IT FELT like it took an eternity for Ford’s heart rate to return to normal. When he’d looked past Nash and saw the boy being transferred into the quiet room, his heart had nearly stopped. He could have been Aaron’s twin a decade ago. He was the spitting image of Ford’s little brother, except now Aaron was twenty-three and living on the other side of the country.
Clearly he needed more sleep, or a day off… or a lobotomy. Maybe all three. But for a split second, his irrational brain had processed the kid as his brother, and his stomach had dropped out. The longer he looked, the more differences he noticed, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. He needed to hold it together.
The boy was in rough shape and absolutely terrified. Ford couldn’t imagine what kind of horror a kid would have to experience to put him into a state this severe. Doctors, nurses, and other ER staff came and went, taking temperatures and blood pressures, checking oxygen levels, and drawing blood. As the flurry of activity unfolded—protocols Ford witnessed on almost every patient that came through their doors—Ford’s focus narrowed in on the patient. The fear hadn’t ebbed. Instead he looked more afraid than ever.
It took a lot to ruffle Ford. He’d seen the worst of the worst, but there were still patients who got to him, who burrowed beneath his skin and took hold of his heart. He’d stood there, looking at this kid—his wide blue eyes, nails bitten to the quick, the way he trembled despite the piles of blankets covering him—and Ford felt his blood pressure rise. The only thing that kept him grounded was the steadiness of Nash’s voice. He was so calm, and Ford held on to that, letting the cadence of Nash’s words slide into him and slow his heart. Even now the memory of Nash’s calmness made Ford feel steady.
Ford imagined the situation from the kid’s point of view. After having lived through God only knew what, he was picked up by paramedics, who were complete strangers to him, and taken to a hospital. There were people everywhere, poking and prodding at him, while he lay naked, alone, and afraid in a sterile ER.
Ford stepped close, slid his hand against the boy’s, and squeezed tight.
“Just look at me for a second, okay? Everything is going to be fine. All this stuff might seem overwhelming, but we’re just trying to help you.”
Looking down at him, he smiled when the boy looked back and tightened his grip. Careful not to jostle the IV, Ford held on as the lab tech came to collect blood. The boy’s grip became almost bruising as she wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and slid the needle into his vein with skilled precision.
Ford spoke calm, soothing words to the boy as they waited for the doctor to return. Any questions he asked were met with silence.
Track marks marred the pale skin of his arms, and there were welts and bruises on almost every inch of exposed skin. He was dirty and smelled of mildew and stale urine, his hair matted to his head in blood that, as far as Ford could tell, didn’t appear to be his own.
Despite the filth and the drug-addled look in his eyes, there was an innocence that shone through. Maybe it was his age. Ford pegged him to be somewhere around thirteen or fourteen. Whatever it was, Ford’s heart broke for him.
The boy shivered, and Ford wanted to hug him. He wondered when the last time was that someone had bothered. He wondered if anyone at all cared about him. He wondered where his parents were and if they were missing him. He didn’t look like he’d been taken care of in a long time. Why was he all alone?
Usually they were able to track down family members fairly easily, but if the boy wouldn’t talk there wasn’t much they could do but hold tight and see what the police came up with.
“I’m going to go get you a new warm blanket, okay? I’ll be right back,” Ford soothed.
The boy gripped his hand tightly, but Ford slipped away, past the police officer stationed outside the boy’s bed since the boy had been brought in, and walked briskly to the stainless-steel cabinet in one of the supply rooms to the right of the nurses’ station. He grabbed a couple of blankets from the warmer and shut the cabinet tight before returning to the boy’s room.
The boy was on the bed, the back inclined so he could sit up without having to exert effort. Ford unfolded the rough blanket and wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders, replacing the ones that had gone cold, draping the fabric over his emaciated body. A small smile played at the corner of the boy’s mouth, and Ford felt a wave of relief.
“My name’s Ford,” he said, realizing he’d never introduced himself.
“Joel.”
The noise was small, broken, and Ford wasn’t sure he hadn’t hallucinated hearing it.
“Joel?” Ford asked, watching carefully.
Joel nodded slowly, his expression guarded, as though he was unsure what Ford wanted to do with that information.
“Can you tell me your last name?”
Joel shook his head and lowered his gaze to his lap.
“What about how old you are?”
He was again met with silence.
“What if I guess? Can you nod for me?”
Joel did as he was asked, and Ford imagined this was how Anne Sullivan felt the first time Helen Keller responded to her techniques. He could have danced, he was so happy.
“Fifteen?”
No response.
“Fourteen?”
No response.
“Thirteen?”
And there it was, the almost imperceptible nod to let Ford know he’d gotten it right.
“Thirteen, okay, good. Joel, you’re doing awesome.”
Amanda ducked her head through the curtain at that moment. “Hey, Ford, the detectives are here.”
It took a second for Ford to process the information. He’d been so swept up in the progress he’d made, however small, with Joel, and he needed to think about what would happen next.
“Let them know we’ll meet them in the quiet room in a minute,” he said.
“Not a problem. Diana just arrived as well. I’ll let her know where you’ll be.”
Ford thanked her, and she left.
“Everything is going to be fine. They just want to ask you a few questions about your friend.”
Joel’s eyes widened, and he started shaking all over again. Ford held his hand tighter.
“I won’t leave, okay? I’ll be right there with you. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
He stood from the bed and Ford helped him into a wheelchair, making sure the blankets were wrapped around him. He pushed Joel out of the curtained room and across the ER, past the nurses’ station into the quiet room, used primarily for patients who were psychologically delicate—those who had been abused or suffered some sort of trauma that didn’t require bandages or stitches.
It was set off to the side, away from the other beds in the department, and rather than being clinical and sterile feeling, it was painted a soft blue. There was a plush couch and two chairs arranged around a small table, and there were paintings on the walls and a window to let light in.
Diana, the social worker who often dealt with cases like this for the hospital, greeted them when they arrived. She was charmingly plump, and her dark hair was swept into a bun on the top of her head, the little wisps that escaped resembling a halo around her face. Her demeanor was unassuming and kind, and patients warmed to her instantly. She had that soothing personality that always made people feel instantly calmer, and even in situations where the victim was agitated or aggressive, she never lost that calm façade.
“My name is Diana. I’m one of the social workers here at Saint Joseph’s. These are detectives, and they want to ask you a few questions. You’re not in any trouble, and if at any time you want to take a break or stop, you only need to let me know, all right?”
Joel reached with a shaking hand for Ford, and Ford grasped Joel’s hand in his own. As Ford looked, he could see the panic flooding Joel’s eyes. He didn’t answer Diana.
Jack, Adam’s brother and special task force detective, sat quietly across from them, forearms braced against his knees, and his partner, Greer, was seated next to him. Jack remained quiet, observing, and Greer was unassertive and compassionate as she spoke. She introduced both herself and Jack, voice soft. She told Joel they were there to try to find out who had hurt him.
“Can you tell me your name?”
Joel stared at her unblinkingly.
When it became clear he wasn’t going to answer, Ford supplied the answer for him.
“Joel.”
“That’s good. Joel. We are trying to find out what happened to your friend. Can you tell us his name?”
Joel didn’t answer, just held on to Ford tighter. Greer tried several different approaches, but each question was met with stony silence. After a few minutes, it became clear they were getting nowhere.
“Maybe we can try again after Joel has gotten some rest,” Diana suggested.
“That would be fine,” Greer agreed. “We can come back tomorrow and see if you’re feeling any better, all right?”
Once more, Joel didn’t answer, but Ford was proud of him nonetheless. He’d already been through so much, and despite being scared, he hadn’t broken down. Ford didn’t know if he’d have been as brave at thirteen.
He led Joel back to his bed and stayed to check his vitals periodically. Ford wondered what would happen to him, where his parents were.
“I’ll be right back,” Ford said, gently pulling his hand free of Joel’s. He stepped out from behind the curtain and spotted Diana still speaking to the detectives near the quiet room.
“Hey, Diana, can I talk to you a sec?”
“Sure,” she replied, excusing herself from her conversation with Jack and Greer.
“I’m just wondering what’s going to happen to Joel. For as long as I’ve worked here, I’ve never had a kid in this type of situation.”
Her voice was soft when she spoke—Diana’s voice was always soft. “It’s too early to tell. He has obviously been abused, but whether that abuse came from his family or someone else, we won’t know until he starts talking.”
“How long will that take?”
“I’m not a psychologist, but from experience it could be anywhere from a few hours to years. We don’t know the extent of the abuse he’s suffered or what kind of psychological trauma he’s been exposed to.”
“Is there anything I should be doing for him, other than my normal stuff?”
She shook her head, smiling warmly. “No, you’re doing exactly the right thing. Joel trusts you. It’s not uncommon for children who have suffered to latch on to something or someone who makes them feel safe. I think that’s what has happened with Joel. The fact that he can forge that sort of emotional bond is a very good sign.”
Ford exhaled, his mind racing. There was a long road ahead for Joel, and they were only at the beginning. He thanked Diana for her help and returned to Joel’s bed.
The blood work was repeated, and Dr. Goodwin poked his head in a couple of times to check on him. Ford never left him again. He felt as though he’d been holding his breath since the moment the paramedics brought him in. There was no logical reason for Ford to have reacted the way he had, but in the moment that Ford had mistaken him for his brother, Joel had bonded with him and become more to him than just another patient.
As the clock clicked over to midnight, the opiate withdrawal symptoms became pronounced, and by two o’clock, Ford’s nerves were ragged. He was barely holding it together. His heart shattered, watching Joel’s muscles spasm and sweat soak through the thin hospital pajamas they’d provided for him.
It was intense and heartbreaking to watch someone so young, someone who should be home playing video games or watching movies with his friends, clinging to consciousness as his body protested against the denial of the physical craving for drugs. Joel vomited despite the antiemetic Ford had pushed into his IV, and as he had since he’d arrived, Ford held his hand.
He stood watch, offering as much comfort and compassion as possible while Joel threw up into the little cardboard tray, his eyes welling with tears as he doubled over in pain. Ford had done everything he could for him, and now he just had to survive the night. Saint Joe’s, where it was geographically situated, was well equipped to deal with drug dependency. There was a section in the emergency psych unit dedicated to helping those with addictions come down off their habit.
The nurses there were well trained, and they had helped thousands of people before Joel. It wasn’t going to be an easy road, but with a little luck, he would be all right.
He was moved to the emergency psych unit a little after three, as soon as a bed opened up. He was set up in a room all his own in the department that sat behind two doors that required key swipes to enter. Ford went with him. Despite the fact that Joel would no longer be his patient, he had to see it through.
When Ford’s shift ended, he reluctantly left the hospital. His heart was torn, leaving Joel there alone, but he needed to give himself some space and a bit of perspective. The boy would be in good hands. Logically he knew that, but he felt a sense of responsibility for him. He blinked hard and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing himself to focus and make it through the next few hours.