Ezoic
She’d been home. She’d showered. She’d changed out of her scrubs into jeans and a Kansas State sweatshirt. She brought a box of donuts from a bakery in town.
Ezoic
Jean was sitting at the little table in the office. Wearing a pink cardigan over a flowered blouse. Her white hair brushed and pinned up. Elmer had helped her. She was eating a glazed donut with both hands, very carefully, like a child.
She looked up when we came in.
She looked at me.
She frowned a little. Thinking.
“You,” she said slowly. “You were in my dream.”
I sat down across from her.
“Was I?”
“There was a storm,” Jean said. “And a girl. And a baby. And you were standing in the doorway.” She smiled. “You looked scared.”
“I was scared,” I said.
“Don’t be,” Jean said. She patted my hand. Her fingers were sticky with glaze. “Babies don’t care about tornadoes. They come when they come. You just have to be ready with the towels.”
