Page 2 of Lost Little Boy
Then, there were the memories of my mother’s voice from my childhood, echoing in my head that toys were a waste of money. Back then, part of me thought maybe she was right until I saw the kids at the center playing with them. Their happy smiles and shrieks of joy made me feel bad for Tricia, Lizzy, Billy, and Joey, my younger brothers and sisters, who went without toys, too.
When they were little, they pretended that sticks, rocks, and anything else they could find were toys because they wanted them so badly. I had to hope their new families made sure they had plenty of toys as they grew up. Maybe someday I’d get to see them again. In my mind, they’d always be three, four, six, and nine.
The doorknob to the entrance of the daycare center rattled, bringing me from my memories. I hurried to hide behind a bookcase because it would be difficult to explain what I was doing in the center after hours.
The night guard, Mr. Burger, stuck his head inside and chuckled at seeing the place was empty. “Kids musta been wild today.” He reached over and flipped off the light switches before he closed and locked the door.
Once I saw the beam from the flashlight move down the hall, I hurried around the bookcase, replacing the fire truck on the shelf. I left through the back door, ensuring the door to the daycare center was locked, and I went down the stairs of the loading dock.
I lifted the lid on the dumpster, not believing I’d wasted so much time in the daycare playing with toys that it was dark outside. I tossed the trash bag inside before noticing the light over the dock was broken. I made a mental note to check it out on Monday, and I started walking down the alley toward the street.
A loud moan caught my attention, and for a moment, I wondered if it was another feral cat. The week after I started working in the Liberty Building, I found a mother cat and two kittens behind the smoker’s station on the loading dock.
My roommate Nora was allergic to cats and dogs, so I couldn’t take them home with me. Mr. Burger was kind enough to get a box and some food for them overnight, but we had to call Animal Control the next morning to take them to a shelter, and it broke my heart. I couldn’t go through that again, but I couldn’t leave a helpless animal out there by itself, could I?
“Here kitty, kitty.”
I started to reach for the side of the dumpster to move it out when I remembered seeing all those damn rats out there. A shiver went down my spine at the thought of them biting the cat—or me.
Suddenly, there was a coughing fit and movement. “Hello?” I pulled my jacket over my hand to protect myself from getting bitten and began patting the papers until I felt something much bigger than a rat or a cat.
I moved the dumpster more and grabbed my phone, turning on the flashlight app. There, under a bunch of newspapers and garbage, was a human. I slid my backpack off my shoulders and nudged my way behind the dumpster to find a man in a pool of blood.
Should I move him? How would I know if he had a spinal cord injury? You weren’t supposed to move people suspected of having such a severe injury, right?
“Help me.” The man’s voice was soft, pained.
I grasped my phone between my teeth with the flashlight facing down, picked up his legs, and pulled him from behind the dumpster. “Ha— oh,” I mumbled around the phone.
Once I moved him from behind the dumpster, I took the phone from my mouth and held the light where I could see how badly he was injured. His face was scrunched up in pain, but I could see he was quite handsome. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see much else because it was dark.
“I’m Perry. I’m going to get you some help. Stay with me, please.”
My phone chose that moment to go dark. I glanced down to see the battery was dead, so I moved my backpack to put it under his head, hoping I wasn’t doing more harm than help.
I took off my jacket and draped it over his chest. “I’ll be right back. It’s going to be okay, I promise. Don’t move.” I rolled my eyes at myself because obviously, the guy wasn’t going anywhere.
I took the stairs by the loading dock to the back door and rang the bell. I needed help now that my phone was dead. I kept my finger on the button until Mr. Burger opened the back door with his gun drawn.
“Oh, Perry. Son, I almost shot you. What’s wrong?” He stepped out the door and wedged a brick between the door and the jam.
“Over here, Mr. Burger. There’s a man. He’s hurt.” I tugged on his jacket and was grateful when he followed me.
We rushed back to the alley, and Mr. Burger pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. He gasped when he saw the man and immediately called 9-1-1.
I stood back and let Mr. Burger take over. “We’re at 2200 Clarendon Boulevard. The Liberty Building. Mr. Grassley the third is in the alley behind the building, and it looks like he’s been attacked. Send police and an ambulance. There’s a lot of blood.”
I kept my eyes on the man, wondering what the hell had happened to him. I noticed his shoes were gone and he wasn’t wearing a suitcoat. It was late April, but the nights were too chilly to go around without shoes or a jacket.
“Is he okay, Mr. Burger?”
I didn’t know any of the Grassley family. I’d seen their names on doors and a signature at the bottom of an all-employee memo on occasion, touting some success they’d had. I knew Wexler Grassley, Jr., was the man in charge, and I’d seen him the previous Christmas at a reception hosted for the employees.
At the party, I’d been too intimidated by all the company professionals to do more than fix a plate, grab a drink, and hurry to the supply closet to eat at my desk. I wasn’t much of a social butterfly.
I knew a few of the assistants from answering their requests, and everyone was nice enough, but I was one of five janitors working for Grassley Industries. We were just overhead, “no added value,” the head of building services had told all the janitorial staff when we’d requested raises last December.
Sirens blared, cutting through the night air. “Run to the head of the alley and signal them to come this way,” Mr. Burger said as he pointed toward the main street.
