Mercy by Sarah L. Thomson Page A

or a child under three, but not both.”
    â€œMust be somebody else’s, then.” Jake leaned his head against the back of the chair.
    â€œHaley, come on in the kitchen,” Maia told her. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea, since your cousin there’s too lazy to act like a host.”
    Haley slipped the necklace into her pocket as she followed Maia. The nurse filled a kettle and set it on the stove. “Get down some mugs, will you?” She snorted as she pulled open a cupboard. “I’m going to bring that man some real tea. Nothing here but this pomegranate stuff. It’ll have to do, I guess.”
    Maia dumped tea bags into Jake’s mugs. Earth brown with splashes of green like pine trees, and Haley’s father’s initials—NJB, for Nathan Joseph Brown—scribbled onto the bottom. Steaming water poured over the tea bags.
    â€œHaley. Honey,” Maia said softly. “You can see it, right?”
    Haley picked up her tea, curling her hands around the hot mug. “See what?”
    â€œHe’s getting worse.”
    Haley froze, holding her mug to her lips, looking at Maia through the steam. “But—but, that new medicine—you told him he should take it. Won’t that help?”
    â€œThat’s just to help with the nightmares, baby. So he can get some sleep. It’s not going to cure him.”
    The thin layer of clay between Haley’s hands and the scalding water was growing hotter and hotter. In a minute she’d have to put the cup down.
    â€œBut—but there’s something, right? That you can do?” She remembered to keep her voice low. “Something more that he can try. Something—”
    â€œHe doesn’t want to try anything new, Haley.” Pity softened Maia’s voice. One corner of her wide mouth tucked in a little, as if to control her own pain. “You know that, honey. You knew it when he came home from the hospital this last time.”
    â€œBut not—but not so
soon
!” Hot water sloshed over the edge of Haley’s mug and onto her fingers. It hurt. “Six months. He said six months. The doctor said—”
    Six months. That was half a year.
    â€œThat wasn’t a guarantee, honey. It was just a guess.”
    Doctors weren’t supposed to guess. They were supposed to
know
.
    And they’d said six months. Back in August, they’d said six months. Not until winter, they’d said. And it was only November.
    Six months was half a year.
    The first snow hadn’t even fallen yet.
    Six months was still a long time away.

    And now Mercy’s glove was missing.
    Haley’s report was due tomorrow. She’d finished her display and printed out her notes. Now she was packing up the papers Aunt Brown had given her. She slid the newspaper article and the family tree back in their envelope and laid the package on her bed. But where was the red box with Mercy’s glove?
    Nothing,
nothing
, stayed where it was supposed to in this house. Haley went back to her desk, picked up books and looked beneath them, checked behind the printer and thelaptop. She got down on her hands and knees to look underneath. Nothing but dust and cables.
    This was crazy. Haley had left the box on the desk. She
remembered
. Could her dad have taken it? Or Elaine? Why would they?
    â€œMine, mine!” Eddie said, delighted. Haley scrambled to her feet and snatched the envelope full of Aunt Brown’s papers out of Eddie’s hands.
    â€œMine!” he insisted angrily.
    â€œ
Not
yours,” Haley objected. “No, Eddie, leave that alone!” He’d grabbed a fat blue pillow off her bed this time. It had a photo printed on it, Haley at six, grinning a wide, gap-toothed smile, hugged between her parents.
    That had been eight years ago. More than half her lifetime. Eight years; that was a long time. Next to eight years, six months looked like—
    â€œGive it