Chapter 2

Marcus Harrison''s POV

I couldn''t stop staring at her in the ambulance. Every time the paramedic moved to check another injury, I saw something new that made my blood boil. Cigarette burns on her arms. Rope marks around her wrists that looked old and healed over. A scar across her collarbone that had to have come from a knife.

Someone had been hurting this girl for a long time.

"How old do you think she is?" my mom asked quietly, holding the girl''s hand while the paramedic worked.

"Sixteen, maybe seventeen," the paramedic replied. "Severe malnutrition, multiple healed fractures, signs of long-term abuse. We need to contact social services immediately."

"No," I said before I could stop myself. Everyone in the ambulance looked at me. "I mean, shouldn''t we wait? Make sure she''s okay first?"

The paramedic gave me a look like he understood exactly what I was thinking. "Son, I know you want to help her, but there are procedures we have to follow."

My dad put his hand on my shoulder. "We''ll figure it out, Marcus. Right now we just need to get her to the hospital."

But I wasn''t worried about procedures. I was worried about this girl who couldn''t even tell us her name. What if her family was the reason she was hurt? What if sending her back meant sending her back to whoever did this?

The hospital was chaos when we got there. Doctors and nurses everywhere, all of them asking questions nobody could answer. The girl just lay there on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling like she was trying to disappear.

"We need to contact her guardians," Dr. Peterson was saying to my parents. "Hospital policy requires—"

"What if her guardians are the ones who hurt her?" I interrupted.

Dr. Peterson looked at me like I was just some kid who didn''t understand how the world worked. Maybe I was. But I understood enough to know that this girl was terrified.

"Marcus is right," my mom said firmly. "Look at her injuries, doctor. This wasn''t an accident or even a single incident. Someone has been systematically abusing this child."

My dad nodded. "We want to request that you call the police before contacting any family members. Let them investigate first."

"That''s not typically how we—"

"Please," I said, stepping closer to the girl''s bed. She turned her head to look at me, and I could see the fear in her eyes. "Something tells me she ran away for a good reason."

Dr. Peterson was quiet for a long moment, studying the girl''s injuries. Finally he sighed. "You''re probably right. I''ll call Detective Morrison. She handles abuse cases."

Relief flooded through me. At least we''d bought her some time.

The next few hours were a blur of tests and X-rays and doctors poking and prodding at injuries that made me want to punch something. Or someone. The girl never made a sound through any of it, not even when they had to clean out the infected cut on her leg.

"She''s not speaking," Dr. Peterson told us after the initial examination. "It could be shock, or it could be psychological trauma. We won''t know until she''s ready to tell us."

My mom was sitting in the chair next to the bed, stroking the girl''s hair like she was her own daughter. "How long do you think she''s been on the streets?"

"Based on the condition of her feet and the level of dehydration, I''d say at least two or three days," the doctor replied. "She''s lucky you found her when you did. Another few hours and we might have been too late."

The thought made my stomach turn. What if we hadn''t decided to take that late-night walk? What if we''d been five minutes later getting home?

I couldn''t think about it.

Detective Morrison arrived around midnight. She was a small woman with graying hair and tired eyes that looked like they''d seen too much. She took one look at the girl and immediately understood what we were dealing with.

"I''m going to need to ask her some questions," she said gently.

"She can''t speak," I told her quickly. "Or won''t. We''re not sure which."

Detective Morrison nodded like this wasn''t unusual. "That''s fine. Sometimes the body tells us everything we need to know." She approached the bed slowly, making sure the girl could see her coming. "Hi there, sweetheart. My name is Detective Morrison. I''m here to help you, okay?"

The girl''s eyes darted between all of us like a trapped animal looking for an escape route.

"You don''t have to say anything right now," the detective continued. "But I want you to know that whatever happened to you, it wasn''t your fault. And we''re going to make sure it doesn''t happen again."

For the first time since we''d found her, I saw something other than fear in the girl''s expression. It was small, barely there, but it looked like hope.

My mom leaned forward. "Detective, we''d like to stay with her tonight. If that''s allowed."

"I think that would be good for her," Detective Morrison agreed. "She clearly trusts you already. That''s not easy for kids who''ve been through what she has."

I pulled up a chair next to the bed. The girl was watching me with those big, haunted eyes. I wished I knew what to say to make it better, but words felt useless compared to what she''d been through.

"I''m Marcus," I said quietly. "And I meant what I said earlier. You''re safe now. We''re not going to let anyone hurt you again."

She blinked once, slowly, like she was trying to decide whether to believe me.

I hoped she would.

The nurses dimmed the lights around two in the morning, but none of us were sleeping. My parents dozed in the uncomfortable hospital chairs while I kept watch over the girl. Every time a door opened or footsteps echoed in the hallway, she would tense up like she was ready to run.

"It''s just the nurses," I whispered each time. "You''re safe. I promise."

Somewhere around dawn, she finally relaxed enough to close her eyes. Her breathing evened out and her hands unclenched from where they''d been gripping the hospital blanket.

She looked so young when she was sleeping. Too young to have been through whatever hell she''d escaped from.

Dr. Peterson found me in the cafeteria later that morning, staring at a cup of coffee I hadn''t touched.

"She''s asking for you," he said.

I was back in her room in thirty seconds flat.

The girl was sitting up in bed, looking more alert than she had the night before. There was a notepad in her hands and a pen. She''d written something on it.

"What does it say?" I asked, moving closer.

She held up the notepad so I could read it. In shaky handwriting, it said: "Thank you."

Two simple words, but they hit me harder than any speech could have.

"You don''t need to thank me," I said. "Anyone would have done the same thing."

She shook her head and wrote something else: "No they wouldn''t."

The sadness in those words broke something inside my chest. How many people had walked past her before? How many had seen her hurting and chosen to look away?

She was writing again: "My name is Elena."

Elena. Finally, I had a name to go with the face that had been haunting me all night.

"It''s nice to meet you, Elena," I said, and for the first time, I saw her almost smile.