Chapter 2 - LILY RIVERA
Within ninety seconds, Room 312 became chaos.
Nurses.
Neurology.
Obstetrics.
Security.
The damp soil was removed from Emily’s skin and sealed in a specimen container because Dr. Harris insisted nobody knew what might be in it.
Daniel barely heard him.
“She moved.”
“We know.”
“She moved twice.”
“I saw.”
“You said those movements were reflexes before.”
Dr. Harris looked directly at him.
“I said previous movements might have been reflexive.”
“This wasn’t.”
“I don’t know that yet.”
Daniel hated him for the sentence.
Then hated himself for needing certainty nobody had.
The little girl stood near the door with a security officer.
She looked suddenly very small.
Daniel walked over.
“What’s your name?”
“Lily.”
“Lily what?”
“Rivera.”
“Where are your parents?”
Her eyes dropped.
“My mom’s downstairs.”
“Why did you come in here?”
“To help Emily.”
Daniel went still.
“You know my wife?”
Lily nodded.
“How?”
She looked confused by the question.
“From the garden.”
Daniel stared.
“What garden?”
“The one where she taught us.”
He had no idea what Lily meant.
Emily was an environmental geochemist.
Before the accident she consulted on soil contamination, water quality, industrial redevelopment.
She also volunteered.
Too much, Daniel used to joke.
Schools.
Neighborhood projects.
Community science days.
Maybe he had forgotten one.
Lily continued.
“She said dirt tells you what happened before.”
Daniel’s skin prickled.
“What exactly did she tell you?”
Lily glanced toward the sealed soil container.
“She said the earth remembers everything people try to bury.”
That sounded like Emily.
Not magical.
Scientific.
Poetic enough for children.
Daniel crouched.
“Did Emily tell you to put soil on her?”
Lily hesitated.
“No.”
“Then why did you?”
The girl’s lower lip trembled.
“She told me once that people remember smells even when they forget other things.”
Daniel stared.
That also sounded like Emily.
Lily continued.
“And she always smelled the dirt when we planted things.”
Dr. Harris approached.
“Mr. Carter.”
Daniel turned.
“We’re ordering a full neurological reassessment.”
“Because she moved?”
“Because what you described may represent purposeful response.”
May.
Again.
Daniel hated the word.
“What about the baby?”
“Stable.”
“Why did the monitor jump?”
“Fetal movement. Maternal autonomic response. Stress. Touch. Any number of reasons.”
“So the soil didn’t—”
“I am not saying the soil did anything.”
Dr. Harris’s tone sharpened deliberately.
“And nobody is putting anything else on your wife.”
Daniel nodded.
That mattered.
They would not turn desperation into superstition.
Then Dr. Harris looked at Lily.
“Who gave you the jar?”
Lily answered:
“Nobody.”
“You brought it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“The Carter Garden.”
Daniel frowned.
“My name?”
Lily shook her head.
“No.”
“Then why is it called Carter Garden?”
Lily looked toward Emily.
“Because she named it after someone.”
Daniel’s stomach tightened.
“Who?”
May you like
Lily whispered:
“Not you.”
