Page 5 of Every Good Thing
Motherfuckers.
The paramedic hands me a pack of cookies while asking Adam if he’s hungry. He doesn’t answer. I rip open the pack, take a bite, and offer the rest to him. He gobbles it up like he’s starved.
He is starved.
I hate this fucking planet sometimes.
At the hospital, I hold Adam’s hand through his medical evaluation. Color returns to his face as the IV bag empties, and he relaxes. He’s malnourished, dehydrated, and covered in cuts and bruises. His fingers shake perpetually as everything happens, making me wonder how he has the energy. Whenever he’s asked a question, he looks to me for approval.
I don’t know what to say to him. Of course, not knowing what to say is a frequent problem for me, but it’s worse with him. I can’t talk video games or school or TV shows with a kid who’s spent an undetermined amount of time locked in a dog crate and probably years suffering his family’s abuse.
But Adam seems okay with my silence, especially as hospital staff move in and out, each trying to connect with the kid but failing. He clicks my flashlight on and off, shining it around the room.
My contact at social services arrives. Olivia Jones is a family friend, and she’ll keep me updated on Adam’s situation. She brings a colleague, Mira, who will handle Adam’s case.
My paternal instinct wants to take Adam home, be his dad, and show him the love and care he’s never had. But that’s not how things work. Besides, I trust Olivia Jones to find him the ideal situation and get him the help he’ll undoubtedly need.
They consult with the doctor while I stay with him.
In the quiet between visitors, Adam plays with my hand, comparing his with mine. He’s older than Ruthie, but his hand is only slightly bigger. He seems to marvel at my size; kids often find me amusing that way. I remember the first time I held Ruthie—she felt like a football in the crook of my arm, and I felt larger than normal holding her. Peering up at me with her bright green eyes, watching every move I made, I felt like a hero.
Adam sees me that way, too. He imprinted me with the label the moment I unlocked the dog crate. But I’m not. I’m no fucking hero.
He gives me a curious look and motions to my neck. I feel along my collar and find the string of Ruthie’s macaroni necklace peeking out. I pull it free and take it off to show Adam. He smiles, running his tiny, nail-bit fingers over the multicolored noodles, touching each one in strange delight. He shakes the necklace, and it rattles. Then, he hugs it to himself before returning it to me.
“I can’t stay much longer,” I tell him flatly.
He nods, his smile falling.
“But I promise you’ll be well cared for,” I say, “and you’ll never go back to that house again.”
His slight shoulders release as he nods again.
I hand him the necklace. “My daughter made it. She said it would keep me safe. I want you to have it.”
His smile perks as I slip it over his head. He holds up the flashlight questioningly. “For the dark?”
“Keep it, too.”
“Thank you, Officer Wright.” His voice is raspy and unsure, but he forces the words out. “I’m lucky you found me.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I tell him.
Lucky. The word clangs in my head and burrows under my skin on the way home. It’s after midnight. Rain drenches the windshield. The streets are empty, but the drive feels long. My head pounds, and pressure tightens my chest. The day’s reality hits me—I almost didn’t save him, almost left him there to die, almost failed him like everyone else in his life, almost left him behind.
My hands strangle the steering wheel. Gunfire whizzes by my ears, but it’s not real. It’s that day, surging through my usual fortress. “You got lucky, Wright. Could’ve been you,” I remember a medic saying under the helicopter’s roar as we were lifted away. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky.
It should’ve been me.
I reach home but don’t remember getting here.
I climb the stairs but don’t feel the cool night air or the rain drenching my clothes.
When I enter, the dogs bark softly, stirring Lena on the couch. She glances at the clock on the microwave.
“Ben, you’re so late. Everything okay?”
I peel off my belt, radio, vest, and shirt as I make my way to her, dropping them as I go, like burdens I can’t carry for one more second. Finally, I kneel before her place on the couch, aching with exhaustion and run ragged with emotional bullshit.
