J. had carried from Colt’s office upstairs so she would be comfortable. It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable, she was just nervous. Colt hadn’t moved a muscle for hours. She leaned forward and placed her palm on his forehead for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. No change. After she refreshed the damp cloth on his forehead, she picked up the books on his bedside table. The Bible and a book of Shakespeare’s works. That made her think of Mr. Barlow’s letter: I read the Bible and Shakespeare. She hadn’t read the Bible in a long time, but she picked it up and started reading one of her favorite passages to Colt. After a long while, she closed the book and spoke softly to him. “I wanted to talk to you, to tell you things about my past.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to talk to him. Maybe it was her deep-seated fear he wouldn’t survive, no matter how often she told herself otherwise. Somehow it seemed easier to spill everything in her heart without those black eyes boring deep into her soul.
