When Sparrows Fall by Meg Moseley Page A

Carl, whose southern accent had once charmed a lonely Ohio girl.
    Still at a loss for words, she bit her lip. She hadn’t imagined facing Jack in person.
    “You weren’t supposed to show up unless I died,” she blurted. “Not that dying would have been a better outcome—” Seeing his frown, she stopped. “You don’t think I meant to fall, do you?”
    “The thought occurred to me. Did you?”
    “Of course not. I must have fainted.”
    “Miranda, if you’re depressed, it isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It’s—”
    “I know what it is. But I’m not depressed. Not now.”
    “I want to believe you.”
    “Please do. I want to stop talking and hurry home to my babies.” She waited, holding her breath. If he believed she was suicidal, and if that rumor somehow reached DFCS.…
    He slid his hand inside his raincoat. From a shirt pocket, he extracted a slender black pen and a paper. “First, we have business to tend to.”
    She exhaled. “What kind of business?”
    “You need to sign this.” He unfolded the paper and held it in front of her.
    To her unfocused vision, it was only a block of his cramped and nearly indecipherable writing followed by a list of some sort in Rebekah’s neat penmanship. The lines wobbled and blurred. “What is it?”
    “This authorizes me to obtain emergency medical attention for the kids if the need should arise. Rebekah listed names and dates of birth, and I understand they’re a healthy crew with no allergies or medical conditions. Is that correct?”
    “Yes, but why would you need this? You won’t be staying more than a day or two.”
    “I’m not quite so optimistic. You can’t even drive yourself to the store. Or to your checkups with various and sundry physicians.”
    “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”
    “I would only use it in an emergency. For instance, if Rebekah whacks off a finger with one of those butcher knives she’s always slinging around.”
    “But—”
    “Or if Jonah does a face-plant into the wood stove.”
    “Yes, I suppose—”
    “Sign, please.” He placed the paper on the tray table beside the bed and offered the pen.
    She wiggled the battered, swollen fingers that extended from the sling. “I can’t grip a pen.”
    “Yes, you can.”
    With a pleasant smile, he placed the pen in her left hand. She considered tucking the pen right back in his shirt pocket, but that would have required reaching inside his raincoat.
    “Come, now,” he said. “Don’t argue about signing a simple form that deals with the short-term when you’ve already named me as the children’s guardian.”
    “But that won’t go into effect unless I die.”
    “And you’ll live for another seven decades or so, I hope.” He gave her a boyish grin and tapped the pen with one finger. “Please cooperate with me.” His grin faded. “God forbid that I should ever need this paper, but you’re living proof that accidents happen.”
    She lowered herself into the chair. “You’re right. I should be thanking you instead of arguing.” Despite the way the room rotated around her, she made the pen connect with the paper and produced an ugly, crooked scrawl.
    Jack reclaimed the pen and paper. “I’ll run down to the pharmacy and pick up your ’scripts.”
    “My what?”
    “Prescriptions. Might be a while.”
    “I don’t need the prescriptions.”
    “Wrong.” And he was out the door.

seven
    J ack’s sleek black convertible was lithe and sure on the curves, but Miranda wished he would slow down. He navigated the slick roads in the pouring rain as if he’d driven them all his life.
    Of course he did. He was mountain-bred like Carl.
    The fall must have jostled some memories out of hiding. She kept remembering the first time she saw Carl’s blond head bent over his books between classes. The oldest student on campus, he’d towered over the boys her age, not just in stature but in maturity. When the news came, he’d helped her buy a plane ticket. He spoke