Christopher?” a voice spoke. “Christopher?”
The boy was cold. There was a blanket on top of him. Hospital-thin and scratchy.
“Christopher? Can you hear us?” the voice continued.
The little boy opened his eyes. But his eyes hurt like leaving a movie in the afternoon. He squinted around the room and saw shapes of grown people. There was a doctor. He couldn’t see his face, but his stethoscope felt like ice on his chest.
“His color is returning,” the doctor said. “Can you hear me, Christopher?”
The little boy squinted and found his mother. All hazy with light. He felt her smooth warm hand on his forehead. Like the times he got sick.
“I’m here, honey,” his mother said, her voice breaking a little.
Christopher tried to speak, but the words got caught in his dry throat. Every swallow was sandpaper.
“Honey, if you can hear us, wiggle your toe,” his mother said.
Christopher didn’t know if he wiggled it or not. He couldn’t feel his toes much. He was still very cold. But he guessed it worked.
“Excellent,” the doctor said. “Can you move your hands?”
He did. They felt a little numb. Like a funny bone all over.
“Christopher,” another man’s voice said. “Can you speak?”
Christopher squinted up and saw the sheriff. He remembered him from the day in the park when his mother got the job at Shady Pines. The sheriff was a strong man. As tall as the tetherball pole at school.
“Can you speak?” the sheriff repeated.
Christopher’s throat was so dry. He remembered when he had strep throat and the medicine tasted like a weird cherry. He took a swallow and tried to force out a word. But it hurt his throat too much.
Christopher shook his head, no.
“That’s fine, son,” the sheriff said. “But I need to ask you a few questions. So, just nod your head yes or no, all right?”
Christopher nodded yes.
“Very good. You were found on the north end of the Mission Street Woods. Did someone take you there?”
All of the grown-ups were pins and needles. Waiting for his answer. Christopher searched his mind for a memory, but there was nothing but empty space. He couldn’t remember anything. Still, he didn’t think anyone took him to the woods. He would have remembered something like that. After a moment, he shook his head. No. And he could feel breath return to the room.
“Did you get lost, then?” the sheriff asked.
Christopher thought really hard like when he was practicing reading. If no one took him, then he must have gotten lost. That made sense.
He nodded. Yes, he got lost.
The doctor traded his cold stethoscope for rough, fleshy hands. He checked Christopher’s limbs and joints, then put blood pressure Velcro over his skinny arm. Christopher got scared that he would have to pee in a cup later. He always felt so ashamed when he had to do that.
“In the woods…did anyone hurt you?” the sheriff continued.
Christopher shook his head. No. The doctor hit the button and the blood pressure machine made a grinding noise, strangling his arm. When it was done, the doctor took the Velcro off with a r-r-r-ip and jotted down some notes. He heard the pen.
Swish swish swish.
“Did you hear the cars? Is that how you found your way out of the woods?”
Christopher looked at the doctor’s notepad. He began to get an uneasy feeling. A pressure in his head. A dull little headache that usually went away when his mom gave him the aspirin that tasted like orange chalk. But this one was different somehow. Like he had enough headache for the both of them.
“In the woods…did you hear the cars? Is that how you found your way out of the woods?”
Christopher snapped out of it. He shook his head. No.
“So, you found the way out on your own?”
Christopher shook his head. No. The room got silent.
“You didn’t find the way out? Did someone help you out of the woods?”
Christopher nodded. Yes.
“Who helped you, Christopher?” the sheriff asked.
He gave Christopher a pad of paper and a pencil to write down the name. Christopher took a hard swallow. He whispered. Barely audible.
“The nice man.”