Part 7 – “The Quiet Room”
The door to the quiet room stayed ajar the next Wednesday. No one asked why. They just passed it gently, slowing as they did, like mourners near a chapel door.
Junebug was resting on the same blanket Dr. Sorenson had laid out, beside the window where frail sun touched her fur. Her breathing had grown thinner, almost a whisper. She hadn’t opened her eyes in two days.
Margaret sat beside her with a thermos of weak coffee and a notebook that now needed a rubber band to stay closed. The visitor log, once light and blank, had swollen with taped drawings, folded poems, notes scrawled on receipts, napkins, even a grocery list someone couldn’t bear to throw away.
At some point during the week, someone had pinned a sign beside the door:
Quiet Room: You May Enter. You May Sit. You May Remember. Please Speak Kindly—Junebug Is Listening.
Milo was the first to break protocol.
He flew in around 11:00, made two small circles above Junebug, then landed on the windowsill with a thud and a sigh.
“I brought you something,” he said.
From beneath one of his wings, Doris carefully pulled out a single sunflower seed.
“She used to sniff them when I dropped one,” Milo explained. “Never ate them, just sniffed like they were perfume.”
Margaret smiled. “She remembers.”
“She always did,” he said, a little softer now.
He laid the seed near her paw and flew off without another word.
That afternoon, a soft shuffle sounded in the hallway. Margaret looked up to see Danny enter, holding something wrapped in an old dish towel. His mother hovered in the doorway but didn’t follow.
“I brought this for her,” he whispered.
He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a tiny, hand-carved figure of Junebug—made of what looked like driftwood, with her curled body, folded ears, and one small paw stretched forward. The tail was a matchstick.
“I used my dad’s pocketknife,” he added. “Hope that’s okay.”
Margaret touched her heart. “It’s perfect.”
Danny placed the figure beside Junebug’s head. For a moment, the real dog and her wooden echo lay nose to nose—like past and present touching for one last time.
Then Danny sat down quietly.
“I think she’s more than a dog,” he said.
Margaret nodded. “She is.”
“She’s a story.”
At noon, Dr. Sorenson came in with his usual clipboard and a quiet face. He didn’t need to ask permission anymore. He just sat on the armrest of Margaret’s chair and listened.
After a while, he said, “She’s still holding on. But there’s nothing left to treat.”
“I’m not here for treatment,” Margaret replied. “I’m here to keep her from leaving alone.”
“She wouldn’t,” he said. “Not in this place.”
Outside the room, the waiting area had shifted. People spoke in hushed tones. Someone had brought in a small potted plant and left it by the corner seat. A new sketch of Junebug was taped to the wall—her eyes closed, body curled, surrounded by other animals.
Sister Abigail wore a new vest that day. This one was white, with a red heart stitched in the middle. Margaret couldn’t help but wonder who made it. Things like that just happened here now.
As dusk began to settle, and the snow outside returned in slow, half-hearted flurries, Margaret leaned in close to Junebug’s ear.
“I think you’re ready,” she whispered. “But it’s okay if you need one more story.”
Junebug didn’t move. But her tail gave one last thump against the blanket.
Margaret closed her eyes and began to speak.
Continue Reading Part 8 – “The Final Story”
