The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 375

Then, she saw Dr. Foster.

He was standing next to the pool of blood, his back to the inpatient building, his silhouette partially swallowed by the shadow of the sycamore tree.

He wasn't wearing his white coat—just a dark button-down shirt. Only when he crouched down did Sloane realize he was holding someone in his arms.

No, he was holding a child.

A young boy, maybe ten years old, skinny and small, completely engulfed in Garrison's embrace. The boy's face was buried in Garrison's chest, hiding his features. All Sloane could see was the back of his head with its soft black hair, and two hands gripping Garrison's shirt so tightly that the knuckles were white, crumpling the fabric.

Garrison kept one hand cradling the back of the boy's head, while his other hand gently patted the boy's back. Over and over, with a slow, steady rhythm, like a pendulum that would never stop.

He rested his chin on top of the boy's head, his lips moving slightly as if he was whispering something, or perhaps just breathing.

A few steps behind Garrison, a woman in her fifties was collapsed on the ground.

She wore a dark purple floral blouse. Her hair had been pinned up in a bun, but most of it had come loose, the stray strands plastered to her tear-streaked face.

She slapped her hands against the ground, clawing at the grass until dirt and blades of green jammed beneath her fingernails. Her wails pierced through the hallway windows, high-pitched and sharp, scraping the air like a broken saw blade.

"Quinn, my daughter, my baby girl!"

Quinn?

Sloane frowned slightly. For some reason, the name felt familiar, like she had heard it somewhere before.

A middle-aged man beside the woman was pulling at her arm, trying to drag her up from the ground.

The man himself was crying, his shoulders shaking silently, constantly wiping his face with his free hand.

Sloane didn't know these people.

"Dr. Dawson, what happened?" Sloane asked.

Dawson pressed his lips together, dodging the question. "I'm sorry, there's been a family emergency for Dr. Foster today. I'll... handle your treatment today."

Sloane glanced back at the garden outside the window one last time.

Garrison had stood up, effortlessly carrying the boy with one arm, the child's skinny legs dangling against his waist. The boy's face was still buried in his shoulder, and Garrison's other hand supported his back as they walked toward the inpatient building. The posture was so natural, like muscle memory built over years.

That must be... his child.

They rounded the corner of the garden and disappeared under the awning of the building.

Sloane withdrew her gaze and nodded. "Alright."

Then, she followed Assistant Dawson back to her room.