Quiet Time
Contents (102)
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Chapter 55
- Chapter 56
- Chapter 57
- Chapter 58
- Chapter 59
- Chapter 60
- Chapter 61
- Chapter 62
- Chapter 63
- Chapter 64
- Chapter 65
- Chapter 66
- Chapter 67
- Chapter 68
- Chapter 69
- Chapter 70
- Chapter 71
- Chapter 72
- Chapter 73
- Chapter 74
- Chapter 75
- Chapter 76
- Chapter 77
- Chapter 78
- Chapter 79
- Chapter 80
- Chapter 81
- Chapter 82
- Chapter 83
- Chapter 84
- Chapter 85
- Chapter 86
- Chapter 87
- Chapter 88
- Chapter 89
- Chapter 90
- Chapter 91
- Chapter 92
- Chapter 93
- Chapter 94
- Chapter 95
- Chapter 96
- Chapter 97
- Chapter 98
- Chapter 99
- Chapter 100
- Chapter 101
- Acknowledgements


Copyright © 2022, Katherine Alexandra Harvey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.
Vagrant Press is an imprint of
Nimbus Publishing Limited
3660 Strawberry Hill St, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9
(902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca
Printed and bound in Canada
Cover image: Inpatient © Iness Rychlik
Editor: Whitney Moran
Cover design: Heather Bryan
Typesetting: Rudi Tusek
Epigraph © Camille Rankine from "Emergency Management,"
first published in The New Yorker, 2020
NB1608
This is a work of fiction. While certain characters are inspired by persons no longer living, and certain events by events which may have happened, the story is a work of the imagination not to be taken as a literal or documentary representation of its subject.

Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.
We acknowledge the support of ArtsNL, which last year invested $3.2 million to foster and promote the creation and enjoyment of the arts for the benefit of all Newfoundlanders and Labradorians.
For Jordy and Emma
Some days I want to spit
me out, the whole mess of me,
but mostly I am good
and quiet.
–Camille Rankine
Chapter 1
I was born with premature tear ducts, so it was impossible for me to cry. When I woke each morning, my eyes were sealed shut, gooey and filled with pus. My mother would wipe them with a warm cloth so I was able to pry them open and see again. I cannot speak to the moments of blindness, but I remember the absence of something.
I was six months old when the doctor told my parents I would need surgery to open the ducts.
“It will be simple and quick,” the doctor stated, matter-of-factly. He had seen this many times, and to him, it was routine. “We just probe the duct to enlarge it.”
The doctor couldn’t possibly fathom the anxiety my parents felt. Their daughter, the perfect one, the one who had survived, how could she be sick?
We arrived at the hospital on the day circled on the calendar. The walls of the waiting room were painted neon green, covered with images of exotic animals. Zebras, elephants, tigers, lions, and giraffes loomed over rows of interconnected vinyl chairs that linked the expectant children. We were all there for the same reason: we were suffering. Some kids were bald from cancer treatment, others coughed weakly as their parents wiped their runny noses. The corner of the room contained a small plastic table with matching chairs, a bookcase filled with colourful storybooks, and scattered toys as if a child had been ripped away mid-play.