Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I took his ankle firmly in one hand and lifted his foot for a better look. He was in bare feet, not that I’d given that consideration even once as we’d run across dirt and sand, gravel, and shards of rock. The sole of the foot I held was crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions and colored a dark rust by dried blood.
Giving a pained hiss under my breath, I demanded, “You should’ve said something. Jesus.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that his hand was hovering by my head. It was palm down in a fairly harmless position, so I ignored it. He very likely felt threatened; I would’ve in his shoes. This time I moved more slowly as to not startle him further and his hand slowly dropped back to his side. Lifting his other foot with painstaking care, I saw that it was in the same shape.
“Why?” he asked blankly.
He had no idea, literally none, as to why he should’ve called attention to his discomfort. “Because hurting you was never part of the plan,” I snapped despite myself, guilt and self-annoyance bubbling up within. “And neither were feet that look like roadkill.”
Setting the foot down gently, I headed straight into the bathroom and started water running in the tub. Taking one of the tiny shampoo bottles, I dumped the contents in as well. After seven inches of warm and soapy water filled the bottom, I turned off the tap and went back out to retrieve Michael.
As he sat gingerly on the edge of the tub, I had him roll up his pant legs and immerse his feet in the water. “Soak them for a while. I’ll be right back.” Out in the room I opened up the first aid kit and spread it out on my bed. I’d packed the kit before I’d packed anything else, but I had no idea I’d be using it so soon. Shaking out two ibuprofen into my palm, I took them back in the bathroom and handed them to Michael. Running a plastic cup of water, I offered that as well. “Take those. It’ll help with the pain.”
He studied the pills side by side in his palm while I held the cup. Finally, I nudged his shoulder. “Michael,” I prompted, “take the pills.”
“I don’t like pills.” He looked up at me, a mutinous set to his mouth. I could tell that if I’d pushed the issue, he would’ve given in and taken them. He was shockingly obedient for a teenager, at least in comparison to the one I had been. Still, I decided pushing was not the way to go—not on an issue so small. After seeing that basement room, it was easy to believe he had every reason to dislike pills or anything remotely medically related.
Sighing, I thought for a moment, then gave him a crooked smile. “Okay then, pick one.” His expression was understandably dubious, but I persisted. “Go on. Choose one. I’ll take it and you can take the other. They’re harmless, Michael. Honestly.”
The honesty didn’t matter, but my offer to take one did. Hell, I had a raging headache coming on anyway and I swallowed the indicated pill without complaint. Cautiously, Michael waited twenty minutes to see the result before he took his. He was many things, this kid, but stupid was not one of them. The warm water had sluiced most of the dried blood from his feet by then and I finished cleaning the rest of it with gauze and peroxide. Drying them with a towel, I slathered antibiotic ointment liberally on both soles and then presented him with a pair of clean socks from my bag. “Cover them up. God knows what you could catch off this carpet—Ebola, the plague, there’s no telling.”
He’d sat military straight on the bed while I’d performed the first aid and watched my every move. Furrowed brows said that care such as this wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but he said nothing as he straightened and pulled on the socks.
“Go ahead and crash, kiddo.” I cleaned up the first aid kit and shoved it back in my bag. “We’ll sleep a few hours before we hit the road again.” It wouldn’t be much of a rest, but I wanted to make sure those assholes weren’t going to pick us up somehow. If they had government ties as we suspected, it would be easy enough for them to have a finger dipped into the local authorities’ pie as well. There could be an APB out for Michael at this moment. No one had seen my face or Saul’s, but it was safe to say they had an excellent description of my brother, both inside and out.
Once again I saw a glimpse of a shadowy and jaded humor as the last word passed my lips. “You really have no idea what I am, do you?”
I was going to have to adjust to his denial, at least for a while. Doing my best to massage out the pang of tension stabbing at the base of my neck, I answered with weary quiet. “You’re my brother, Michael. And I’ll prove it to you, I swear. Now get some sleep.”
Bicolored eyes were as opaque and vigilant as those of a wild animal, but he stood to turn down the blankets. Sliding under them, he pulled them up to his neck and shifted over onto his side. It wasn’t too long before he drifted off, his hair a brown tangle on the pillow. He was tired, I knew, but as had happened in the car, questions were passing through my head. He didn’t trust me; as far as I could tell he didn’t trust anyone, including those with whom he’d lived. Even factoring in exhaustion, it was unsettling how quickly he dropped off. It was as if he were so used to a life filled with menace and uncertainty that it was the norm for him.
I stood by the bed and watched him sleep for a long time. To look away seemed like the worst invitation to fate . . . as if he were only a dream conjured by nothing more than years of guilt. Stupid, but my gaze lingered on him as I turned off the lights and went over to recline in the garish orange chair by the window. I left the world inside the room and turned my attention to the one outside the window. If I wanted to keep my brother, I had to act like the professional I was. Arranging the blinds until a small space showed between each slat, I kept watch on the parking lot until the sun came up.
It was about then that I realized what Michael had said before he’d gone to bed. “You really have no idea who I am, do you?” That’s what I’d assumed he had said, but my assumption had been wrong. It hadn’t been the word “who” that sat in the middle of that sentence. No . . .
It had been “what.”
Chapter 11
Michael woke without help from me. Rolling over, he tossed around for a few minutes before murmuring something. It sounded like a name . . . Peter. The sound of his own voice must have stirred him from sleep, because his eyes opened and the firm grip he had on a wad of sheets loosened. Blank and confused, his face smoothed out when he saw me. I didn’t fool myself into thinking the sight of me was reassuring in any way. My image simply triggered his brain into catching up with the events of last night and letting him know how he’d ended up in a strange hotel room.
“Hungry?” I stretched my legs as the twinge in the small of my back reminded me of a night spent in a chair designed by the most sadistic carpenter alive. “We can get some drive-through later, but I have jerky or peanut butter to tide you over until then.” Running a hand over fly-away hair, he sat up and slanted me a less-than-thrilled look. I supposed even institutional food was better than what I was serving. Giving a tired but heartfelt grin, I added, “Or there are still some Oreos.” Our mom had to be spinning in her grave over my idea of nutrition for the teenager on the run.
The mention of the cookies went over much better than my other offerings. Blankets pooled on the floor as he climbed out of bed to give me a demandingly expectant look. “Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I said, snorting. Within minutes Michael was munching his way to hopefully a more communicative mood. At seven he’d been a morning person, but then again, who wasn’t at that age? There were lands to explore, dragons to slay, worlds to conquer.
“I’m going to grab a shower.” I hesitated. “You’re not going to take off, are you?” He wouldn’t have gotten more than three steps outside the door if he had, but I wanted him to feel as if he had choices. He’d been a prisoner so long that I didn’t want him feeling the same way with me.
“Is that even an option?” he asked with a marked lack of faith. My question was as glass to him. My intentions didn’t matter, and he saw all too clearly what my actions would be.
I might as well be honest. Whether it was whatever psychology course he’d been fed or merely natural talent, he would be a hard kid to fool. It could be both. Lukas at seven had been both innocent and wise . . . and an impressive judge of character for such a young child. “Not really, Michael.” I rubbed a hand over a bristly jaw and said regretfully, “Sorry.”
He shrugged. “This is no worse than the Institute.” Finishing his last cookie, he went over and began to make
