Who could little children go to for help, after all? If they had no adult relatives, even the police would either sell them illegally or indenture them legally. Indenturing indigents, young and old, is much in fashion now. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth Amendments—the ones abolishing slavery and guaranteeing citizenship rights—still exist, but they've been so weakened by custom, by Congress and the various state legislatures, and by recent Supreme Court decisions that they don't much matter. Indenturing indigents is supposed to keep them employed, teach them a trade, feed them, house them, and keep them out of trouble. In fact, it's just one more way of getting people to work for nothing or almost nothing. Little girls are valued because they can be used in so many ways, and they can be coerced into being quick, docile, disposable labor.
No doubt these two girls have been taught to be terrified of strangers. Then, with their parents and brother out of action, they had been left on their own to defend their family and their home. In their blind fear, they had, they must have, shot at us and shot and hit three men who gave no sign of being anything worse than wanderers, perhaps salvagers. Michael and Natividad did go out to check on these men before we left while Jorge and I loaded our handcart and its contents onto the truck.
The three men were dead. They had hard currency and holstered guns—which Michael and Natividad collected. We covered them with rocks and left them. But they had been even less of a danger to the housetruck than we were. If they had walked right up to the truck, a locked door would have kept them out. Their old nine-millimeter semi-automatics would have had no chance against the truck's armor. But the little girls hadn't realized that.
We got them home to Acorn, and they're getting baths, food, comfort, and rest. Bankole is working on their mother and brother. He was not happy to have new patients. Our clinic has never been so full, and he has all his students and some volunteers helping him. He says he doesn't know whether he'll be able to save this new mother and son. He has a few simple instruments and an intricate little diagnostic unit that he saved when he fled his home in San Diego five years ago. And he has a few medicines—drugs to ease pain, fight infection, and otherwise keep us healthy. If the boy lives, Bankole doesn't know whether he'll walk again.
Bankole will do his best for them. And Allie Gilchrist and May are taking care of the little girls. The girls have been lucky, at least, in having us find them. They'll be safe with us.
And now, at last, we have something we've needed for years. We have a truck.
wednesday, september 29, 2032
With all the work that my Bankole has had to do to help the wounded woman and boy and the wounded Dovetrees, he didn't get around to shouting at me over the truck incident until last night. And, of course, he didn't shout. He tends not to. It's a pity. His disapproval might be easier to take if it were quick and loud. It was, as usual, quiet and intense.
'It's a shame that so many of your unnecessary risks pay off so well,' he said to me as we lay in bed last night. 'You're a fool, you know. It's as though you think you can't be killed. My god, girl, you're old enough to know better.'
'I wanted the housetruck,' I said. 'And I realized we might be able to get it. And we might be able to help a child. We kept hearing one of them crying.'
He turned his head to look at me for several seconds, his mouth set. 'You've seen children led down the road in convict collars or chains,' he said. 'You've seen them displayed as enticements before houses of prostitution. Are you going to tell me you did this because you heard one crying?'
'I do what I can,' I said. 'When I can do more, I will. You know that.'
He just looked at me. If I didn't love him, I might not like him much at times like these. I took his hand and kissed it, and held it. 'I do what I can.' I repeated, 'And I wanted the housetruck.'
'Enough to risk not only yourself, but your whole team— four people?'
'The risk in running away empty-handed was at least as great as the risk of going for the truck.'
He made a sound of disgust and withdrew his hand. 'So now you've got a battered old housetruck,' he muttered.
I nodded. 'So now we have it. We need it. You know we do. It's a beginning.'
