I tried to talk, but my throat was raw. She held a cup of warm water to my lips and told me I was safe, that I was at Lehigh Valley Memorial, and that a very kind man had pulled over and called 911 when he saw me by the road.
His name was Frank Dellinger, a retired trucker driving home from his granddaughter’s recital. He’d nearly missed me in the dark. He’d stayed with me until the ambulance arrived, and he’d given me his own jacket. The paramedics said it probably saved my life.
“Is my dad here?” I asked.
Patricia’s smile faltered.
“He’s in the waiting room. Officer Whitaker would like to speak with you first, if you feel up to it.”
Officer Whitaker was in his forties, with tired eyes and a calm voice. He pulled a chair beside my bed and told me I wasn’t in trouble.
“I want to hear what happened tonight, in your own words,” he said. “Take your time.”
I told him everything: Brenna’s accusation, the packet I’d never seen, how I’d begged Dad to check my bag, the deadbolt, the long walk. When I finished, I realized I was crying, though it hurt my chapped face.
He wrote steadily and let me finish.
“Josie, do you know where your sister might have gotten a packet like that?”
I hesitated. I had told myself I wouldn’t say anything, because I’d been scared of what would happen if I did.
“A few weeks ago, I saw her sneaking out through the garage window,” I said. “She came back at two in the morning. I told her I’d tell Dad if she did it again. She said I’d regret it.”
Officer Whitaker’s pen paused.
“Did she ever mention anyone she was meeting?”
“A boy named Tyler. He’s older. He dropped out of school last year.”
He nodded slowly.
Out in the corridor, I could hear voices. Dad’s, low and cracked. Brenna’s, sharp and defensive. Then a woman’s calm voice, which I later learned belonged to a hospital social worker named Ms. Alvarez.
An hour later, they were allowed into my room.
Dad stopped in the doorway like he’d forgotten how to walk. He looked a decade older than he had that morning. His eyes were red, and his hands hung at his sides.
“Josie,” he said, and his voice broke on my name.
I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t ready to.
He crossed the room and sat in the chair Officer Whitaker had left. For a long moment he just looked at my bandaged hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t have words for what I did.”
I stared at the ceiling. I wanted to tell him it was okay, because that was what I’d always done, smoothing things over to keep the peace. But for once I couldn’t.
“You didn’t even look in my bag,” I said.
“I know.”
“I asked you to. I begged you.”
“I know.” His shoulders shook. “I should have listened. I should have checked. I was so sure, and I was so angry, and I…”
He couldn’t finish.
Officer Whitaker cleared his throat from the corner.
“Mr. Merrick, perhaps you’d like to share what you’ve learned.”
Dad wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Brenna gave the officer the packet,” he said. “It’s a sandwich bag with some pills in it. The lab will test it, but they’re not any kind of prescription. Brenna told them…”
“I’ll say it,” Brenna said from the doorway.
She hadn’t come in. She stood just outside, arms wrapped around herself, her eyes swollen.
“The pills were Tyler’s,” she said, her voice shaking. “He gave them to me to hold for him. I got scared you’d find them, so I… when you said you were going to tell Dad about me sneaking out, I thought if Dad caught you with something, nobody would believe you about me.”
The room went completely silent.
“I didn’t think he’d throw you out,” she said. “I swear, Josie. I thought he’d yell at you, maybe ground you. I never thought…”
“But you let him,” I said.
She had no answer.
She stood there crying while Ms. Alvarez stepped forward and gently guided her back into the corridor.
FINAL PART
I stayed in the hospital for four days.
The doctors told me I’d been lucky. My core temperature had dropped far enough that another hour outside could have been fatal. The damage to my fingers was mild frostbite, and with care it would heal. My toes had fared better than expected.
Frank Dellinger came to visit on the second afternoon. He was a big man with white whiskers, holding a bag of butterscotch candies as though he didn’t know what else to bring. He told me he’d almost driven past because the rain had made everything blur, but something about my sneakers by the gravel had caught his eye.
“I’ve got a granddaughter your age,” he said, turning his cap in his hands. “Couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about it.”
