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Dayne finished unwrapping the bandages from her seven-year-old patient's face. She was supposed to apply a new coat of Silvadene, then rewrap the head. Most of the boy's skull had been shaved before surgery, and blood had matted, black and ugly, in the remaining strands of hair.
While she did the dressing and began his bath, Dayne sang songs her mother had sung to her when she was a child.
"If you go down to the woods tonight,
You'd better go in disguise.
If you go down to the woods tonight,
You're in for a big surprise.
'Cause all the bears that ever were there,
Are gonna be there again today . . .
'Cause today's the day the
Teddy bears have their picnic."
She rolled him gently and applied antibiotic ointment to the abrasions on his body. He was so small, and so horribly quiet.
"Down in the valley, the valley so low,
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow,
Hear the wind blow, love
Hear the wind blow,
Down in the valley . . ."
She started to cry. She was angry with herself—she usually managed to stay bright and cheerful and professional when she was around her patients, but her patients weren't usually seven years old. She knew the little boy's doctor was out talking with his parents right then, telling them that the life support that was keeping air in his lungs was never going to make him better, and that they ought to prepare themselves for u