“Can I see her now?”
Dr. Whitman nodded and led me down a cheerful hallway painted with elephants and giraffes, the kind of hospital whimsy that only made the whole place feel crueler. She stopped outside room 412.
“She’s awake,” Dr. Whitman said softly. “But Ms. Hayes, she may not recognize you immediately. Two years is a long time for a child.”
I pushed open the door. Sophie lay in the hospital bed, impossibly small beneath the white sheets. Her hair, my dark brown hair, had been cut short. Her skin was gray, almost translucent, and purple bruises bloomed up and down her arms where the IV lines had gone in. She turned toward me, and fear flashed across her face.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, moving slowly, like I was approaching a wounded animal. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
