Page 93 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I pay for the cab and head into the ER, collaring Kacie as she walks by with a tray.

“Hey, what’s happening?” I ask. “Jess called and said there was a category 1 incident, and all doctors were being called in.”

A tiny line forms between her brows. “No one has seen Jess tonight; she was supposed to be here ages ago, as were you. Luckily, it’s been pretty steady, just a couple of falls and minor traffic collisions.”

Her eyes search my face like she’s trying to figure out whether she needs to call psych and get me a bed. “Did you say a category 1? Nope. One or both of you got your wires crossed somewhere.”

I’m not crazy—Jess really did tell me there was an emergency. She sounded so afraid, and there’s no faking that kind of thing.

But fear can be authentic even when the reason behind it is a lie.

I realize Kacie is staring at me, and I plaster a smile on my face. “Sorry. It’s been a weird day. Jess might be having trouble with her carer for Bobby.”

“She needs to call in,” Kacie says. “Debra in resourcing will lose her shit.”

I’m not listening, my mind racing with horrible possibilities. Then I remember the other thing Jess said.

“The little boy in room twelve,” I say. “Desi. Is he meant to be leaving us?”

“Tomorrow. But he’s scared to go. He’s been asking for you, and I told him you’d see him before he goes, so I’m glad you finally showed up.”

She holds up the tray. “I gotta take this morphine to a patient; he got in a fight with a table saw.”

“Yeesh. I’ll catch up with Desi, and then I’ll be back.”

Desi’s room is cool and dimly lit. He’s asleep, and I watch him for a moment, glad to see he’s peaceful.

His chart makes for interesting reading; although he’s healing well, he’s quite malnourished and struggles to eat much.

The social worker thinks the hospital environment is doing him no favors, so now that he’s physically capable of making the move, she’s signed off on a transfer to the specialist orphanage upstate.

That place used to be a wonderful facility, run by sensitive and caring people, but grants were withdrawn, and donations dwindled.

Now, it’s dilapidated and understaffed, and there are persistent but unsubstantiated rumors that kids disappear, sold into the very system they came from.

There’s a strong possibility that Desi, alone and unprotected in the world, will find himself back in the hands of criminals, a slave once more.

But there’s nowhere else for him to go.

I sit on his bed, and he opens his eyes, blinking rapidly as he comes around.

“Doc Bright,” he says, propping himself up against his pillow. “Hello.”

“Hi, Desi.” I pat a tuft of his hair that’s sticking up, and he smiles. “You okay?”

His smile wavers, and he shakes his head. “No.”

He has so few words to express himself, but I understand. Desi knows he has to leave, and he’s afraid.

He gestures at the bedside table, and I notice a Serbian-English phrasebook. The social worker must have brought it for him.

I hold it out, and he takes it with shaking hands and flicks through it.

“I need,” he begins, faltering at the unfamiliar feel of the words in his mouth, “a home.”

I frown, confused. Desi’s eyes fill with tears, and he tries again.

“Desi stay? No go big house. Desi be good.”

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