Shattered Lives by Joseph Lewis

into Johnny’s room and stopped in his tracks.  There were more tubes and machines hooked up to his friend than there were the night before.  An oxygen tube helped Johnny breath.  There was a tube collecting urine and emptying it into a plastic bottle attached to his bed.  There was a similar machine that Brett was on after his surgery that collected Johnny’s blood pressure and heart rate with tabs and wires stuck to his chest and ribs with a Vaseline-like substance.  His mouth was closed as were his eyes, and his skin was pasty and sweaty.
                  Brett crept up to the bed and gently took hold of his friend’s hand, careful not to disturb the finger monitor.  His hand was cold and damp.
    With his other hand, he smoothed Johnny’s hair off his forehead and whispered, “Johnny, you have to fight . . . gotta fight, Johnny, please.” He leaned over the bed and touched his forehead to Johnny’s and whispered, “We’re safe now, Johnny . . . it’s time to go home, so please fight Johnny, please.”
    Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he felt Johnny’s grip tighten.
    “That’s it, Johnny, fight back.” The grip relaxed, and Brett brushed his lips on Johnny’s forehead and said, “You’re one of my best friends, and if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have made it.  Never.”  He paused and added, “I owe you, Johnny . . . all of us do. So please stay with us, okay?” Again, he felt Johnny’s grip tighten and Brett added, “I’m going to go get cleaned up, but I’ll be back with Tim . . . I promise.  Be tough, Johnny, fight, please?”
    Johnny’s grip relaxed and Brett eased his hand away.  He smoothed Johnny’s bangs again, though he didn’t really need to do that.  He did it more for one last touch before he left the room.  He knew Johnny was in bad shape and getting worse and was torn between getting ready for his parents and staying with Johnny.  Someone should be with Johnny from now on to help him fight.  He bent down and kissed Johnny’s forehead, took hold of his hand with both of his, gave it a squeeze, let go and then took a couple of steps backward, turned and left the room, but stopped in the hallway and leaned against the wall just outside his room and wept.

CHAPTER NINE
     
    Chicago, Illinois
                  “There is no way my brother would do any of that, especially to Brett!” Victoria said, leaning forward, teeth bared, finger rapping the polished faux mahogany conference table in a modestly furnished conference room where doctors met with patients and their loved ones to give them unwanted news or in some cases, messages of hope and relief.  This was not an occasion of hope or relief.  “No way!” She repeated for good measure.
    Just as he had done with each of the boys’ parents, Jeremy sat on one side of the table with Dr. Blaine Flasch on his left and Agents Pete Kelliher and Vince Cochrane on his right.  Flasch was the surgeon and attending physician for their son, Brett. 
                  Initially, the meeting was as grim as the previous meetings Jeremy had had with Tim’s, Mike’s and Stephen’s parents.  Disbelief, yet relief.  Anger and frustration.  Horror, shock and revulsion.  He spoke about how the kids seemed to be more mature and older.   Even though they looked young, perhaps because of what they went through, each boy acted older.  Lost was the playfulness, the laughter.  Instead, there was a somber attitude, a serious attitude that belied the fact that they were only thirteen or fourteen years old.
    He talked about Brett’s caretaker role with the boys, cleaning up after Tim and Mike and he asked, “How many fourteen year old boys would do that?  How many do you know who would ask for that kind of help from another boy his own age?” 
    Victoria and Tom stared at him in silence.
    “But when you think about it, their childhood was ripped away from them.  Stolen, if you