This excerpt is an unedited draft and may contain errors, inconsistencies, or changes from the final version. It is shared for early insight and enjoyment only. Thank you for reading!
“Are you okay?” Max asked the boy hunched on the park bench. The kid couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. One sleeve of his mud-stained jacket was ripped at the shoulder, his hair in dire need of a cut. Beneath a layer of grime his face was pale and thin—emaciated, almost. Max guessed he was trembling more from fear than from the cold.
The boy remained silent, head bowed in obstinate resistance. Blood smeared his swollen cheek where his grubby hand had tried to staunch a cut on his upper lip. More blood oozed from the gash on his pant leg and seeped between the fingers clamped around his knee. One glance at the wariness in his eyes told Max the kid’s social wounds ran deeper than his physical ones.
“Here, let me see.” Max stooped over him.
The boy recoiled as if struck by lightning, his stormy gray eyes flashing suspicion.
Max held up his hands. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” He pulled out his wallet and showed his employee badge. “I’m a doctor. I work at Mercy General.” Cautiously, he edged forward. “I just want to check your knee, see how bad the cut is.”
After a brief struggle, Max managed to pry the boy’s fingers away. Even through the tear in the fabric, he could tell the gash was deep—cut clear to the bone. Judging by the widening stain on his jeans, he had already lost a lot of blood. If he was feeling any pain, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.
“This will need stitches.”
The boy flinched and finally found his voice. “No, it won’t. It’s just a scratch.” He tried to stand but slumped back down when his legs buckled beneath him.
Max suspected he was still groggy from the blows he had taken from that gang of thugs. “Let me check your eyes.”
The boy fought him off, but Max held him steady long enough to examine his pupils. No dilation—a good sign. If not for his injuries and what was likely a few bruised ribs, the kid would probably be bolting. And Max’s forty-nine-year-old body had no chance of keeping up.
He sighed. He’d known the minute he’d burned his mouth on hot coffee that morning, that it was going to be a bad day. “Don’t try to stand. You might have a concussion.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. Just stay put while I get help.”
Max scanned the empty park. Figures. The one day he could have used a crowd, and it was a national holiday. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, he remembered reading on his calendar. Schools and most offices were closed.
Where were the darn park wardens when you needed them?
Unzipping his jacket, he loosened his tie. The boy’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Making a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.” He tied the fabric around the leg, securing it in a knot. “Does your head hurt?”
“Nuh-uh.” But the slight wince as he shook his head told another story.
Max extended his hand. “I’m Maxwell Mallory, by the way.”
After a long pause, the boy accepted the handshake. Up close, the stench of homelessness hit Max—a pungent mix of sweat and neglect. “What’s your name?”
Another beat of silence. Then, grudgingly, “Richard.”
“Richard what?”
No answer. Max let it go—for now. “That gash is serious, and you’re losing a lot of blood. We need to get you to a hospital before it gets infected.”
“No!”
The flash of panic in the boy’s silver eyes was unmistakable. Richard No-last-name was in trouble.
“Please . . . not the hospital. I can take care of it. I’m not scared of a little cut.”
Max sat beside him. “Are you in trouble, kid? Why were those thugs after you?”
Richard dropped his gaze. Again, no response.
Max exhaled. For the first time in his career, he was going to be late at the hospital. His staff was probably wondering where he was. “My private practice is just a few blocks away. I’ll hail a cab to take you there so I can clean you up. Think you can make it to the curb?”
“I think so.”
Max hooked an arm under the boy’s shoulders and pulled him up. He was heavier than he looked. “Put your arm around my waist and hold tight. It will help take pressure off your knee.”
Richard stood a good ten inches shorter, and Max bore most of his weight, careful not to let him slip on the slushy snow. For once, the universe—or maybe Dr. King himself—decided to cut him a break because a taxi rolled up within seconds. Minutes later, they were at the townhouse that housed Max’s medical practice on the first floor, with his living quarters above. He led Richard into one of the exam rooms and helped him onto the table.
“Hold tight. I need to make a call.” Max hung up his coat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Richard sit up rigidly, ready to bolt. “Relax. I’m calling my assistant. She lives a few blocks away.”
Shortly after, the door burst open, and Mary rushed in, shrugging off her coat. Her eyes followed the trail of blood along the ceramic tiles, then landed on Richard.
“Goodness gracious, what have we here?”
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