A sharp thud echoed in my chest, a jolt of pain radiating through me as a large piece of burned skin on my arm tore away. The young nurse remained oblivious to my distress, stepping closer to Oliver with a smile as she fussed over his clothes, adjusting and straightening them.
Then, she turned to me, her expression hardening.
“Ah! How do you take care of a patient? Don’t you know he doesn’t eat carrots?”
She covered her ears, took a step back, and then dashed out of the room, returning just as quickly.
"There’s a fresh meal at the nurse’s station—take mine too."
"Auntie, don’t misunderstand. These things are in the patient’s admission file. I just have a good memory."
My breath caught, and my head began to throb. The lingering smoke in the room reminded me of Dorthy Ball, who had been abused as a child. Back then, my father would smoke and swing sticks at my mother and me.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t know you didn’t eat carrots."
I spoke, a bit irritated. Eighteen-year-old Oliver used to bring carrots to school every day just because I casually mentioned liking little rabbits. He would quietly look up at me while chewing on them.