The automatic doors of the Emergency Room slid open with a pneumatic hiss, admitting a gust of humid night air and a small, trembling figure. To the triage nurse, Sarah, who had worked the graveyard shift for ten years, the boy looked less like a child and more like an apparition.
He was seven years old, though his malnutrition made him look five. He was barefoot, the soles of his feet blackened by asphalt and cut by gravel. He wore a t-shirt that was two sizes too big, the fabric stained with dirt and old grease. But it was what he carried that made Sarah’s breath hitch in her throat.
Clutched against his chest, wrapped in a protective, white-knuckled grip, was a toddler.
Caleb didn’t look around at the bright lights or the sterile machinery. He didn’t look at the security guard who had half-risen from his chair. His eyes—wide, dark, and swimming with a terrifying maturity—were fixed solely on the nurse.
