“Can I see Riot please?” I asked. Knox might’ve been only six, but he was insanely protective of his big brother already. I didn’t want to upset him by pushing past him or demanding to see Riot.
He nodded, eyes big. Knox took my hand and led me through the small living room, with a stained couch missing a cushion, and to a room with the door closed. I winced when I saw the fist-sized hole in it.
“Riot?” Knox whispered. “Koa’s here.”
There was no answer. He pushed the door open. There was one mattress sitting on the floor. It wasn’t a big bed, smaller than mine, but the room was so tiny it took up about half of it. Crammed next to it was a crib. This was where they were sleeping? Did Knox and Riot share a bed?
Riot moaned in pain and my eyes immediately snapped to him. He was curled up on the mattress, back to us, with an old quilt wrapped around him.
I took the couple steps to him and fell to my knees.
“Riot?” My voice was quiet and shaky. I reached my hand out to touch him but stopped myself. I didn’t want to hurt him more than he already was.
“Riot?” I asked a little louder. “It’s me, Koa. Can you turn around for me?”
I didn’t think he would respond, and at first he didn’t. I could only tell he was awake by the way his body got all still when he heard me.
“Knox is worried about you. And—” I added after a beat, “so am I.”
Riot grunted. “Knox . . . okay?” His voice sounded funny—the kid had been right. What had happened?
“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s right here. Can I see your face, please?”
Riot turned slowly. At first, I couldn’t see anything wrong with him. Besides the fact that he was in pain and was wincing at the dim light. Then I saw the blood on his pillow.
“Shit, you’re bleeding!”
“Yeah . . . hit the corner of the cabinet with my head. Hurts.”
Shit. What did I do? I’d been playing football since I’d been five. I knew what a concussion looked like, and I was pretty sure Riot had one. Did I call my aunt? 911?
“C-can I see? Where you’re bleeding?” If he needed stitches, I’d have to call someone. Riot would be mad. He’d begged and begged that I never tell anyone about what was going on at home, because they’d take the little ones away from him. So I hadn’t. I knew it was wrong, but I’d kept my promise to him. I always would. Also, selfishly, if Riot was taken away, then I didn’t know if I would ever see him again.
Riot turned his head, showing me the gash on the back of it. It was sticky with dried blood, his hair matted into the wound.
“I’m gonna touch it, okay? It might hurt.”
“Mm-hmm.” His eyes were closing again.
The blood was tacky, but I didn’t think it was still bleeding. That was good, right? Shit, what the hell would I know? I pulled out my phone, Googling how to help.
Clean the wound. Right. Okay. I knew that. I’d gotten hurt before. That was the first thing they always did. This wound was kinda old now, but it should work the same, I hoped.
“Hey, Knox?” I asked, turning around to the kid who was still standing there, watching us with those big eyes of his. “Do you guys have a clean towel I could use?”
“Um, yeah.” He pointed to a stack of plastic bins shoved against the wall.
“Can you get one and wet the corner of it for me?”
“Y-yeah.” Knox ran off to the bins and pulled out a worn blue towel. He left the room then.
He came back a few minutes later. The side he’d wet was dripping, but that was okay.
“I’m gonna clean this out,” I told Riot softly. “It might hurt. But I gotta see the wound. Plus, you don’t want it to get infected.”
“M’kay.” The word was slurred.
I was super gentle, but Riot still flinched as I touched the back of his head.
