Chapter Text
The boy hadn’t said another word all night.
Mary had tried—gently, unobtrusively—to coax something out of him. A name. A phone number. Even just a hint about the other boy—his brother? His friend? John had told the nurses there’d been another with him. But the kid was like a vault.
She checked in more often than protocol required. Quiet visits under the pretense of routine care. Once to adjust the IV line. Once to check the monitor. Another time, she carefully pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, even though it hadn’t really slipped. Each time she entered, he went still.
He was awake. She could tell.
His breathing was too deliberate. His limbs too stiff.
Other times, he turned his face to the wall, his back drawn tight like armor. No reaction. No movement. Just the slow, mechanical rhythm of breath.
She didn’t press. Kept her voice low, her presence calm, her movements even. She commented on the cooler air, the steady drip of the IV, or the way the monitor beeped with a comforting rhythm. A signal: I’m here. You’re not alone.
But the boy gave her nothing.
His silence wasn’t petulant or angry. It was deeper than that—ingrained. Not defiance, but something far more practiced. The kind of silence you learn young, when speaking stops making a difference.
Now, as the early morning light crept soft and silver through the hospital windows, Mary stood at the foot of his bed, watching him one last time before shift change.
He looked so small like this. Still and silent in the sterile bed, ribs bruised beneath white bandages, face turned toward the wall.
He’s just a kid.
So young, and already he’d learned how to shut the world out. She wondered what it had taken to teach him that. How many times he’d tried reaching out—only to find no one there.
Her heart was heavier than it had any right to be.
The corridors smelled faintly of disinfectant and sleep. It was just past seven when Mary stepped through the staff entrance again— fresh scrubs clinging to her skin, a tray balanced in one hand.
“Erin?” she called softly, spotting her friend near the nurses’ station.
Erin turned, blinked in surprise, and tilted her head. “Wait—aren’t you off tonight?”
“Victor asked if I’d cover his shift,” Mary said, her voice light, casual.
“Didn’t mind,” Mary added, shrugging like it was nothing.
Erin squinted at her. “That’s your fourth night in a row.”
Mary offered a small, unreadable smile. “Victor always covers for me when I need time. Just returning the favor.”
Erin crossed her arms, giving her a knowing look. “You’re not fooling me. You came back for him, didn’t you?”
Mary didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“Room 220,” Erin said slowly. “The kid.”
Still, Mary said nothing.
Erin tilted her head. “What is it about him?”
Mary hesitated. Then, with a dry exhale, said, “Well, for starters… it was John who chased the kid into traffic. Over a damn picture, can you believe it?”
Erin blinked. “Wait. What? John? Mary, I am so, so sorry. That must have been hard. How long haven’t you two seen each other?”
“Nine years,” Mary answered softly.
She looked down at the tray in her hands, at the soft food and neatly packed meds. Her voice softened even a bit more. “But it’s not just that. There’s something about this kid. He’s so young, and already—” she paused, struggling to find the right word, “—he’s already given up. It’s like he’s learned not to expect anything from anyone. I don’t know. I keep thinking, under all that armor, there’s a really sweet boy in there. Someone who’s just scared out of his mind.”
Erin softened a little, her voice dropping. “Well, just so you know—he didn’t talk to anyone today. Not a word. Barely even looked up.”
Mary stilled. “Not to anyone?”
“Nope. Barely moved. Just lay there. Ignored everyone.”
Mary nodded slowly, something faint settling in her chest. The quiet confirmation that maybe—
maybe she’d been the closest thing to safe he’d known in a long time.
That just maybe, maybe —she’d been the least frightening person in a world that had clearly given him every reason to be afraid.
She moved quietly down the hall and into his room without turning on the overhead light. The small bedside lamp glowed gold against the sterile white walls, casting long shadows that softened the edges of everything.
He was lying on his side, facing the door this time.
Eyes open. Watching.
Mary didn’t speak at first. She just moved carefully, setting the tray down on the rolling table beside him.
“Brought something soft,” she said gently. “Soup. A bit of toast. Easy on the stomach.”
No reply.
She pulled a small pack from her pocket and set it down next to the tray. “Painkillers. And fresh bandages. Thought we might check those ribs later.”
Still nothing.
But he didn’t turn away.
Encouraged, Mary pulled the chair closer to the bed, careful not to let the legs scrape the floor. She sat down slowly, folding her hands in her lap.
“Feeling any better today?” she asked softly.
No reaction. No eye contact.
But he was listening. She could feel it.
She kept her voice low, calm. “I know this must be scary. Waking up somewhere unfamiliar. Not knowing what’s coming next.”
A long pause.
Then—his voice, hoarse and cracked, barely above a whisper—“You don’t know shit.”
Still didn’t look at her.
Mary blinked. Not at the words themselves, but at the sound of his voice. Rough and defiant, but unmistakably young.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. She only nodded, her eyes softening as she watched him fix his gaze on the far wall, like it was the only thing holding him together.
“No,” she said quietly. “I probably don’t.”
She leaned back, folding her arms across her chest, letting the silence return—but this time, not trying to fill it.
In the stillness, Mary studied his face in the warm, dim light—the curve of his jaw, the purpling bruise on his temple, the dried split on his lower lip. And underneath all that, the unmistakable fragility of a kid who hadn’t been allowed to be a kid in a very long time.
“I’ll come back in a bit to change your bandages, alright?” she said softly.
No response.
She stood, the lump in her throat thick, her chest tight. She hesitated at the door.
“I’ll be nearby if you need anything,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Even if you don’t want to talk.”
And then she slipped out.
Mary moved between rooms, checking vitals, adjusting IVs, murmuring encouragements to patients. Just a usual shift for her, except it wasn’t. Her mind kept drifting back to him. The kid.
As she headed toward her next patient, Claire intercepted her in the hallway, phone still in hand, brows knit.
“They got a match in the system,” she said quietly. “David Miller, age fifteen. He’s got a little brother — Tyler Miller, eleven. Both wards of the state. Reported missing from a foster placement two months ago. The foster family’s been contacted. They’re on their way.”
Mary absorbed that with a nod. “Okay. Thanks, Claire. I’ll tell him.”
When she entered his room, the tray balanced on her hip, she kept her steps soft. The lamplight hadn’t changed. That quiet, golden haze still made the room feel smaller, safer somehow.
“Hey,” she said gently. “Just me again.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
But she could see the tension — the rigid line of his back, the too-still set of his shoulders beneath the blanket.
“I brought you something for the pain,” she said, setting the tray down. “If you want it.”
She pulled over a stool and sat beside the bed again, her tone steady, practiced — but warm.
“Your chart said they wrapped your ribs in the ER. They didn’t change the dressings this morning, though. I thought I’d take a look. Just to be safe.”
No answer.
“He didn’t talk to any of the other nurses,” Erin had said.
No answer, but he was letting her stay.
That had to count for something.
Mary reached for the gloves and the bandages she’d brought. Her movements were quiet, careful. “I’ll be gentle,” she promised, and slowly folded the blanket back from his side.
He didn’t speak — but he didn’t flinch either. She took it as permission.
The bruising had spread across his ribs in deep purples and sickly greens. But the skin was clean. No signs of infection. Still—so much pain, so much damage.
“Still tender?” she asked softly, watching his face.
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer.
She cleaned the skin with practiced care, then began wrapping fresh gauze in even, gentle passes. Her voice stayed low, calm, offering presence more than words.
“You’ve got a stubborn kind of quiet,” she murmured, half to herself. “Most boys your age would’ve asked for the TV remote by now.”
No reply. But he hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t told her to stop. And when she glanced up, she saw that his eyes were open — just a sliver — watching her hands work.
Mary smiled, but said nothing about it. Just finished taping the bandage down and pulled the blanket back over him.
“All done,” she said. Then she hesitated — her hand resting on the edge of the bed, not touching, just steady. Offering something wordless. And then she spoke.
“We found a contact.”
The reaction was immediate.
He went pale, all the blood draining from his face. “No.”
He tried to sit up, the motion clearly painful, and Mary instinctively reached out but stopped herself short.
“They ran your description through the national database,” she said gently. “Your name isn’t Dylan, is it? It’s David. David Miller. You’ve been missing for two months. You have a younger brother, too — Tyler. Is that right?”
The boy’s breath caught. Paled further.
“They’ve contacted the foster family,” Mary continued. “They’ll be here soon. We can also try to locate your brother. You might know where he is, don’t you? I imagine he’s scared, too—”
“Family,” he spat, bitter.
Mary flinched inwardly, then softly said, “Your listed guardians.”
“Your system’s broken, Lady.” His voice cracked under the fury. “And I’d rather die than give up where my brother is. He’s safe. And he’s—he’s capable. He can take care of himself.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
“We didn’t need your help.” His voice was tight with fury, each word spit like it burned on the way out.
Mary let the silence sit for a moment, then said quietly, “I’ll give you some space.”
Then she stepped out and closed the door behind her.
Outside the room, the door clicked shut behind her. Mary stood still for a beat, pressing her palm to the wood.
She hadn't called the foster family.
Hospital protocol had. Automatically, the second the intake file matched.
But that didn’t matter to him.
And now he hated her.
She exhaled shakily and leaned back against the hallway wall, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her vision blurred, just slightly, just enough to sting.
They’d had cases like this before. Angry kids. Runaways. Broken bones and broken homes. She’d done this dance a dozen times.
It never got to her.
Not like this.
She didn’t know why. Couldn’t sort it out, really.
Maybe she wasn’t ready to lose another one.
Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her – like she had betrayed him.
“Hey.” A warm hand touched her arm.
She startled slightly and turned. Erin stood there, quiet and steady, reading her in that gentle way she always did.
“Didn’t go well?” she asked softly.
Mary shook her head, unable to form words. Her throat was thick.
“Take ten,” she said, nodding down the hall. “I’ll cover for you.”
She gave a grateful squeeze to her forearm and stepped away from the wall, swallowing hard.
---
Ten minutes later, the air outside had cooled her, calmed her — not enough, but a little. When she walked back into the ward, her eyes were clearer, but her heart still heavy.
And then she saw him.
John.
Leaning in the hallway just outside David’s room, shoulders stiff, hand on the doorknob like he was waiting for courage. A paper bag in his other hand.
She stopped in her tracks.
“Jesus, John,” she hissed under her breath, crossing to him fast. “What are you doing here?”
He looked at her, eyes tired. His hair was mussed, grease on his hands and sleeves.
“I just wanted to see if the kid was okay.”
“Visiting hours are over.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I had to work all day at the garage. I would’ve come sooner. Just… let me see him. Please.”
He raised the bag slightly, a small rustling sound. “I brought him something. Sweets. He seemed like a candy bar kind of kid.”
Mary opened her mouth to argue — but then she looked at him.
The tension in his jaw. The way his eyes softened when he said kid. The quiet guilt in his voice.
He wasn’t just being nosy. He meant it.
And damn it, he was still a very attractive man, even with the stubble and grease and tired eyes. Especially like this — raw, trying.
It really didn’t help that he was still John. She didn’t want to notice — not the way his hair curled slightly behind his ears, not the warmth in those tired brown eyes, not the quiet ache in the little smile he gave her. She wanted to tell him to leave. But she didn’t. Because even now, with grease on his hands and regret written all over his face, something in her still pulled toward him — still remembered how that dimple in his cheek used to mean home.
“Five minutes,” she said at last, voice low. “Then get lost. For good. Got it?”
John gave a faint smile.
“Got it.”
“He’s going to be picked up by his family anyway.”
He blinked. “You found the family?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, with a shrug that didn’t want to explain.
She turned away, not waiting for a follow-up. She couldn’t take another emotional conversation tonight.
Not with him.
Not when her chest still ached from the first one.
“Thank you,” John said as he slipped quietly into the room.
Mary turned to go, but movement in the hallway caught her eye — a woman speaking sharply to Erin, her expression tight, mouth set in a hard line. She looked agitated, impatient.
Not good.
Mary's stomach sank. She didn’t need to ask — she already knew.
The woman didn’t wait for directions. She marched straight toward room 220, heels clicking briskly against the linoleum, brushing past Mary without so much as a glance, let alone a knock.
Mary followed her in. She had a bad feeling about this.
The woman stank of smoke and stale liquor. Her hair was flat and greasy, lips thin, arms folded tight. Her makeup was smudged and her coat buttoned wrong.
“Well. There he is,” she said flatly. “Heard you got into trouble. Again. You’re nothing but a problem child. Always were.” She dropped a frayed backpack at the foot of the bed without even looking at the kid.
"There. All his stuff.", she said to no one in particular.
Mary blinked. "I thought you were here to take him home?"
The kid stared at the ceiling, silent, still.
“We’re not taking him back,” she added to Mary, as if he wasn't even in the room. “Talked to my husband. We’re done. He’s too much trouble. Too much everything. Boy’s a damn curse. Always stealing. Lying. Picking fights. No amount of money’s worth him. He’s not even worth the food he eats.”
Mary was frozen near the door, horror written across her face.
She looked at John who wore the same expression.
“His little brother, now he’s quiet,” the woman continued, voice shrill. “He could’ve had a chance. But this one,” she jerked her thumb towards the bed, “wouldn’t let him. Ruins everything. My husband tried to beat the nonsense out of him, over and over and over, but the boy’s like rubber. Nothing sticks. Like a damn cockroach.”
Mary sucked in a breath. “Ma’am, I—”
“He’s had eight families,” the woman interrupted. “Eight placements in ten years, and they all sent him back. Not one single family wanted to keep him. That should tell you something. He’s not worth anything. Better get rid of him now while you still can. And also – lose our number. We’re done with this one.”
The kid was still staring at the ceiling, expression locked, burning red with humiliation.
"He’s your problem now."
The woman left without another word, not once looking at the kid, the door slamming behind her. The backpack stayed on the floor.
The silence left behind was heavy. Mary bent down and picked it up. It was almost weightless.
She stared at the door.
“She didn’t mean it like that,” Mary said in shock.
“She did,” the kid said calm. “It’s fine.”
John wanted to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t find a single word.
The kid spoke first, voice hoarse but brittle with fury.
“Told you not to waste your time.” His voice was thin, bitter. “I told you there’s no one. No one that cares. So – what happens now?”
Mary’s reply was gentle, steady. “You’re still a minor. So is your brother. The state will find somewhere—”
“Oh, awesome,” the kid said, throwing his head back against the pillow with a dry laugh. “Can’t wait to meet the next pair of saints. Maybe this time, they’ll shove my head in a toilet just for variety.”
John winced. Mary looked down.
“I don’t want ‘somewhere’,” he snapped. “You think I’m exaggerating?” He barked a laugh, sharp. “You think what just happened was bad? She was one of the nicer ones. Just some slaps and a belt. Maybe a shove into a wall when they were drunk. That’s basically affectionate in foster care terms. You wanna know what the worse ones did?”
“David—” Mary started, heart breaking, but he didn’t stop.
“Try sleeping in a place where they stub cigarettes out on you when you screw up. Where they hurt your brother and your not able to stop it.” His voice cracked. “We were safer out there.”
She wanted to stay distant. Professional. But her chest ached.
“You shouldn’t have had to go through that. But it’s not my call, sweetheart. I can try to advocate for you two to stay together—”
“Try,” he echoed, like the word tasted bitter. Then his eyes widened. “They’re gonna split us up,” he said, very quietly.
Mary met his eyes, but said nothing. She just looked at the boy—skinny, bruised, exhausted. Gone was the smirking, smartass kid.
He stilled. Something in his posture shifted. He looked smaller now. More fragile.
“They can’t,” he whispered.
Mary didn’t answer. The silence was answer enough.
His breath hitched. Then he lunged forward and grabbed her sleeve, eyes wide and wild. “Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Don’t let them do that. I have to protect him. I am the only family he has left. He’s just a kid.”
His voice broke. And then he did too.
“I shouldn’t have grabbed the wallet,” he started sobbing. “We were fine. We had each other. Finally free. He was right. I shouldn’t have stolen it. And then you—” His eyes snapped to John, full of venom. “We were just fine until you showed up.”
John blinked, caught in it. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“All because of a damn photo. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.” He was rambling now, every word thick with panic and grief. “I can’t even run. I can’t protect him. I fucked it all up. I promised him. I promised.”
He choked, wiped his face roughly, then turned away.
“I hate you. Both of you. You were supposed to help.”
His voice was quieter now. A whisper.
“Not make everything worse. I thought you were different…” His eyes shifted to Mary, betrayal sharp in his gaze. “I thought you were better than the others.”
Then he turned to John. His face didn’t twist in anger—just something hollower. “And you. Keep your stupid sweets.”
He looked away, down. „Just go. Both of you.”
Outside the room, Mary paused.
She drew in a breath, trying to calm herself. John was standing next to her — just standing — like a man who didn’t know what to do with his hands or his past. He clutched the crumpled paper bag full of untouched sweets.
Part of Mary still hated him. Wanted to hate him.
But right now, watching the way his shoulders curled inward … She didn’t wish that kind of guilt on anyone.
Some old feeling stirred — deep and unwelcome. She had buried it a decade ago, or tried to.
Damn it, she thought.
“The coffee here is crap, but…” she offered quietly.
“Thanks,” John said, just as quiet.
She nodded toward a waiting chair. “I’ll be back.”
Ten minutes later, she returned with two coffees. Handed him one. Sat down beside him.
John took a sip and winced.
“Still better than the one you used to make,” Mary teased, then tensed.
That kind of familiarity didn’t belong here. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again.
John cleared his throat. “What happens to him now?”
She looked down at her cup. “He’s medically cleared. But they can’t discharge a minor without a safe release plan. His foster mom already said no.” She shook her head, her jaw tightening. “He’ll need a new placement. But there are complications. His injuries need consistent follow-ups, therapy… and not many homes can handle that. Especially not with a sibling in tow.”
John didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the opposite wall. His fingers had gone white around the paper cup.
“The agency will try to keep them together,” Mary said, a little softer. “But the chances are … slim.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I should get back to my patients.” Mary stood slowly. “You can leave the cup when you’re done.”
She hesitated — just a second.
“Goodbye, John.”