Sam poked his head into Prentiss Miller's hospital room. The kid was hooked up to monitors and oxygen that hissed and beeped.
"Come in son. I'm not gonna bite." The speaker was an old lady with bright blue eyes.
"Is this Prentiss Miller's room," he asked hesitantly.
"It is." She gave him a level look that gave him the impression that he was being weighed and measured.
He stood up straight and tried to look like he was wearing a cleaner shirt. Sam began to grope for a reason for being here. He told the attendant at the desk that he was a relative. But, what if this was the grandmother? Also, he couldn't very well pass himself off as a police detective while wearing faded plaid.
"Is he alright?" Sam finally blurted. Is he alright? What the hell kind of question was that? The kid had vomited up a demon. Of course, he wasn't alright. It was just that for some reason he couldn't find it in him to lie to this women.
"No." She smiled wearily and stuffed her half finished afghan into a bag. "But, I suspect he will heal."
Sam blinked, "Are you his grandmother?"
She chuckled. "Sometimes it seems like I am everybody's grandma."
She unfolded herself from the chair and wondered over to Sam's side. She gazed with infinite sadness at the boy's prone figure. "All we can do is hope."
Sam smiled flickered doubtfully in the artificial light, "Does that really help?"
"Hope is all we really have. It may not seem like a lot; but, it's the one light that can keep back any darkness," replied the old women with solid conviction.