Dispirited, Deputy Patterson reached for the microphone to report his lack of success when a shadow a hundred feet up the road stood out from the others. Training his searchlight down the road, he watched a figure stumbling along the edge. He closed the gap with his car, balancing his fear that the boy would bolt over the guardrail against his desire to be as close as possible before getting out on foot. His luck held. The boy didn’t break his stumbling stride.
As the boy’s shadow took shape, Patterson assessed his target. He was barely over five feet tall and maybe one hundred pounds. His shaggy hair was coated in snow. But it was his clothing that shocked the deputy the most. A tattered flannel shirt flapped in the wind. Baggy jeans were cinched around his waist with a hemp rope threaded through the belt loops and knotted in the front. He didn’t have visible boots or shoes. Instead, what appeared to be burlap seed bags were wrapped around his feet and tied with twine. No coat, hat, or gloves protected him from the storm. With so little protection and the first report hours earlier, he should have been dead under a drift of snow.
Patterson pulled his patrol car into the breakdown lane a few feet behind the boy and shifted the car into park. He pushed open the driver’s door and stepped into the howling storm. He tried to shout a friendly hello, but the wind whipped across his face and ripped the words away.
The boy paused, appearing to have heard him, and slowly turned his head. His ice-crusted eyebrows glinted in the lights as he faced the deputy. Patterson held his breath, watching the boy debate his options, knowing he was too far away to stop him if he decided to scramble over the cliffs. After several agonizing seconds of indecision, the boy shrugged and swayed in the wind.
Maybe, Patterson thought, he was too exhausted to continue to hide. He pulled his own padded coat tight against his body and stepped around the open door and in front of the idling car. The lights stretched his shadow down the road beyond the approaching boy as he called out, “Son, are you okay?”
In the bright lights, Patterson could see the boy’s eyes widen in fear. He hesitated for a second as their gazes locked. To the deputy’s surprise, the boy turned and bolted toward the edge of the road.
The boy’s sudden movement caught Patterson flat-footed. He watched the boy pivot and race toward the guardrail and the boulders beyond. The burlap on the fleeing kid’s feet slipped and slid on the snow-covered road, slowing his escape.
With the deputy’s heavy shoes gripping the slick ground, he closed the gap between them. He reached out and snagged the kid’s shirt collar. They stumbled together, lost their footing, and crashed hard to the pavement, the boy’s chin plowing through the snow. The deputy planted his hand firmly on the boy’s back, pinning him to the ground. The kid’s quivering body recoiled from the touch, and he struggled wildly to escape. A high-pitched whine escaped his lips. Blood dripped from his scraped chin and dotted the white ground. He pushed his hands into the snow and strained to work his legs underneath him. His attempt to stand failed. The boy was too weak to overcome the deputy’s advantage in size and strength.
With his other hand, the deputy gripped the rope threaded through the boy’s belt loops and waited for the fight to melt out of him. His stringy back muscles relaxed. The boy’s trembling body surrendered, and he collapsed into the snow. Unable to escape, the boy turned his head to look back at the deputy with wide eyes. He whimpered, “Please don’t hurt me.”
Patterson recoiled at the words. His bulletproof vest offered no protection from the pain in those terrified eyes. He loved police work but hated domestic-violence calls because of the kids cowering in the corner of a house, desperately wanting things to be better but not wanting to tell on Mom or Dad. Even in only the light from his car, he could see the kid was in worse shape than anyone he had seen before.
Leaving his hand resting on the boy’s back in case he tried to flee again, the deputy leaned back on his haunches and stared into his face. “Son, I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help.”
The boy’s blue lips moved rhythmically as he recited a mantra over and over as if he was praying. Patterson struggled to understand, but the voice was too soft, and the wind was blowing too hard. He leaned over to hear the words.
“Never let them see you. Never let them see you. Never let them see you.”
“Never let who see you? Who are you afraid of?”
The boy didn’t answer but continued his recitation. His eyes darted about, searching for an escape. Patterson slipped his arms under the boy’s body, balanced in a crouch, and stood, easily lifting the kid into the air. He was paper-light, with bone-thin arms and legs and protruding ribs. The boy didn’t resist, but nor did he help or wrap his arms around the deputy’s neck. His body slackened in total surrender. He shivered uncontrollably as he repeatedly muttered, “Never let them see you. Never let them see you. Never let them see you.”
Patterson carried the light load cradled in his arms to the rear of his cruiser and balanced him while opening the back door. As easily as he would a bag of groceries, he laid him across the plastic backseat then closed the door. He extracted a bright-yellow emergency blanket from the trunk of his car and reopened the back door. The dome light went on, and the boy scrambled across the seat to the other side of the car, curled into a tight ball, and quaked in fear. Careful not to move too quickly, the deputy unfolded the blanket, leaned into the car, and stretched it across his shivering body.
With his charge safely stowed in the backseat, Patterson returned to the driver’s seat and cranked the heat. Through the rearview mirror, he watched the boy clutch the blanket across his body. Their eyes met, and the boy began franticly clacking the door handles. “They only open from the outside, son.”
The boy slumped and returned the deputy’s stare with wide, fearful eyes hidden under frozen locks of shaggy brown hair. “Oh.”
Patterson didn’t have kids and wasn’t even married, but he had a nephew he adored. The boy was eleven. Healthy. Athletic. They spent hours in the river together, trout fishing, telling jokes, and laughing with each other. The kid in the backseat didn’t look anything like that—he was more like an injured animal, cornered and scared. “You thirsty?”
The boy shrugged.
Patterson removed a water bottle from the small cooler on the floorboard of the passenger side of the cruiser. He cracked open the lid and held the bottle through the cage.
The boy eyed it and licked his lips.
“Go ahead, son. You can have it.”
A bloodied hand shot forward, grabbed the bottle, and pulled it back into the shadows. He tilted it upwards and guzzled the liquid, water sloshing across his chin and dribbling on his shirt.
“You’re okay, son. Just relax.”
The boy’s hand wiped the dripping water from his chin. His eyes flicked across the steel cage separating the backseat from the front before looking outside into the storm.
“Son, I’m not gonna hurt you. Whatever is wrong, I can help.”
The boy curled back into a tight ball against the far door and wrapped the blanket firmly around himself. To Patterson, he appeared to be attempting to vanish into the corner. The melting snow and ice clung to his stringy hair, partially hiding his gaunt face. His fear-filled eyes were cold, gray, and lifeless. A strong stench of body odor emanated from him and filled the car. His teeth were crooked and dirty. Worse, Patterson noted, several teeth were missing. A jagged scar stretched from his right ear to his mouth. His lips were cracked and bleeding. Blood dripped from his chin and stained his left hand.
“Were you in an accident?”
A shake of the head.
“Are your parents okay?”
A pause followed by a small shrug.
Patterson opened the paper sack sitting on the passenger seat and extracted half a sandwich. He unwrapped the plastic and slipped the food through a slot in the mesh. “You hungry?”
The boy eyed the sandwich warily. With the same sudden swiftness used to retrieve the water, his hand shot forward, grabbed the bread, and yanked it back. He stuffed it inside his mouth and devoured the food as if he didn’t remember his last meal or know when the next was coming.
“Slow down. There’s plenty more food where that came from.”
The boy gagged and coughed but swallowed as quickly as he could. He didn’t appear to believe in endless food supplies.
“Where are your parents? How do I get in touch with them?”
The boy shrugged again and licked the crumbs from his fingers. Patterson grabbed another bottle of water from the seat beside him and offered it through the cage. Again, the boy eyed him closely before snatching the bottle and retreating into his corner. His frozen fingers fumbled with the cap before spinning it off. He drank deeply, but more slowly and controlled than before.
“Did you run away? Don’t you think they’re worried about you?”
The boy glanced up into the rearview mirror and locked eyes with the deputy before shaking his head.
“Look, kid, if you’re running from something, I can help. Just tell me what’s going on.”
The boy shrugged his scrawny shoulders.
Patterson sucked on his lower lip. “Okay, let’s back up and start with an easy question. My name’s Jon. What should I call you? Can you give me a name?”