lifts her over his shoulder and begins patting and rubbing her back. A few moments later, I hear a loud burp.
My eyebrows arch. That was Lara? I didn't even know babies burp, let alone so loudly. How can such a brassy sound come from such a small body? Yet it did, and now Lara is quiet. So she was fussy because of gas pains? How did Antonio know that?
He pats Lara's back a while longer, then carefully puts her inside her bassinet. I hold my breath as he does it, afraid that Lara will wake up and start crying again like she did earlier, but she doesn't. This time, the air remains silent. Lara doesn't stir.
I let go of the breath I've been holding. Thank goodness.
"Are you okay?" Antonio asks as he turns to face me.
I nod. "Thank you."
Then I see the stain on his shirt. My eyes grow wide.
"Your shoulder."
I grab a few sheets of tissue from the box on the nightstand and start to wipe his shirt. He gets them from me and continues the task.
"It's fine."
I scratch the back of my head as my chin drops. "You must think I'm such a lousy mother."
"No." Antonio places a hand on my arm. "And you shouldn't think so either, Triss. You are doing your best."
I shake my head. "Which wasn't enough."
To my surprise, he grabs my wrist. I look into his eyes.
"You are enough," he tells me, his gaze so piercing and the conviction in his voice so clear I almost believe him.
Almost.
I free my hand from his grasp and tuck it inside my elbow as I turn away. My gaze goes into the darkness past the window.
"Are you always this kind to people you've never met before?" I ask him.
"Should I only be kind to people I know?"
I look at him with furrowed eyebrows. "I didn't mean..."
"Maybe." He shrugs as he answers my question. "I hope so. I hate to think I've been mean to anyone."
My eyebrows arch. He's never been mean to anyone? Wow.
"I've lost my temper, of course. I once slapped a woman because she was panicking so much about her sick child that I couldn't do my job. I get mad at parents who neglect or endanger their children, children who hurt others. I broke a chair once after I failed to save someone's life. But I find no point in being mean to others on purpose."
He's a saint. I didn't know they still existed.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" he asks me. "You're looking at me like I am."
I am?
"No. I..." I scratch my forehead as I avert my gaze. "I don't think you're crazy. I'm just... surprised. Not everyone can be kind."
In fact, some people are the exact opposite. Cold. Heartless. They delight in the sufferings of others.
"Everyone can," Antonio tells me. "It's just a matter of choosing to be."
A difficult choice, and yet he makes it sound so easy. I wonder how.
"Your parents must have been kind, too," I theorize.
I regret my statement as soon as I've said it, remembering that Antonio said his parents were no longer around. I'm about to apologize but he speaks first.
"Mitch and Abby were good people."
I give him a puzzled look. Mitch and Abby? He calls his parents by their first names? Well, I guess that's better than the names I call my parents by.
I wait for him to ask about them, but he doesn't. Come to think of it, he hasn't asked me any questions about who I am, where I'm from or why I'm here, a fact that I'm grateful for.
I approach the window and look out. "I bet this town is full of good people."
Antonio stands next to me. "They try to be."
"Such a quiet town," I observe out loud.
I can barely hear anything outside apart from the breeze. No cars. No loud music. No fighting.
"It is," Antonio agrees. "That's one of the things I love about it."
I look at him. "You've probably lived here all your life, haven't you?"
"Not all," he answers.
No? Ah, he must have had to go away to attend medical school. I can't imagine this town having one.
I study Antonio's face. Wait a sec. He doesn't look older than thirty. Shouldn't he still be in medical school?
"Aren't you a little young to be a doctor?" I ask him out loud.
"I went to medical school as soon as I could," he answers. "Finished it quickly, too."
He says that without a shred of arrogance, as if it's nothing. And yet even