Mrs. Protich returned with steamed buns and noticed an awkward atmosphere in the hospital room. Pretending not to notice, she placed the buns on the table.
There were many food vendors outside the hospital, especially selling steamed buns. Not knowing which one was good, she asked around and picked a popular place. The business was indeed booming; they sold buns from morning till night. She arrived just in time to get the last basket of fresh meat buns.
Winifred Dawson didn’t like sweet buns; she preferred savory ones. At home, they made large meat buns, and she especially loved soup dumplings and crab roe buns, though the latter were too time-consuming to make, so Mrs. Protich rarely prepared them.
The buns were steaming hot, almost too hot to handle when taken out of the bag. Besides the buns, Mrs. Protich also packed some vegetarian dishes.
“Miss Dawson, these buns are still hot. You should eat them while they’re warm; they won’t taste as good cold.” If they did get cold, they could be reheated in the microwave, but reheating would make the bun skin lose its fluffiness.
As Mrs. Protich took out disposable gloves, Henry spoke up from behind.
“Since you’re back, we’ll be leaving.”
Mrs. Protich knew they would leave in the evening, so she hadn’t brought food for them. “It’s fine; I’ll stay here with Miss Dawson. She’s doing much better now. If anything happens, I’ll contact you. Mr. James, you and Mr. Zhou can go back.”
Henry gave Winifred Dawson a complicated look, still processing her earlier words about liking Leland Burns a bit.
If Mrs. Protich hadn’t suddenly returned, he would have asked Winifred Dawson to repeat herself. Now he felt unsure if he had misheard.
With Mrs. Protich’s assurance, Henry turned and left, followed by Wesley without hesitation.
Once outside, they closed the door behind them but stayed close to listen through the hallway wall.
Winifred Dawson’s left hand was hooked up to an IV drip, making it hard for her to wear gloves herself. Mrs. Protich helped her put a glove on her right hand instead. The disposable gloves didn’t insulate heat well; the buns were still quite hot to touch. After blowing on it for a while, Winifred Dawson finally took a bite.
“Is it good?” Mrs. Protich asked while observing her expression.
“It’s good,” Winifred Dawson replied after a small bite that reached the filling-pork with green onions. She didn’t like green onions and frowned slightly upon tasting them. In the past, she might have spit it out immediately.
Noticing her reaction, Mrs. Protich quickly understood what was wrong by looking at the bun’s filling.
She knew Winifred Dawson’s dietary restrictions well-no green onions, ginger, or garlic as main ingredients; they could only be used as flavoring agents and had to be removed before serving. At home, they used water infused with these ingredients for cooking to retain the flavor without leaving pieces in the food, which Winifred Dawson liked.
Winifred Dawson had many such preferences: eating eggs without yolks, picking beans out of green bean pods but not eating the pods themselves, and only eating boneless fish belly meat.
After swallowing her bite, Winifred Dawson said softly, “It’s not as good as what you make…”
“When you get discharged and we go home, I’ll cook anything you want,” Mrs. Protich promised but paused when she saw tears welling up in Winifred Dawson’s eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Not wanting anyone to see her cry, Winifred Dawson quickly lowered her head; tears fell onto her bun as she wolfed it down in big bites despite the overpowering taste of green onions that seemed especially pungent today.
“Miss Dawson, why are you crying? If you don’t like these buns, we can order something else; I also got you some vegetarian dishes.”
After finishing one bun with difficulty and letting out a muffled burp, Winifred Dawson said quietly, “It’s nothing; I just thought of someone I shouldn’t have.”
Who was this person?
“I thought he came back-that he wasn’t dead-and that he was the one who brought me to the hospital,” Winifred Dawson continued before falling silent again.
Standing outside, Henry and Wesley heard everything clearly-the sobs and every word she choked out.
Henry signaled Wesley with his eyes to leave; they entered the elevator where Henry couldn’t hold back anymore.
“I feel like I misheard things earlier. Did you hear what Winifred Dawson said? She said she kind of likes our boss now? How is that possible?”
Wesley replied calmly, “You didn’t mishear; that’s what she said.” Even he was surprised by Winifred Dawson’s words despite his usual composure.
Henry scoffed, “Every time we mentioned our boss to her before this, she acted disgusted and hateful. She herself said there was only hatred between them-no love-and even called him despicable for liking her. So what is she now?”
“People often cherish what they can’t have and regret what they’ve lost,” Wesley reasoned.
“So you think what Winifred Dawson said is true?”
“Why not? She’s been with Mr. Burns for so long; it’s natural for some feelings to develop over time. Now that she believes he’s dead and all hatred has faded away, it’s normal for love to surface.”
“Listening to you makes me question what’s real or fake anymore,” Henry admitted as Winifred Dawson’s sobs echoed in his mind. He regretted not recording it; playing it back for Leland Burns would surely lift his spirits immensely.
“We should tell our boss about this later; he’ll be thrilled,” Henry suggested gleefully at the thought of their proud young lady regretting after his ‘death.’ “It feels so satisfying! I hope Winifred Dawson suffers forever without ever finding mutual love.”
As they exited the elevator and stepped outside, an ambulance rushed in with paramedics carrying a stretcher toward them.
The person on it was writhing in pain and trembling violently as medical staff secured him with side rails to prevent him from falling off.
Henry glanced casually but did a double-take upon recognizing Liam Burkhart on the stretcher.
Why is he only being brought here now?
Something seemed off-his clothes had been changed into hospital attire from another facility indicating he had been transferred here recently.
Curiosity piqued Henry looked closer at Liam’s legs remembering Leland Burns’ brutal kick earlier.
Even if transferred between hospitals no amount of care could fix what Leland’s kick had done-it could cripple any man regardless of physical strength unless perhaps Liam sought help from a plastic surgery hospital for prosthetics or implants.