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“Ain’t that the truth.” I tapped my phone. “That’s why Grindr is my friend.”
Gabe looked surprised. “I never took you for a hookup kind of guy. You always said you wanted what your parents had.”
“Yeah, well, things change.”
9
THREE WEEKS LATER
Liam
I handed my patient a bag with several pamphlets and a box of condoms, along with a negative blood test and a prescription for PrEP. He was only eighteen and pretty new to the wonders of gay sex. I was impressed by how proactive he was at such a young age. He smiled shyly at me. “Thanks, Liam.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied. “And don’t forget to make an appointment for a month from now so we can see how you’re doing on the medication.”
He ducked his head. “Okay.”
I went to my small office to finish my notes on his case and give myself a break before my next patient. Working at the VNA had turned out to be good for me. I liked working with an underserved population. Even more so, I liked working with LGBTQ+ youth and young adults who needed a helping hand and an understanding ear. I recognized that I’d had the privilege of growing up in a household where I was accepted for who I was. A lot of the people who came to see me weren’t so lucky.
The kids who came through the VNA were often in precarious living situations. I suspected some of them were unhoused but wouldn’t admit it. Those were the ones who were most at risk of being trafficked. My mind drifted back to the conversation I’d had with Tony the night Marco was injured. Although he never said it outright, I was sure his organization helped rescue people from situations like human trafficking. I pulled out my phone and typed a quick text.
Me: Hey, Tony. It’s Liam. I was wondering if we could meet to talk more about your offer.
The reply came back right away.
Tony: Absolutely. I’m down in Belmar helping Marco with a home repair project. We can meet tonight if you’re available.
Me: Sure. I get off work at 5.
Tony: Great. Text me when you’re done, and we’ll meet somewhere for dinner.
Me: Sounds good.
I slipped my phone into my lab coat pocket just as a knock sounded at my door. “Come in.” The receptionist opened the door and then closed it behind her. She looked upset.
“What’s wrong, Gloria?” I asked.
“Your next patient is here.” She bit her lip. “He looks like he’s been beaten. He doesn’t speak English well and doesn’t want to tell me what happened. He says he’s eighteen, but he looks younger.”
My stomach twisted, “Okay. Could you tell what his native language was?”
“It sounded like French,” she replied. “I think he might be Haitian.”
I nodded. There was a sizable Haitian population in Asbury Park. “All right. I’ll go see if I can talk to him. What room is he in?”
“He’s in room two. Do you speak French?”
I nodded. “I had to learn it to work for Doctors Without Borders.”
I followed Gloria out of my office and headed to exam room two. My patient was sitting on the exam table with his head bowed and his hands clasped tightly together. He was a slender young man, bordering on too thin, with dark-brown skin and closely cropped hair. He was dressed in a short-sleeved T-shirt and faded blue jeans and didn’t appear to have a coat. Definitely not warm enough for the cold mid-November temperatures. There were bruises on both his arms and chafing on his wrists from what looked like rope. What I could see of the left side of his face looked swollen.
Gloria was right. He may have told her he was eighteen, but he looked closer to fourteen or fifteen. I picked up the clipboard with the little bit of information Gloria was able to get from him and said, “Bonjour, Jean-Pierre. Je m’appelle, Liam O’Neil. Parles-tu anglais?”Hello, Jean-Pierre. My name is Liam O’Neil. Do you speak English?
Jean-Pierre looked up at me with wide, dark eyes. “Bonjour, Monsieur O’Neil,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I speak English a little bit.”
I nodded. “Très bien.”Very good.I winced inwardly when I got a good look at his face. His left eye was swollen shut and his bottom lip was split. I grabbed the thermometer from the nearby counter and held the device in front of his forehead. 102.2, yikes! He covered his mouth as he let out a wet cough. Crap. I took my stethoscope from around my neck and put it in my ears. “Je vais ecouter ton coeur.”I am going to listen to your heart.His heart rate was rapid. When I listened to his lungs, I could hear the crackling sounds that indicated he probably had pneumonia or at least bronchitis.
I sighed softly and put my stethoscope back around my neck. “Tu es très malade.”You are very sick. “Quel age as-tu, vraiment?”How old are you, really?
