Hosiah’s eyes lingered on Dawson’s face first and then traveled to his mother’s and back to Dawson’s.
“How do you feel?” Dawson asked him.
“Good.” Hosiah gazed around the room for a moment as he again familiarized himself with his surroundings. General anesthesia played tricks on the mind and the memory. “Mama?”
Christine went to the other side of the bed to be closer to him. “What is it, sweetie?”
“I’m hungry.”
She exchanged a smile with Dawson. That was a good sign. She kissed Hosiah’s forehead. “They’re going to bring you something soon.”
“How hungry are you, Champ?” Dawson asked.
Through his sleepy haze, a smile played at the corners of Hosiah’s lips. He had a little game with his father. “I’m very, very, very, very hungry.”
“Hungry enough to eat twenty balls of kenkey?”
Kenkey, made from fermented corn, was a staple particularly among the Ga people.
Hosiah began to laugh, then winced. “Daddy, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Dark,” Christine said reproachfully.
“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly.
Hosiah turned pensive. “Daddy, did they really fix the hole in my heart?”
“Yes, they did.”
“So, now I’ll be fine? I can play soccer and do everything?”
“If the operation went the way it was supposed to and you heal up well.”
“And how is my favorite patient?”
One of the nurses had arrived with Hosiah’s lunch on a tray. She smiled at him. “Are you ready to eat something?”
“He’s more than ready,” Dawson said.
Christine and Dawson helped Hosiah to sit up. Dawson watched the boy’s face to see how much discomfort he was having, but his son registered little. Over countless visits to the hospital, Dawson had observed just how tough sick children could be. Hosiah could take any injection or tolerate a large-bore intravenous catheter with barely a ripple of concern. Dawson, on the other hand, was afraid of needles.
The meal was light-two slices of tea bread with honey, and a bowl of Tom Brown, a popular cereal made from lightly toasted corn. Hosiah attacked it ferociously.
“Slow down,” Christine said, laughing. “Breathe in between mouthfuls.”
The boy took a rest. “When is Sly going to be here?”
“I’ll pick him up from school later and bring him to spend time with you,” Dawson said.
He had first met nine-year-old Sly on a previous case. For a while, the boy had disappeared, surfacing later as a homeless street kid. Neither Dawson nor Christine could leave him to that fate, especially after they’d learned that Sly did not even know who or where his parents were. They began adoption proceedings, and months later Sly was officially a Dawson. Two years older than Hosiah, he was protective of his younger brother and anxious to visit him in the hospital after school.
