.

She reluctantly let go and jumped off the bed before straightening her summery pink dress.

“Well, I’d better get going. Thanks again for the book. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”

“No rush. Take your time.”

She made her way to the door.

I called out to stop her, “Oh, Abigail? Did you by chance leave pudding in my room?”

“Pudding? Like the kind my mom sticks in my lunchbox?” she asked with a curious look.

I huffed out in frustration, “Never mind.” Back to the drawing board I go.

Four: Quiet Like a Mouse—Jude

ANY DAY NOW, the cafeteria lady was going to stage an intervention for my all-consuming pudding habit. Either that, or she’d come up with some ridiculous nickname to call me.

Oh, wait—she already did that.

“Hey, Puddin’. Just the usual again tonight?” she asked with a sweet grin.

I nodded as I paid for my pudding and bottle of water, and then I headed back to the elevator.

Over the past week, I’d gotten used to the girl’s schedule in room 307. By eleven, she’d usually be asleep, and I could slip in, unnoticed, and drop off the tiny chocolate snack for her to see in the morning.

It had started out as only a one-time thing. That evening, when I’d seen her licking that chocolate off her finger, I had felt like I was seeing humanity for the first time in years. It was crazy, considering where I worked. Hospitals seemed to be a place where humanity soared. Lives of loved ones or patients themselves would be put into the hands of someone else, and out would come every base emotion imaginable—overwhelming fear, unending love, unsurpassable joy, and heart-rending pain. Everything would be thrown into one messy basket.

Being inside these hospital walls, I’d seen it all, yet I felt nothing anymore. I’d become immune to it all.

Megan’s death had been like an atom bomb to my psyche, obliterating every emotion I’d possessed until I saw nothing. An emotional overload, I guessed one could call it.

Every patient I would treat was just another blank face carrying me to the next.

The only reason I was here was Megan. It had nothing to do with taking care of my next patient or connecting with that person’s family. I couldn’t remember how to feel anything anymore.

Then, I’d seen her. As if she didn’t have a care in the world, she had been eating pudding without a spoon while staying in a hospital, like it was the most normal thing in the world. At that moment, I’d experienced the slightest sense of something other than pain again.

And I’d been supplying her habit ever since.

I didn’t know how long I was going to keep up the charade or if I could continue without being caught, but it was the only highlight of my day that didn’t feel overwrought with emotionless shades of gray.

With one pudding cup snug in my pocket, I was the epitome of stealth.

I slipped through the door quietly, ignoring the fact that I looked like a creepy stalker, and I stepped into the darkened room like I had a purpose.

I did work here, so there could be a dozen reasons for me entering a patient’s room.

Delivering a fudge snack pack was probably not one of them.

Like the many times before, I tried not to linger as I entered the room, but with each passing visit, it became more and more difficult.

The first night I’d decided to do this, I’d quickly done this drop-and-dash routine. I had gone in and out without a second glance.

But then, I’d met her. I’d come to her room and found myself face-to-face with the girl behind my late-night pudding runs. She was shy and timid, her gestures clumsy and unpracticed. She was so different from the polished and sophisticated girls I’d grown up with. Even her name was awkward. It sounded like the classic Eric Clapton song “Layla,” but hers was spelled all wrong.

She had made me curious. I’d suddenly wanted to know what else in this world would make her smile.

What made her laugh? Why does she quickly tug the collar of her shirt whenever I enter the room?

Curiosity wasn’t something I’d experienced in a while, and it had me lingering a little longer each time I entered her room at night. Eventually, it would become my ultimate undoing.

“Ouch! Shit!” I hissed under my breath as my knee collided with her bathroom door that had been left open.

I froze, listening for the slightest movement. My mind jumped ahead, trying to think of any plausible reason for being in her room at this hour.