Page 4 of Every Good Thing
Five Years Later
Rain gently taps the hood of my patrol car and pings objects that shouldn’t be outside—used plates and cups on a ragged picnic table, a ripped open case of Miller Lite, and a plastic bin of action figures. It’s a wonder there are toys.
Motherfuckers.
The scene unfolding around me is more solemn than most—it’s always like that when children are involved. The CSI team works in relative silence. Officers speak into their two-way radios in hushed tones, requesting information about the occupants. Another speaks on the phone to the rather ambitious Jehovah’s Witnesses, who requested a well-check at the residence after hearing noises inside but didn’t call until later when they decided the whimpering sounded more human-like than a dog, as they first thought. The location feels remote, even though it’s in a large trailer park. The property looks carved into the woods, like a hovel at the back end of the neighborhood, far enough from neighbors not to get much attention. There are no signs of life except a naked doll sitting upright on the picnic table, occasionally saying, “Mommy,” in a drawn-out slur when anyone comes near it.
And, of course, the kid.
I finger my temples, feeling pained and nauseated.
Detective Ed Gentry has taken over; it’s an investigation now. We’ve had our differences, but although the guy’s an old-school asshole with no filter, he’s like a bulldog with cases like these. I have no doubt that he’ll apprehend the suspects forthwith and without leniency.
He approaches me now, hands fixed on his belt, flashing his gold badge. “Okay, lieutenant? You look a little green.”
“Fine.”
“Found our suspects tying one on at the Copper Penny downtown. Got ‘em in custody. The boy’s parents and uncle. All three occupy the house, so they’ll all go down for it. That and the meth they were using and selling,” he reports, glancing at his black notebook.
“Any other relatives to contact?” I ask.
“Nope. There’s no one else.”
“He’ll have to go into the system,” I sigh. “Call Olivia Jones. She’s good with kids like this. Have her meet him at the hospital.”
“Already done,” he says. “Go home, Wright. Your shift ended hours ago, and it’s a tough one. I got this. We’ll get the kid to the hospital and take good care of him.”
“About that,” Officer Pam Gay chimes in, rushing over. “He’s anxious about going.” She motions toward the nearby ambulance. “He keeps asking for the big guy.”
I cross the littered lawn, leaving them to handle the scene. At the ambulance’s open doors, I find the kid huddled under a blanket on the gurney, sitting slouched and curled rather than lying down, like he’s lived his life in a tiny ball. Small. His hair is matted with scum, his face smudged with dirt, and his eyes look icy with fear. Each cheek boasts a long scar, scabbed over and red with infection. His fingers are skeletal, gripping the blanket tightly around his neck and holding the flashlight I gave him—inside the trailer was unnaturally dark.
The paramedic attempts to coax him to lie down while the other holds an IV, ready for application.
The kid only stares over their heads, his mouth open and lips trembling.
“We need to secure him,” she says when she sees me, “but he’s…”
Scared shitless.
With a languid glance to see who the paramedic is speaking to, the kid notices me. He scurries on all fours to the end of the gurney before reaching out to me, his stick-like arms and legs latching around my neck and waist, regardless of my belt, vest, and radio, just like he did after I broke down the trailer door and unlocked the dog crate holding him inside.
All I said to him then was, “You’re safe now.”
It’s hard to believe that ten hours ago, I dropped Ruthie at preschool. I still feel her chubby cheek pressing against mine for her “goodbye, Dad” hug. She smelled like apple juice and laundry detergent and gushed about her noodle-necklace art project, presently rubbing my chest under my shirt. She’d colored each macaroni differently to create a rainbow, which she said would keep me safe before making me promise to wear it.
Now, my hand goes to brace the kid’s back, and I feel his ribs under his filthy, adult-sized t-shirt. He feels like a heavy coat, not a child. My heart, my fucking soul, feels shredded.
“It’s okay, Adam.”
“Don’t go,” he whispers, his voice so low and raspy I’m surprised I hear it.
“Ride with us?” asks the relieved paramedic. “So we can stabilize him?”
My brow pinches atop a developing migraine, but I nod. I relinquish the keys to my patrol car to Officer Gay. I climb aboard, ducking to avoid hitting my head. I tug Adam from me, setting him gently on the gurney—a move he allows, though he grabs my hand as if I’ll abandon him. I think of Lena and how her hands shake when she panics—it hardly happens anymore.
I wish she were here. She’d know how to put this boy at ease. She’d make him feel at home, even if he no longer has one. Not that he did. Not that he even understands what home is.
“Look at me,” I tell him as the paramedic readies the needle for the IV. He doesn’t even wince as it punctures his dainty forearm between dark finger bruises where someone has gripped him and squeezed.
