Fiona
Ethan settles against the kitchen counter and looks through the mail. The activity is so mundane, something I didn’t picture him doing, but watching him standing there, I can’t help but move closer and stand beside him.
“Anything interesting?” I ask, trying to peek over his arm when he sets all but one envelope aside on the counter.
“Actually, yes,” he says softly, ripping the envelope open. “One of the children who I helped get medical treatment, he wrote this.”
Ethan’s eyes scan over the paper, and I lean in, letting my eyes fall on the words.
Dear Mr. Ethan,
Thank you so much for helping me get to the hospital. I feel a lot better, now and I don’t hurt anymore. Sometimes I still feel sick, but the doctor lady said it will get better. They said the medicine is working.
T
