When Sparrows Fall by Meg Moseley

mood.
    “Jack? Where are you? Why aren’t you answering the phone?”
    “I just did, Miranda.”
    His phone beeped a warning. It was on its last breath of battery power.
    “I meant the house phone,” she said.
    “I am not at the house.”
    “Where are you? I’ve been trying—reach you.” The dying phone cut in and out. “The doctors—tests look good—discharging me today.”
    “Glad to hear it. I’ll run the kids home, and then I’ll pick you up.”
    The phone made its last-chance beep.
    “I … wh … but … er …  are you?”
    “Walmart. Those all-American purveyors of dangerous books and frozen pizzas.”
    No reaction from Miranda.
    He checked the screen. Dark. Dead.
    Pretending the phone hadn’t expired, he returned it to his ear. “I’m bustin’ some kids out of prison,” he said into the useless instrument. “And hang on to your hat, Mrs. H., because you’re next.”

    An aide had put Miranda’s hair in a French braid so loosely that it was already a mess. At least she had clean clothes to wear and her spare cape. Jack must have brought them on an earlier visit, when she was sleeping.
    She’d called the house again, and Timothy assured her they’d come home safely. Jack was on his way. Too edgy to sit still, she hauled herself out of the bedside chair and hobbled to the window. Her head throbbed and her vision swirled. She ached all over, and her ribs stabbed her with every breath, but she was done with narcotics. She needed to be alert. In control.
    Still resenting the sling that supported her right arm, she braced herself against the windowsill with her good hand and looked out on the rainy day. She was on the second floor with a view of a narrow, brown lawn, the visitors’ parking lot, and a short stretch of Lee Street. A truck rumbled past, sending sheets of rainwater splashing over the curb, but the hospital’s thick walls muffled the sounds of the outside world.
    A young woman, drenched with rain, jaywalked between a pickup and a car. In a brown parka and worn jeans, with a phone to her ear, she dodged puddles in a gamey, cheerful way that made Miranda smile.
    Her wish list kept growing. A cell phone. Jeans. And instead of a cape, a parka. A red one. Once Mason had moved away, she would go on a shopping spree for herself and for the children.
    She never had extra money, though, and she’d have even less when the checks from the church stopped coming. She didn’t even want to think about her medical bills.
    Miranda squinted at the local paper her roommate had left folded up on the corner of the bed. It was no use trying to check the want ads for work untilher vision cleared. She’d never dreamed that a concussion could cause so much trouble.
    Footsteps approached her room. There was a light knock, and a dark-haired, dark-eyed man entered, wearing a rumpled raincoat. She knew him immediately—yet she didn’t know him. Although he bore some resemblance to the idealistic young man who’d come in search of family, years ago, this Jack carried himself with an intimidating air of confidence.
    Speaking with him on the phone had been awkward, but this was worse. She couldn’t think of a blessed thing to say. Couldn’t think of a blessed thing to think , except: This was Jack “Tsunami” Hanford, and she was in trouble.
    Laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. “Hey, Miranda. Remember me?”
    “Hello, Jack.” The room resumed its merry-go-round routine. “Thank you for everything. Thank you so much.”
    “Glad to help. How are you feeling?”
    “Like I’ve been run over by a freight train.”
    “The kids can’t wait to have you back. They’ll want to pamper you half to death.”
    “That sounds good. I’ve missed them.”
    “I can imagine. They’re great kids. Very well-behaved. Never having been the sole custodian of a passel of young ’uns, I’m grateful for that.”
    Despite his education, he still sounded like a country boy. In fact, he sounded very much like