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I was sitting at the nurse’s station, reading trashy tabloids and drinking coffee when Olga -- the other nurse on duty -- poked my arm.

“The little girl escaped,” she said, with a giggle.


She pointed to the security camera feed.

Little Madeline was standing in the hallway, her image grainy and pixelated.

We’d admitted Madeline at 8:23 PM. A little girl, no more than six. Her face covered in blood. She’d taken a nasty fall down the stairs. Dr. Thompson was worried she might develop a subdural hematoma, so we were keeping her for overnight.

“Ugh, no. She shouldn’t be up.” I paused, leaning towards the monitor. “And where’d she get those clothes?”

She wasn’t wearing the hospital gown we’d put her to bed in. No -- she was wearing a black dress, white stockings, and shiny black shoes. As if she were all dressed up for church. Or a funeral.

And she kept whipping her head back and forth. As if expecting someone to come down the hallway.

“Well? Are you going to go get her or not?” Olga said, looking up from her phone.

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