sprung up as the doctor called for him.
“We’ve a full house tonight. Can you check on the kid on the gurney over there?” The doctor pointed at the opposite side of the room. “See if he needs anything.”
“Sure.” Mind still numb from sleep, Raphael reached the kid. “You okay?” He passed one hand through his hair, then yawned.
A scrawny, little thing, the street urchin—a gypsy from his colorful clothes—looked up, pain etched on his face, and shook his head. “I’m fine.” Maybe ten years old, the boy’s eyes were red from crying and now dry.
Remembering he had, at some point in the night, pocketed the rubber band he used to tie his hair, he fished for it, but only found a quarter and a candy wrapper. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
The boy sat and hugged himself, as if cold. “Can you stay with me?”
Nodding, Raphael anchored his boot on the wooden stool by the bed and moved it closer. “Do you like stories?”
A small smile graced the boy’s lips. “What kind of stories?”
“What stories do you like?” Raphael sat on the stool, his elbows on the bed.
The boy perked up. “Dragons.”
“I love dragons.” Raphael swung the satchel to the front and retrieved his sketchbook and a pencil. In minutes, his tale was accompanied by winged creations flying all over the pages.
In between tales, the boy, Marek, confessed he had run away from his camp because his older brother was mean to him, but he missed his mum and da and wanted to go back. He had ended up at the Mattatoio infirmary after a close encounter with a speeding car. Fortunately, Marek was agile and had escaped from the accident with just a bruise or two.
Two hours later, Raphael put down the pencil at the sound of soft snoring. “And they lived happily ever after.”
“You are a natural.” Looking down at the sleeping boy, the doctor gave Raphael a pat on the shoulder.
Taken by the narration, Raphael had shut down his senses and hadn’t heard the man approaching. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“We alerted all the nomad camps in Rome and already talked to his father. He’s on his way to pick him up.” The doctor smiled at Raphael.
“Good.” Pressing his hands on the bed, Raphael pushed himself up. He felt lightheaded and fell back on the stool with a thud.
“Easy.” The doctor raised one finger to signal he should stay put and briskly walked to the kitchenette. A moment later, he strolled back with a fuming cup of espresso. Judging from the size of the mug, the doctor had filled it with a double or triple.
“Thanks.” Raphael accepted the coffee and the three sachets of sugars the doctor produced from one of the pockets in his scrubs.
The doctor waited for him to drink the beverage, then said, “You’ve done enough. Go get some sleep.”
Several nurses turned to thank Raphael as he exited the infirmary for the second time that night—now early morning. The cold air outside kept him awake when he would have otherwise laid his tired body on the bench at the bus stop and slept. The empty bus arrived twenty minutes later, at three in the morning. By the time he reached his studio, it was too late to sleep and too early to take another bus and go to the office. Opting for a cup of strong espresso and a scorching hot shower, he made himself presentable for Iris.
Despite Raphael’s efforts to greet Iris at the door when she arrived to open the office, the secretary still complained about his groggy demeanor. His day didn’t improve when Quintilius showed up later in the afternoon, and Iris pointed out Raphael hadn’t finished his morning tasks.
Passing by the hallway, Quintilius paused at Raphael’s office, and called him from the open door. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing, sir.” Hands folded over his chest and jaw clenched, Raphael tried to relax his stance. His wolf was restless, and Raphael worried he would challenge the alpha. Close to full moon, only two days before the
“We’ve a full house tonight. Can you check on the kid on the gurney over there?” The doctor pointed at the opposite side of the room. “See if he needs anything.”
“Sure.” Mind still numb from sleep, Raphael reached the kid. “You okay?” He passed one hand through his hair, then yawned.
A scrawny, little thing, the street urchin—a gypsy from his colorful clothes—looked up, pain etched on his face, and shook his head. “I’m fine.” Maybe ten years old, the boy’s eyes were red from crying and now dry.
Remembering he had, at some point in the night, pocketed the rubber band he used to tie his hair, he fished for it, but only found a quarter and a candy wrapper. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
The boy sat and hugged himself, as if cold. “Can you stay with me?”
Nodding, Raphael anchored his boot on the wooden stool by the bed and moved it closer. “Do you like stories?”
A small smile graced the boy’s lips. “What kind of stories?”
“What stories do you like?” Raphael sat on the stool, his elbows on the bed.
The boy perked up. “Dragons.”
“I love dragons.” Raphael swung the satchel to the front and retrieved his sketchbook and a pencil. In minutes, his tale was accompanied by winged creations flying all over the pages.
In between tales, the boy, Marek, confessed he had run away from his camp because his older brother was mean to him, but he missed his mum and da and wanted to go back. He had ended up at the Mattatoio infirmary after a close encounter with a speeding car. Fortunately, Marek was agile and had escaped from the accident with just a bruise or two.
Two hours later, Raphael put down the pencil at the sound of soft snoring. “And they lived happily ever after.”
“You are a natural.” Looking down at the sleeping boy, the doctor gave Raphael a pat on the shoulder.
Taken by the narration, Raphael had shut down his senses and hadn’t heard the man approaching. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“We alerted all the nomad camps in Rome and already talked to his father. He’s on his way to pick him up.” The doctor smiled at Raphael.
“Good.” Pressing his hands on the bed, Raphael pushed himself up. He felt lightheaded and fell back on the stool with a thud.
“Easy.” The doctor raised one finger to signal he should stay put and briskly walked to the kitchenette. A moment later, he strolled back with a fuming cup of espresso. Judging from the size of the mug, the doctor had filled it with a double or triple.
“Thanks.” Raphael accepted the coffee and the three sachets of sugars the doctor produced from one of the pockets in his scrubs.
The doctor waited for him to drink the beverage, then said, “You’ve done enough. Go get some sleep.”
Several nurses turned to thank Raphael as he exited the infirmary for the second time that night—now early morning. The cold air outside kept him awake when he would have otherwise laid his tired body on the bench at the bus stop and slept. The empty bus arrived twenty minutes later, at three in the morning. By the time he reached his studio, it was too late to sleep and too early to take another bus and go to the office. Opting for a cup of strong espresso and a scorching hot shower, he made himself presentable for Iris.
Despite Raphael’s efforts to greet Iris at the door when she arrived to open the office, the secretary still complained about his groggy demeanor. His day didn’t improve when Quintilius showed up later in the afternoon, and Iris pointed out Raphael hadn’t finished his morning tasks.
Passing by the hallway, Quintilius paused at Raphael’s office, and called him from the open door. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing, sir.” Hands folded over his chest and jaw clenched, Raphael tried to relax his stance. His wolf was restless, and Raphael worried he would challenge the alpha. Close to full moon, only two days before the
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