I stared at him.
"Several?"
He turned the page.
"There were other patients, Sarah."
"How many?"
"At least nine listed in this surviving material."
My hands went cold.
"Nine children?"
"Some were children. Others were adults."
I thought of my father.
The money.
The silence.
The years spent believing I had simply been unlucky.
"Did they all lose their sight?"
"We'll need to verify what happened to each patient."
I pressed my hands against my face.
For the first time, my suffering felt like part of something much larger.
Something hidden.
Something deliberate enough to require forged records and decades of secrecy.
Dr. Harris continued examining the documents.
Then he stopped.
"Sarah, where did your father get this?"
He held up a photograph.
It showed a group of doctors standing outside the hospital.
My father was among them.
So was a younger man Dr. Harris identified as Charles Rowan.
Beside them stood a woman holding a clipboard.
