The doctor wore green scrubs beneath her white coat, and bronze-rimmed glasses. Her expression, usually composed, was unmistakably shaken.
"Walter?" she said softly.
He did not hear. Claire took a step toward her.
"Is something wrong?"
Dr. Park looked at the child, the tray, and the man whose right hand was curled protectively around a small shoulder. "How long have they been here?"
"At least two days, I think. His daughter's in intensive care."
"His daughter?"
"Tessa Brooks. She was in a highway collision."
The doctor closed her eyes for an instant. When she opened them, she walked across the cafeteria, ignoring the curious glances of people who knew how rarely the chief medical officer appeared there during the lunch rush.
"Mr. Brooks," she said.
Walter lifted his face. His eyes were damp, and his expression changed from embarrassment to confusion.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"My name is Miriam Park. You may not remember me."
He studied her. Her glasses were different from the ones she had worn years before, and her hair was shorter. Still, something in her voice stirred an old memory. He straightened carefully so as not to wake June.
"Have we met?"
"Twenty-two years ago. On the night of the Mercer Creek school bus accident."
In January 2004, Walter had been thirty-nine and working as a city transit mechanic. An unexpected winter storm swept across Dayton just before schools closed for the afternoon. On his way home, he saw a yellow school bus broken through a guardrail near Mercer Creek, its rear wheels hanging above water swollen by melting snow.
Other drivers had stopped, but no one could reach the emergency door because the bus had twisted against the barrier. Walter had an iron tire bar in the trunk of his car. He pulled it free and ran to the wreck while someone called for help.
Inside, children were crying. The driver was slumped over the wheel. Water poured through a broken side window. Walter forced the rear emergency door open and began lifting children toward the people gathered on the embankment. He climbed in and out until his hands were numb, then climbed back once more when someone shouted that a boy was still trapped beneath a seat.
The boy was ten-year-old Evan Park. His coat was caught around a bent metal brace, and he kept repeating that he could not feel his feet. Walter cut the fabric with a small tool from his pocket, lifted him, and pushed him toward the light. As Walter followed, the bus shifted and trapped his right wrist between the railing and the doorframe.
He was the last civilian pulled from the wreck. Paramedics wrapped his wrist and brought him to St. Anne's while police counted the rescued children. Several kids were seriously hurt, but everyone on that bus survived.