Chapter One

River

“‘One day’ the little girl says, ‘I will be the one to rule over these lands and all of the people around me will be blessed beyond compare.’ The little girl looks over at the little green dragon hiding in the cave and whispers to him, as if there is anyone else around to overhear her words. ‘One day, you will be free to fly amongst the clouds, to bask in the sun. One day all of our dreams will come true.’”

Closing the cover on the book, I glance over at Angelica, taking in the real-life sleeping beauty before me. Her auburn hair is spread out on the pillow beneath her, a mass of fire surrounding her delicate features. Her smooth, tawny complexion a contradiction to her hair. A sprinkling of freckles graces her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, just where her dark lashes fan against the apples of her cheeks. I often times find myself wondering if she were to open her eyes, if they would be the vivid emerald of her mother, or the rich ochre of her father.

Angelica is such a contradiction from the outside looking in. But on the inside, she is just like all other children. She’s young, with an air innocence that could never be dulled. The difference between Angelica and other children is that Angelica has been under sleeping curse laid upon her by the fates.

When she was three years old, Angelica was playing on the playground with a Mother’s Day Out group that her mom was a part of. She fell off of the swing when a little boy came barreling by her. You could hear the crack of bone breaking as Angelica’s head hit the ground.

Doctors did everything that they could do, they opened up her skull to try to relieve the pressure that was brought on by the contusion but in the end, Angelica wasn’t want to wake from her slumber.

If only her story could be like that of Sleeping Beauty and she be awoken by true loves kiss. But real life isn’t as simple.

“Mr. Brooks.” A voice calls from behind me, pulling me from my musings of the sleeping girl before me. Lora is looking at me with sad, tear-filled eyes. “Room 228 is ready whenever you’re finished up here. His visitors have left for the day.” She reports, letting me know that my time with Angelica has come to an end.

Gathering up the hardback book that I had reserved for the little fiery princess alone, I place it back into its place on the shelf next to her bed until our next meeting.

“River, what you do...” Lora stops for a moment, clearing her throat as she puts herself back together, “well, it means a lot. And not just to the families.” Giving me a slightly unsteady smile, her teary eyes not leaving my own, Lora places her hand on my shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze before excusing herself to tend to her next patient.

“Brody, how are you today buddy?” I ask as I enter his galaxy. Brody’s parents, with the permission of the hospital, have turned Brody’s room into an astronaut’s dream. Brody is an eleven-year-old boy who slipped into a coma after a tragic four-wheeler accident.

Many say that Brody is lucky to be alive, unlike his older sister who was driving the piece of machinery when they slammed into the back of a garbage truck that had stopped in the middle of the road, unbeknownst to them. Others would beg to differ as questioning of how it’s fair to him to keep him in a vegetative state, for the comfort of his family, instead of letting him move on. The naysayers aren’t aware of the brain activity that the scans provide, showing that he is much more than a vegetable, even if only on the inside.

I enjoy reading to the sleeping, as I refer to them. I hold onto the hope that by my reading to them, it helps improve their brain activity and that maybe one day, they will awaken and will be able to remember the stories that I told them.

Sometimes I read from books, other times, I weave intricate stories together of faraway lands and adventures that one can only dream of.

Brody is one of the few recipients of the tall tales that I pour into the small confines of their long-term hospital room.

“What will it be today, buddy? A mission to mars or maybe a walk amongst the stars? Or maybe battling with foreign invaders who managed to sneak into our world through a black hole?” I hear the door shut behind me, and glance up at the clock.

“It all started on September 11, 2002.” I start off this story, just as I have many that came before it. “The first tower was hit, and the world was in fear of what its future may hold. When the second tower came crashing down, a mass panic spread throughout the continent that many felt so secure. In a matter of moments, the United States and the world as we knew it was forever changed.” And for the next half hour, it’s just me, Brody and hundreds of alien life forms trying to take over our crippled planet.

Glancing back down at my watch, I realize that time has gotten away from me. It always does when I get lost in a story, whether I am the one spinning the tale or I’m lost in the pages of one. "Alright buddy, that's all I got today. I'll come see you again next week."

Giving Brody a quick glance over to make sure he is as comfortable as possible, I walk out of his room and head down to my last stop.

The clock says I've been at the hospital for over four hours today. My exhaustion must be catching up to me. I haven't been getting much sleep the past few weeks between my job at the bank and night classes. To say I'm burning the candle at both ends is an understatement. If it weren't for the patients here, I would have never taken on the job at the hospital.

I've always wanted to help people, and when I learned that they had a reading program that was available to patients who were unable to read or were in a comatose state, I jumped at the chance. Even when they told me that I would have to go through extensive training to be able to work with the patients, I didn't hesitate.

It's worth it, every second of it.

The hospital floor tiles seem to blur together as I walk down the hallway, my steps heavier with each door I pass. The fluorescent lights overhead hum their constant monotonous tune, matching the rhythm of my exhausted thoughts. My feet drag across the linoleum as I make my way toward Chevy's room. The fluorescent lights above buzz like trapped insects, casting everything in a sickly greenish tint that makes my head throb. I've been at United First since eight this morning, Cheryl and Annette doing their usual dance of passing difficult customers my way while Mrs. Fischer went on her weekly rant about some conspiracy regarding her missing social security check. Twenty minutes of that, and I could feel my brain cells committing suicide one by one.

My pocket buzzed twice during that call. Probably Fynn, since he's been texting every hour like I'm some kind of stray he's worried about. This time, he's probably checking to make sure that I've eaten something today or what time I'll be home, like he's my damn babysitter. One more thing on the pile of things I'm not dealing with.

My hand hovers over the doorframe of 228, fingers tingling like they've been asleep. This room always feels different—quieter somehow, even though the hospital hum is the same everywhere. I find myself standing here longer than necessary, tracing the worn edge of the patient chart holder with my thumb. The other doors feel like checkpoints, but this one... this one feels like a destination I can't quite name. A vase of fresh-cut daisies sits on the windowsill, their white petals bright against the muted tones of the room. I set todays small bouquet beside them, adding a splash of color to the collection. The room feels a little less sterile now.

Chevy lies still in the center of all that white, her chest rising and falling with the slow, mechanical rhythm of someone else's breath. The machines around her blink and beep like they're having a conversation I can't understand. I try to imagine what it must be like for her—trapped in a body that won't wake up while the world keeps moving. The thought sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the hospital's shitty air conditioning.

My eyes land on her face, peaceful in a way that feels almost wrong. Like she's just taking a nap and any minute now she'll stretch and sit up and ask me why the hell I'm standing here staring at her. I clear my throat, the sound too loud in the quiet room.

"Hey, Chevy," I start, my voice rough like I haven't used it in days. "Sorry I'm late. Had a day at work that makes me wish I could just unplug from everything and float away. You ever have one of those?" The words hang in the air between us, unanswered but somehow less lonely for having been said out loud.

I reach for the book on the side table—some romance novel someone left here, probably thinking love stories could fix what's broken. I flip it open to where I left off last time, the pages already dog-eared from my constant visits.

"Let's see where we left off... ah, here we go. 'His hands traced the curve of her waist like he was memorizing every inch of her, like she might disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough.'" The words feel foreign in my mouth, too poetic for the messy reality of the room.