The Home Sick Witness
Kyson Hunter, a thin, fit officer with short dark hair, and Sisko, a lean, muscular black Lab/Shepherd mix, entered the sterile white hallway of the city hospital. The scent of antiseptic and something faintly floral hung in the air. Sisko’s powerful nose twitched, registering a subtle undercurrent of anxiety mixed with the clinical smells. They were visiting a witness, a Mr. Hardy, who had been hospitalized after a minor car accident.
They found Mr. Hardy in a private room. He was a middle-aged man, pale and fidgeting, surrounded by a small mountain of medical pamphlets.
I’m homesick
“Officer Hunter,” Hardy said, his voice thin and reedy. “I… I’m homesick.” He clutched at a crumpled tissue. “I think I might have developed… a rare tropical disease. The pamphlets say it causes… homesickness.”
Kyson exchanged a subtle look with Sisko, who sat calmly at his side, her tail thumping a quiet rhythm against the floor.
“Mr. Hardy,” Kyson began, his tone professional and reassuring, “we appreciate you cooperating with the investigation. The accident was minor, and your doctor confirmed no serious injuries.”
“But the pamphlets…” Hardy insisted, waving a pamphlet titled “Rare Tropical Diseases You Probably Don’t Have.” “They say the symptoms are… anxiety, restlessness… feeling… unwell.”
Sisko nudged Kyson’s hand with her wet nose. Kyson looked at her and then back at Hardy. He noticed a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in Hardy’s hand.
“Mr. Hardy,” Kyson continued, “While you are perfectly welcome to read as much as you want, sometimes, focusing on minor inconveniences can… amplify them. The hospital is temporarily inconvenient. It is not a dangerous place, and you’re under the care of excellent doctors.” He paused. “What about your favorite book? Or a good movie? Something to focus on besides your worries?”
“Well… I do have a copy of ‘Moby Dick’ on my nightstand. I’ve always wanted to read it.”
“Excellent choice,” Kyson replied, a slight smile on his lips. “Perhaps that will be more engaging than medical pamphlets. Sisko here agrees.” Sisko gave a small bark of agreement and gently nudged the man’s hand with her head.
Good literature can’t hurt
“Officer Hunter is right,” a doctor entering the room added. “Mr. Hardy is perfectly healthy; his anxiety is likely stemming from the accident and being away from his routine. Rest and relaxation are crucial right now.” He checked Henderson’s chart. “And some good literature certainly can’t hurt.”
Hardy seemed slightly calmer. “I… I suppose you’re right. Maybe I’ll read a chapter.” He managed a weak smile.
Kyson and Sisko exchanged a look. The situation was resolved, mostly. Sisko sniffed the air one last time, confirming the lessening of Mr. Hardy’s anxiety. It was subtle, almost undetectable to the human nose, but as clear as day. They left Mr. Hardy to his “Moby Dick,” his anxiety noticeably diminished. For Sisko at least, the hospital’s sterile air smelled of a successful intervention, less like illness and more like hope.
