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Kneeling next to him slowly, I looked him over, trying to find where he was hurt. His royal blue winter coat was filthy and wet, and it looked slightly too small for his frame. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old.
“You’re Murphy, right? Where’s your mom?”
He didn’t answer, but his eyes wouldn’t stray from mine.
I kept talking, hoping to put him more at ease. “I’m going to move your coat so I can see what’s going on, okay?”
When I reached for it, he jerked away, but he winced, and I warned him with my eyes to stay still. “Please don’t be scared. I only want to see.” I moved his coat aside carefully, noticing his ratty tan sweater underneath. It was filthy and covered in holes from constant wear. “How did you hurt yourself? I saw the bandages in the garbage. I was hoping you’d come back, but you never did. Where have you been sleeping?”
He didn’t make a peep, but when I finally lifted his sweater, it stuck to his skin, to the dried blood on his side underneath, and he hissed in pain.
“I’m sorry. Let me go get the first aid kit. We should clean this up.”
“No.”
My eyes flicked up to his. “So you can talk.”
He was holding back tears. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but I-I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I gotta go.”
“Murphy, I promise, you’re safe here.”
Whispering, he said, “The cop comes here.”
“That’s Frank, my boyfriend. He’s been trying to find you. He’s worried about you.”
“No.” He pushed my hands away and, with effort, sat up. “No cops.”
“O-okay. Um, well, can you tell me what happened at least?”
His voice cracked when he said, “Climbed over barbed wire.” This kid was still going through puberty. There was no way he could’ve made me believe he was eighteen.
I leaned forward, trying to show kindness through my eyes, and he relaxed a fraction as I lifted the sweater off his skin slowly. I was hissing now, too, trying to unstick the fabric from his wound carefully. The six-inch cut across his lower ribs was an angry dark-red color, and it extended to his back. “I think it’s infected.”
He reached for his backpack beside him and pulled out a humungous brown bottle of some kind of medication, then handed it to me.
Reading the bottle quickly, I said, “Penicillin? Murphy, these are for animals. It’s not the right dosage for you.”
“Th-they make me throw up.”
I nodded. “Yeah, well, that’s not surprising.”
He was watching my face while I spoke, and I was getting a look at him too. He looked gaunt and malnourished, and his skin had a pale, waxy quality to it, with dark bruise-like smudges beneath his eyes.
“It probably doesn’t help that you’re not eating well. Have you eaten today?”
He shook his head.
“I’ll go get my lunch for you. I’m afraid it’s not very exciting. PB&J and potato chips.”
A glazed look took over his eyes.
“Oh yeah, I bet you’re hungry. I’ll be right back.”
He gripped my wrist with a bony hand. “I’ll go with you.”
“Are you sure you can get down the stairs?”
He nodded again, watching my eyes when I spoke.
