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Sam was two blocks from the hospital when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his heart jumping with hope. It had done that every time he received a message for the last two weeks. Ever since he had last seen Chuck. So far, he’d only experienced disappointment, but his heart refused to give up its hopeful vigil.
The screen displayed a text message from his father. Swallowing disappointment, Sam swiped the notification open. I’m in town and near the hospital. Grab a coffee before your shift?
Sam blinked and reread the message before typing his reply. Meet you in the waiting room in 15 minutes?
His steps sped up. He would throw his things in his locker and have plenty of time to prepare for his shift. He usually arrived early Saturdays to give the lady at the charity shop a hand.
Lost in thought, Sam found himself at the hospital in no time. Sam made his way toward the front waiting room, pulling a sweatshirt over his scrubs and tucking his lanyard into his pocket.
It was half full. A man, his face grizzled by a life lived too hard, sat with a blond boy in an oversized jacket. As Sam passed, the boy glanced up, then away. Three chairs down, a muscle-bound twenty-something sat with a blood-soaked rag clutched to his face. A hockey bag bulged by his feet, a stick protruding from the busted zipper like an errant limb.
The hockey tournament. Every year it brought the hospital staff a wide assortment of bloody noses, concussions, and the occasional heart attack. Plenty of middle-aged men viewed the weekend-long tourney as their yearly claim to manly retribution and physical exertion. The entire scene had the makings of a long night. Sam checked his phone. Five minutes and his dad would look for him.
The little boy was alone now, head hanging as he studied something in his lap. Sam went to walk by, then, on impulse, approached him.
“Hey buddy, whatcha got there?” he asked.
The boy scuttled back into the shelter of the seat’s plastic embrace at the sound of Sam’s voice. Huge brown eyes flicked up to Sam’s, then darted around the room. Sam squatted in front of the chair, bringing himself to the child’s level.
“It’s my Spider-Man.” The voice was timid but steady.
“Awesome!” Sam grinned, careful to remain still. “I was always a Batman guy myself, but Spider-Man is really cool.”
A shy smile curved the boy’s lips. “I like Batman, but I don’t have any other toys.”
“Well, that’s smart,” Sam said. “You wouldn’t want to bring too many here or you might lose them. Good to just have your favourite.”
The boy studied Sam’s face for a moment, then looked down at the toy. “I don’t have any others at home either.”
Sam’s heart twisted. It was an old familiar ache. He could not be sure, but he guessed the boy was about seven. A similar age to his niece, who was loud and robust, with a room bursting with more toys than she knew what to do with.
“Can I see him?” Sam asked. “Promise I’ll be gentle.”
Bottomless dark eyes roamed around once more. They remained on Sam’s face longer this time and reminded him fleetingly of Chuck’s. Eyes deep enough you could tumble right into them.
“Okay.” The boy passed the toy to him. Most of the paint had worn away, and one hand looked as if it had been none too cleanly amputated by the jaws of a canine.
“Do you have a dog at home?” Sam asked. “I love dogs.”
The blond head shook back and forth. “No, I found it like this. I think it got throwed away.”
“Sweet,” Sam said, turning the figure over in his hands once more before he passed it back. “Well, I think it makes Spider-Man look even tougher.” When the boy reached out, Sam glanced down. The skinny wrist that protruded from the jacket sleeves was ringed in deep blue. Stark morbid bangles against pale, fresh skin. Sam swallowed the wave of angry nausea swelling in his throat.
“What happened there?” He forced his voice into a semblance of casual as he gestured toward the marks. Quick as gophers, the wrists disappeared back into their cuffs.
“No...nothing.” Panic flared and burned in the brown eyes.
“Hey! What the hell you doin’?” a rough voice barked.
Sam pressed the toy firmly back into the small hands and rose to his feet. “Good after—” He didn’t have time to finish. The man stomped toward Sam, lips knotted in a fury, deep-set eyes wild. Without pausing, he snatched the hockey stick from the bloodied hockey player’s bag as he passed.
“Hey now!” Sam spread his hands at his sides but planted his feet, watching the wooden blade. “I was just talking to your boy, saying hi. I work here.”
“Don’t hey me! I know what you’re up to. Trying to take my kid away from me. Just trying to get some meds for my back, and you vultures swoop in. I got news for you. You’re not getting him.”
The scabbed face twisted into a snarl, and he stabbed the blade toward Sam’s stomach. Sam reacted, turning his body sideways, but the man was faster than he expected. The flat edge drove into his side and propelled the air out of his lungs in an agonizing whoosh. Mouth wide, Sam tipped forward in a breathless attempt to move away. The stick caught him across the jaw, and fireworks burst in a giddy buzz behind his lids, saturating his oxygen-deprived brain with dizzying light.
How stereotypical, his frantic mind supplied with cynical timing, as the darkness tickled at the edges of his consciousness. A proper Canadian beating. He hit the floor hard, twisting to guard his organs and head as the stick drove into the floor inches from his face with a crack.
A boot connected with his back, and then nothing else mattered but the stomach-twisting crunch that echoed through his body. The sound mingled with the screams of other patients, the shouts of medical staff. Pain flared white-hot as Sam gasped for air. Iron bloomed on his tongue as his chin connected with the floor.
The last thing that made sense in the face of the impending darkness was the bellow of his father’s voice over the din.
***
Sawyer was sound asleep, his limbs tangled with Carmen’s when the cell phone on the bedside table blared to life. Strains of “Lean on Me” sprang around their bedroom. With a growl, Sawyer rolled, fumbling for the phone. Carmen had switched the ringtone for when his dad called, and he still couldn’t figure out how to change it back.
“You’re fixing that in the morning,” he rasped at his wife, who sprawled in oblivion at his side. “Hello?”
“Sawyer, it’s your father.”
“Yeah, Dad, I know. What’s going on? It’s like—” He squinted at the clock. It read 11:30. Sawyer groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “God, what happened to me?”
“You got married,” came Carmen’s sleepy mumble from the other side of the bed.
“Sawyer, for fuck’s sake, listen to me.” His dad’s deep voice was loud and strained over the phone. The hairs on Sawyer’s arms rose.
“It’s your brother. He’s about to go into surgery.
Sawyer shot upright. “What the hell! Is he okay? What happened?”
“Some maniac in the ER snapped and beat him up.” Dan drew a breath. Sawyer could hear it shudder. “His lung, it’s... it’s punctured. They have to re-inflate it somehow. Like my son is a fucking balloon—” Dan’s words ground to a halt.
Sawyer could hear him breathing through his nose and out through his mouth. Alice’s trick. She always sat them down and made them breathe that way when they were kids and needed a moment to calm down.
“I’m on my way,” Sawyer said, jumping up and going to dig through a dresser for a pair of jeans.
“We,” Carmen corrected. She was beside him in an instant, her long pale limbs flashing in the dark as she began pulling on clothes. “Do we need to pick up Alice?”
“Yes.” Dan and Sawyer spoke at the same time.
“Call Chuck,” Carmen ordered as she clasped her bra. “Tell her we will be there in ten minutes.”
Sawyer frowned, hopping into his jeans. His hands were shaking so badly it took him three tries to get the button done. “Why do we need to wake Charlotte up?”
Carmen shot him a look that said she would lecture him on his stupidity later. “Trust me and call her.”