John doesn’t consider himself a religious man—hasn’t in a while—but he recites the Lord’s Prayer now, in hopes that the boy’s suffering has ended. Then he contemplates what the next few hours will entail. If he thought it might help, he’d throw up his arms and curse God for his lot in life, but then he remembers the barracks in Garmsir, where he first lost his faith in both a higher power and his fellow man.
John wipes his wet cheeks, alarmed by his own emotion. Most jobs he does with dry eyes, but this boy is simply too young to be guilty of anything other than falling in with the wrong people. Perhaps it is his own complicity that haunts him.
John turns away to don a rubber apron. From his peripheral vision, he sees the body stir. He turns and stares for a second, not believing his eyes. The boy’s bloody lips part softly and a barely audible moan escapes him.
The boy is not dead.
The boy is not dead…yet.
John will deny it later, but for a split second he considers whether it might be kinder to kill him. But despite being born a butcher’s son, he’s never had an appetite for death.
He hangs up his apron and digs around in his pocket for his phone.
* * *
“Christ almighty,”Thomas says upon laying eyes on the boy. He’s a former Army combat medic John met a few years back in a support group put on by the local VA. He and John have gotten together a few times for beers, and sometimes John will call or text Thomas when he’s feeling particularly neutral about living. Since returning to Gulfport, Thomas is the closest thing John has to a friend.
John has moved the boy to his bedroom upstairs and laid him out as best he can with his head resting on a pillow, the same one John was sleeping on a little more than an hour ago. There was a risk he might injure the boy more in the process of transporting him, but he didn’t want Thomas to see his setup in the basement. Thomas doesn’t know about John’s arrangement with the Hand—no one does. Not even his mother knew when she was alive.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” Thomas says.
John clears his throat. He’s not in the habit of speaking much and finds himself a little out of practice. “He was left for dead in the alleyway by some very bad men. If we take him in, they’ll find him and kill him.” John knows this with complete certainty, and he conveys it to his friend with the sort of gravity born of surviving some Really Bad Shit. One thing he’s always appreciated about Thomas is, he doesn’t ask too many questions, and he doesn’t now.
Instead, Thomas touches two gloved fingers to the boy’s neck just underneath his jaw, avoiding the nasty gash across his throat. “The good news is, I don’t think they cut deep enough to sever any major veins or arteries.”
“He was spitting up blood,” John says, still uncertain whether he’s done the boy a favor by calling in the doctor.
“Not in large quantities,” Thomas says.
Thomas cuffs the boy’s upper arm to check his blood pressure and with a stethoscope, listens to his heart and lungs. He presses against various places on his abdomen, checking for enlarged organs or internal bleeding. The boy is mostly silent, except when Thomas examines his ribs. Then, he elicits a weak, gasping groan. He winces and opens his eyes briefly, clearly disoriented. Thomas takes the opportunity to lift each eyelid and shine a penlight in his pupils. He does the same with his mouth. The boy allows it without a word or gesture of protest. Thomas inspects his injured arm and the swollen knee. He then eases the boy over so that he may examine his backside. There is blood there too, trailing down the backs of his thighs. John walks over to the window to give them both some privacy.
“What are his injuries?” John asks a few minutes later when Thomas starts to remove his bloodied gloves.
“Apart from the obvious, bruised ribs, which may or may not be broken, fractures in both the radius and the ulna of his right arm. The left knee is going to need surgery at some point, but not until the swelling has gone down. There are some fresh burns on his back, likely from a cigarette.”
John’s mind flashes to that cigarette Emile had so casually flicked into the gutter. He’s always hated the man, but the rage now coursing through him like hot, rancid oil feels dangerous and out of control.
“He’s been raped,” Thomas says, a sneer of disgust interrupting his otherwise clinical delivery. “Repeatedly. There are several deep lacerations and a lot of trauma in that region. I’ll know more after a full rectal exam. Hopefully with some stitches and a round of antibiotics, his digestive system will be fully functional. Judging from the bruising and evidence of being restrained, I’m guessing this abuse happened over the course of a few days.” Thomas pauses, giving John a moment to digest it, then says soberly, “In addition to everything else, they also cut out his tongue.”
He had a very smart mouth and a very sharp blade.
John wishes the boy had been more successful in wielding it.
“So, he’ll survive?” John asks, having mixed feelings about it.
“Most likely,” Thomas says with the same forthrightness he probably deployed on the battlefield. “I can give him an injection for the pain. It’ll help him rest more comfortably. If you’re dead-set against bringing him to the hospital—”
“I am.”
“Then keep him hydrated, clear liquids and broth only, until I return. I have a syringe you can use to feed him. I’ll come by tomorrow morning with some additional supplies and an x-ray machine. The images won’t be as good as the ones the hospital can provide, but they’re better than nothing.” Thomas glances again at the boy, now covered by a clean bed sheet, then at John and says with the sobriety of a wartime chaplain, “He’s going to need a lot of intensive care. He likely won’t be able to get out of bed for several days and even after that, he’ll need some assistance. If there are bad men after him, they may come for you too.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I must.”
Thomas nods. “Keep his head elevated so he doesn’t aspirate on his own blood. If you have something cold he can suck on, that’ll help with the swelling. Ice for the knee. You remember concussion protocol?”
John nods, mind still reeling from the extent of the boy’s injuries.
“Any evidence of swelling of the brain or internal bleeding and you’ll need to take him in ASAP. Those aren’t something I can fix.”
