THE PATIENT IN ROOM 13
THE NAMES
Monday, January 8th – 4:00 PM
The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the graveyard. Sloane’s hands were raw, her fingers bleeding, her knees stained with dirt. But she had not stopped. She could not stop. The children were waiting.
Cora worked beside her, digging, searching, uncovering. She had found three graves already, each one marked with the same symbol — a circle with a cross. Each one containing a small box. Each one containing a photograph and a name.
“Ruth. 1689.”
“Thomas. 1702.”
“Mary. 1715.”
“William. 1728.”
Sloane held the photographs in her hands, studying the faces of the forgotten. They were not angry. They were not sad. They were waiting.
“How many more?” Cora asked.
“Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Your grandfather marked them all.”
“We can’t dig up the whole cemetery. It will take weeks.”
“We don’t have weeks. Eleanor is dying.”
Sloane looked at the map.
Her father had marked the graves in clusters. Some were near the old oak. Some were near the fence. Some were near the chapel. Some were scattered, hidden, forgotten.
“We need help,” Sloane said.
“Who can we trust?”
“The families. The ones we helped. The ones who remember.”
She pulled out her phone.
She made the first call.
Marta Reyes arrived within the hour.
She brought her brother’s son, a young man named Daniel Jr. , who had inherited his father’s gift for remembering. They worked alongside Sloane and Cora, digging, searching, uncovering.
By nightfall, they had found twelve graves.
Twelve names.
Twelve stories.
Sloane sat on the ground, exhausted, her hands wrapped in bandages.
“It’s getting dark,” Marta said. “We should stop.”
“We can’t stop. There are more.”
“There will always be more. But we can’t help them if we collapse.”
Sloane looked at the graves they had uncovered.
The boxes were lined up on the ground, waiting.
“We’ll continue tomorrow,” she said.
“We’ll be here,” Marta said.
They left the cemetery.
The children waited.