“Hello!” he barks, irritation sharp in his voice.
I only catch his side of the conversation—but it’s clear thisisn’ta random call. His voice shifts. Firmer. Alert.
“Yes,” he says, clearing the gravel from his throat. “Okay. Mm-hmm. I see.”
I shove my fist into the mattress.Who the hell is he talking to?
Elijah tosses the bedsheet aside and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Of course we can be there,” he says, voice steady but tense, hand gripping his forehead. “May I speak to him, please? Oh. I see.”
Then, without warning, he switches to Spanish—rapid fire and clipped.
I can’t catch every word, but I know that tone.
Something’s wrong.
I sit up, heart thudding, my back hitting the headboard as I wait for the call to end.
He drags a hand down the back of his neck, fingers raking harshly through his short hair—once, twice—then he tosses the phone across the bed as if it burns.
“Everything okay?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He exhales hard. “Not really. That was a doctor from New York Presbyterian Hospital. Gabriel’s there. With Noah.”
My eyes go wide. The sheets forgotten. I knee walk across the bed and drop beside him on the edge.
“What happened?” I breathe, bracing myself for the worst.
His hand settles on my thigh, giving it a soft squeeze. “From what I gather, Gabriel called emergency services for Noah. The doctor couldn’t give me many details… just that Noah was unconscious when he arrived at the hospital.” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “Gabriel asked the staff to call me. They need us there. Immediately.”
I blink rapidly, trying to keep up.
“Okay, but… why? I mean, Gabriel’s with him, right?”
“Yes. He is.” Elijah rubs his palms down his flushed cheeks, clearly rattled. “Apparently, Noah is… agitated. Yelling. Calling out.”
I rub my knuckles into my tired eyes, still half in disbelief. “Calling out? For who?”
He exhales—long, worn, like the breath is being dragged out of him. Then he looks up.
“You.”
26
NOAH: Age 5. Athens, Greece
“Mrs. Delgado!”An older man calls out to the lady with the leather briefcase. The sharptick tick tickfrom a nearby motorboat drowns whatever else he says. The man steps onto the rickety dock with a confident stride, polished shoes clicking against the warped planks. “I’m Mr. Jarrell,” he announces, extending a hand.
The sea breeze whips his blond hair in every direction. He’s tall, impossibly tan—too tan. His skin has the same crinkled, leathery texture as the lady’s briefcase. “Apologies for our tardiness. Our flight was delayed,” he says, stepping toward her.
I look away and toss another stone into the waves, letting the warm, sticky sand squish between my bare feet. The rocks are smooth against my toes. I bend down and pick up another one.
Mrs. Delgado is my social worker. She’s been working really hard to find a family willing to adopt me. But there’s one thing I’ve always been clear about—I want a brother. Mrs. Delgado knows that. No matter how kind or perfect the family might be… if there isn’t a brother, I’m not going anywhere.
Then, eleven days ago, Mrs. Delgado came to me with some big news—she found a family. And they have a son. Abrother. They live in America, and I’ve been told he’s a little older than me. That’s okay. Having a big brother is all I’ve ever dreamed of.
“This is my wife, Gloria, and our daughter, Teya,” he says, and my head snaps up. Wait—daughter? I thought I was getting a brother.
