Page 72 of Breathing Her Fire

TUCKER

The activity buzzing around me is starting to get on my nerves as I wait for the doctor to give me an update on Noah. He’s been healing pretty well, but they called me to discuss a new development. No one has been able to find the doctor or tell me what’s going on. I’m worried something major is wrong, but the last couple of times I’ve been here, he’s seemed fine.

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a message notification. I quickly check it since I’m still waiting on the doctor.

Uncle Jack: Hey, I’ve got news for you. Can we meet up?

Me: Sure, I’m at the hospital visiting Noah. We can meet in the waiting room, or I can text you when I’m done. Should only be a couple of hours.

Uncle Jack: I can meet you at the hospital. See you later.

I pocket my phone when I see the doctor walking down the hallway toward me.

“Sorry for the delay, I had a patient who needed my assistance.” His brown hair is swept back, and the glasses sitting on his nose make him seem like he should be in a college library rather than a hospital.

I nod my head for him to continue talking. “Noah’s burns are healing nicely, but we’re a little worried about the nerve damage in his hand. We’ve been doing some tests, and his fingers aren’t responding quite like they should.”

“What does that mean? Does he need therapy? Can it be fixed?”

“We’d like to start him on physical and occupational therapy, which will help, but we’re not sure if the damage will be permanent,” the doctor says, his expression blank.

“Okay, why haven’t you started therapy already?”

“Well, Noah’s care is being paid for by the state, and they’ll only cover part of the therapy.”

“Fucking figures,” I mumble. My teeth clench together as I try not to yell at the doctor because I know he’s just relaying information to me. “I’ll pay for the costs, whatever they are, just start the therapy and make sure he has the best chance at getting better.”

The doctor nods his head and grabs the paperwork needed to get started. It looks like Noah’s caseworker has already signed off on the treatment, but I have to finish the financial paperwork so they’ll continue the therapy when the covered sessions run out.

“He should be healed up and ready to be discharged in the next couple of weeks,” the doctor says, surprising me.

“What’s going to happen then? Where will he go?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but I’d imagine the caseworker will find him a foster home.”

I nod, but in my head, I’m screaming profanities. This kid doesn’t deserve the shit life he’s had, but I have no idea if there’s anything I can do about it. I finish up the paperwork and head towards Noah’s room to say hello.

He’s sitting on his bed, watching a movie on the portable DVD player I brought him.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, walking into the room.

He looks up and a big smile stretches across his face, making my chest ache. I’ve been visiting him a couple of times a week since he’s been here, and every time, it gets harder and harder to leave him.

“Hi, Tucker! I’m watching the ‘credibles!” He points to the screen, and I see his favorite movie, The Incredibles, playing.

“Can I watch with you?” I ask him, pulling a chair over to his bed. He just nods his head, his attention solely on the movie.

“Look, it's you!” he says about the dad saving a person on the screen.

“I don’t know, bud, he’s a superhero. I’m not a superhero.”

“Yeah, you are. You saved me,” he says, grabbing my hand and holding on to it tightly. I swallow hard at the emotion bubbling up my throat. I might’ve saved him from the fire but I don’t know how to save him from the life he’s going to live when he gets out of the hospital. I wish I could just take him home with me, but I doubt they’d let a single guy adopt a little boy.

Maybe I can talk with his caseworker and see what my options are.

When the movie ends, I close the player and set it off to the side. “The doctor told me they’re going to help make your fingers work better,” I say, trying to gauge his reaction. There’s been a few times Noah got freaked out over a therapy they had to do, so I want to make sure he’ll be okay with his PT.

He holds up his left hand and opens and closes his fist, his pinky and ring finger barely moving. “They’re kinda fuzzy,” he says, touching his fingers.

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