June 12, 2020 · 4:37 PM
Hospital Lobby, PearlGrove Memorial, Manhattan, New York.
—
River Kennedi stands at the reception desk with quiet confidence, the kind that draws attention without needing it. Her long, dark, naturally wavy hair cascades over the shoulders of a light gray blazer that rests elegantly over a creamy, silk blouse tied at the neck with a soft bow. The blouse is tucked neatly into a flowy, blush-pink pleated midi-skirt, emphasizing a feminine and professional silhouette. Her striking features—a blend of Black and Samoan heritage—are framed by her hair, and her pretty gray eyes hold a focused, unreadable look: as if she's already decided what comes next.
The lobby hums with a low, steady noise that never stops. Fluorescent light hits the marble and bounces too bright off the floor. Nurses move through the space without speaking, focused but worn. A cart clatters toward the labs. An orderly steers an old man past the line of rooms. The old man looks at River, not unkindly, just long enough to seem like he's searching for a name that won't come.
A small hand tugs River's skirt. The boy holding it looks like mischief and loyalty stitched into one body. His hair is black, tapered at the sides and longer in the back in a slight mullet that brushes his collar. Curls fall forward over his forehead when he looks down. His eyes are dark and steady, a small reservoir of trust. He wears a rust colored knit sweater that seems to swallow his hands when he pulls them into the sleeves.
"Can you help me find my guardian?" the boy asks.
River crouches until she is level with the boy and gives a smile that is careful and warm. "Who is your guardian, kiddo?" she asks.
"Cairo!" someone calls from down the corridor.
She arrives like someone who schedules her chaos and keeps it punctual. Her hair is shaved close at the sides, the top left longer so the fade looks deliberate, almost severe. Piercings catch the light when she turns. She wears black like it's both habit and armor, each piece chosen for purpose. Her stride is quick, decisive. In her arms is the other boy, his twin, identical down to the rust sweater and the sharp, slightly mulleted cut of hair.
"Hi," the boy greets, with a grin that lands between fierce and relieved.
"You can't be taking off like that, kid," she scolds, voice folded with both warning and sweetness. The uninjured twin bolts back and tucks his hand into his brother's like it is automatic.
River straightens and asks, "Are you their guardian?"
"Yeah," she snaps, and then the sharpness melts. "I'm their foster parent. They've been with me a good while."
The bandaged twin speaks with a voice that sounds like it is running on empty. "I wanna go home. I'm exhausted." He says it so quietly you have to lean in to hear the edges of the words.
Her face changes the second she sees his color and the cough that rattles under the words. Her hand moves to squeeze his with the gentleness of someone who has done the same motion a thousand times. "You're gonna get home, baby. Uncle Sebastian is on his way. I gotta stay late at the office to help Ms. Grace, but you ain't goin' nowhere without me knowing you're safe."
Caleb coughs once like permission to be smaller than the posture asks for, then tries a grin that does not reach his eyes. "Okay," he whispers.
The unbandaged twin pokes at River's shoe like he is testing the world. "Are you a grown up?" he asks.
River lets out a laugh that is soft and real. "I'm technically grown up. Terrible at a lot of things, good at not looking like I belong in every room," she says, and the half joke holds her steady.
She sizes River up with a glance that checks both résumé and vibe. "You here on business, Miss Fancy Skirt?" she asks, playful and direct.
"Something like that," River says. "I'm River."
"Callie," she says, offering a hand, voice warm with city edges and the kind of humor that keeps people honest. "You look like you got somewhere important to be, River. You good?"
River nods and tilts her head away from the bandage so she does not stare. "I'll manage. Nice to meet you all."
Callie gives a knowing look that includes the hospital room doors. "Likewise. Get where you're going before my crew here starts asking you for a ride home. We got enough trouble already."
Cairo tugs at her jacket hem. "Can we get juice later?"
She kneels so she is at their level and goes theatrical with the smallest of smiles. "If you behave like little angels, maybe I'll spring for the big juice. If you pull the Houdini again, no juice and you eat cafeteria pudding."
They move off in a small parade of footsteps. The bandaged twin leans on her shoulder for balance and quiet comfort as if gravity chose a soft place to rest. River watches them go, and for a beat her gray eyes soften a fraction before she turns back to the desk.
—
June 12, 2020 · 4:52 PM
Bedside, Room 413
—
Later, River props her chin on the rail and everything else compresses to the hum of machines and Rose Kennedi's quiet. Rose is mixed race, Black and white, and that blend lived in the way her cheekbones curved and the warm olive in her skin once caught sunlight like a secret. Now her hair is flattened and damp at the temples, her skin pale, and tubes make a strange map across her chest.
One year ago Rose survived an overdose that should have killed her. Instead her heart kept ticking and her body folded into a coma that refuses to finish. River remembers the paramedic lights on wet pavement, the smell of alcohol and antiseptic, the way the EMTs moved as if they were bargaining with fate. She signed forms in a waiting room that hummed like a beehive and then watched her moved into a room that would take up the next twelve months of her life.
The coma turned ordinary time into accounting. Every heartbeat on the monitor is a line item. Each lab result becomes a bill to pay and a question that never sleeps. Nights that used to belong to her are now ledger entries and consultations.
"I don't want my last words to be I hate you, Mom," she says, voice small and honest.
She rubs her thumb along the rail, trying for wit and settling for tired truth. "James and I are on a break. Maybe it's time to deal. Finding his father's turned into a full-time sad hobby lately. I don't know if I should keep chasing him or stop before I drown in it."
She gives a half laugh that tastes like burnt coffee. "And the internship? They called me in for the interview, then ghosted me. You'd think a giant company could at least be decent about saying no. But no, I'm clingy to hope, apparently."
The door opens and Dr. Andi Hasan steps in wearing pressed grey scrubs under a draped coat, the fabric soft at the elbows from being worked. His hair is short and dark with a slight wave, his beard neatly trimmed so the jaw reads clean and purposeful. The coat hangs from broad shoulders but moves with the easy readiness of someone who spends long hours on their feet. His hands are large and practiced, quick to check a line or steady a trembling limb. His eyes are cool brown and patient, the kind that have done the math on a lot of hard things and still found a way to keep showing up.
"River, how you doing today?" he asks.
"Same as usual," River answers, nodding to Rose. "Any progress?"
Dr. Hasan lets a breath out that says it all. "Same as usual."
River does a short, annoyed laugh. "I ask the same question every other day. I should just stamp the chart with it and save us both time."
"It's always good to visit her, Ms. Kennedi," Dr. Hasan says, voice soft.
River stops, like a gear shifting. "You didn't call me River," she says, which sounds like an invitation and a complaint at once.
The doc looks sheepish and then honest. "You have every reason to be how you are, but there comes a point—" He stalls, and River cuts him off.
"I'm not ready to say goodbye, Doctor," River says. She lets her fingers hover over Rose's blanket for a long beat and then backs away.
River tilts her head. "What should I call you? You said I didn't have to use the pro name."
The doctor blinks, suddenly off-balance in a way that makes him human. "Andi, with an I," he says, small smile.
River grins. "Andi. Cool." She says the name like she's testing a new flavor. "Thanks, Andi."
"Andi," the doctor repeats, softer now, like the name anchors him for a moment.
River turns to go and then hesitates. She leans back in and folds her hands together, voice quieter. "Look, if anything changes, you call me. You tell me like you're telling me something important, not like you're trying to be gentle because you don't want to hurt me."
Dr. Andi nods. "I will. I mean it."
"Good," River says. "Also, bring me coffee next time, full sugar. I'll threaten you if you don't."
The doctor almost smiles. "Noted."
River leaves the room with a small crooked grin and the weight of a hundred small goodbyes folded behind her.
—