I wake up to a flight attendant saying we're landing, and Mira has to be in her seat. I glance around to find Bucky still sound asleep, Mira star-fished across the remainder of his chest, her plushie somehow in my arms. A gentle nudge has Bucky's head shooting up, immediately alert.
"We're landing," I mumble, switching back to my seat after helping Bucky lower Mira into hers and buckle her in. She's out like a light, dead to the world around her. She doesn't stir when the plane touches down, and we pick her up to disembark.
I place her toy back in her arms and she nuzzles into Bucky's shoulder, completely absent of the world. We take a taxi to Sam's place. When we pull up, he's sitting on the porch like an angry dad catching his teenager sneaking out.
"Why do I feel like you're in trouble?" I joke.
"Me? Us," he replies as we hop out of the taxi.
"He doesn't know me," I chuckle, walking with him to the porch and the sassy-looking Sam sitting there.
"Well?" Sam asks.
Another woman emerges from the front door, I assume it's Sarah.
"I'm going to get her stuff," I say, giving Bucky a firm pat on the back and scurrying past Sam and inside with Sarah.
A black duffle bag sits inside by the door, filled with more toys and books than clothes.
"That's everything he brought," Sarah says, standing beside me.
I glance through the bag, chuckling at the apparently poor packing, almost convinced Mira packed herself and Bucky just called it good.
"He was really panicked, you know," she says.
"Oh yeah?" I ask.
"Yeah," Sarah chuckles, guiding me to the kitchen. "When you disappeared, he didn't know what to do. He ended up calling me for help. Told me not to tell Sam anything."
"Help with what?" I ask, as she slides a glass of iced tea toward me.
"Everything. What to feed her, where to take her. When she cried, he just bought her whatever she wanted. When she told him she had to take a bath before bed, he just filled the tub and left her to it."
I bury my face in my palms, laughing, imagining him stumbling through it all. I guess I never really prepared him, I did all that stuff when I was there and didn't leave instructions when I left.
"Thank you for helping him," I say between laughs.
"You going to run away again?" She asks in a stern tone.
My laughter dies instantly as I meet her gaze. She isn't someone I would fear, yet there's an air of anger and fight in her voice. I don't blame her, she's a mother too. I can only imagine how this looks to her.
"What did he tell you?" I ask.
"Nothing much. Just that you were there and then gone the next. That it was complicated." She sighs, taking a sip of her drink. The condensation drips down her hands, ice clacking against the glass, echoing in the quiet kitchen.
I've never spoken to another parent before, never gotten advice. I just figured out how to raise her the best I could, same as I did with Jamie. But this is so much different.
"I love my daughter," I say in a low tone, more to reassure myself than her.
She doesn't respond. I lean my elbows on the counter, bending over it. Somehow the art of normal conversation eludes me. I've learned negotiation for work, I can bark orders, argue, but social situations like this are strained.
Especially since, for all intents and purposes, I'm in the wrong, and now I owe this woman for taking care of my child.
My eyes drift around the kitchen. Children's art hangs on the fridge, toys are scattered, backpacks hang by the door. Appliances are older but clean and well maintained. A pile of envelopes in the corner catches my eye, red stamps screaming "final notice" and "past due." Debt?
I could help with that, make us even so this annoying sense of owing her disappears. We stare at each other in silence. Her gaze never shifts from mine. At the very least, she knows I'm a super soldier, yet there's no fear. She's a fighter, a woman who won't accept a handout. I recognize the look; I had it once as well with Jamie—and now Mira.
"Stay here for the night. Your kid's passed out, and I imagine you two are tired," she says, pushing off the counter and heading to the sink. Rinsing her glass off, I reply, "We can get a hotel."
"Don't argue. You guys will stay here," Sam says from behind. He and Bucky have come in, Mira still asleep on his shoulder.
I glance at Bucky, who just shrugs, arguing is pointless.
We settle on just pizza for dinner. I don't want to put her out cooking for us, plus I manage to pay for it before she can.
"I could have gotten it," she says, rolling her eyes.
I figure it's best not to reply. I order five large pizzas, knowing Bucky, Mira, and I can seriously eat, and airplane food barely counted as an appetizer.
We devour them. I try to wake Mira to eat, but she's half-conscious, sitting on my lap with her head bobbing as she chews. I give up after she gets one slice down, more worried she'll choke than anything else.
"Why is she so tired?" Sam asks.
Bucky and I exchange a look, shrugging. She seemed fine at the airport. I tuck her into the couch.
"Sorry we don't have more beds or couches," Sarah says, handing me two pillows and blankets.
"It's fine. We're used to sleeping anywhere," I reply, tossing Bucky his pillow and blanket.
With a final good night, they all leave the living room as we dim the lights. I set myself up next to the couch, so Mira is above me if she needs anything.
Leaning back and pulling my knees up, I take the journal out again, daring to see what else it can tell me. I need to know if these doctors knew anything more than I've already found.