When I first opened my eyes, I had no idea where I was. Tubes ran from my arm, a monitor flickered beside me, and every breath brought a dull pain beneath my ribs.
The doctor later told me I had been unconscious for eleven terrifying days after a car accident.
But none of that mattered when I saw the small figure sleeping in the chair beside me.
Walter.
My nine-year-old grandson.
His backpack lay beneath his feet, his cheek rested against his jacket, and one tiny hand was still gripping the corner of my blanket as if he was afraid that, if he let go, I might disappear again. His clothes were wrinkled, and dark shadows surrounded his tired eyes.
My heart shattered.
Walter had lived with me ever since my son died four years ago. I packed his lunches, walked him to school, helped him with homework, and stayed beside him whenever nightmares made him afraid of the dark.
“Walter?” I whispered.
His eyes opened instantly.
For a moment, he simply stared at me as though he couldn’t believe I was really awake.
Then he threw himself into my arms.
“Granny!”
He sobbed against my chest so desperately that I could barely understand his words.
A nurse hurried inside, smiling softly. “He’s been waiting for you. That little boy has barely left your side.”
I gently ran my fingers through his hair.
“Sweetheart… you’ve been sleeping here all this time?”
He nodded.
“Why aren’t you staying at home with Aunt Lisa?”
The instant I said her name, Walter froze.
His little face suddenly filled with fear.
He glanced toward the door, then leaned closer and whispered into my ear.
“Granny… if Aunt Lisa comes in, close your eyes. Pretend you never woke up.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding.
“Why?”
His fingers tightened around mine.
