could tell this was hitting him personally, just like
the rest of them. He had a little boy at home and another one on the way.
“There is no missing juvenile around his age, matching his
description with the name of Tristan in the system, nothing even remotely close.”
Frustration dotted his words.
“Maybe that’s not his real name.” Jean offered. “Maybe
that’s the purpose of the name tag. Maybe these guys were trying to train him
to answer to it. Somebody has got to be desperately looking for this kid. We
just have to look harder.” She said, glancing over at the boy. He hadn’t moved
a muscle. The lids of his eyes were still shut as if he was asleep, although Marty
thought he saw them flutter. He had the feeling he was paying very close
attention and heard every word they were saying. Marty was pretty sure he saw
him cock his head slightly when Justin made mention of ‘the guy in surgery.’ It
could have been his imagination, and he could have been mistaken, but he got
the strange feeling that he was listening to their conversation for a specific
reason.
Marty watched as Hope grabbed the rolling stool from the
corner of the room and placed it close to the head of the bed. Now there was no
doubt, Marty could see the boy’s eyes flutter underneath his still closed lids.
“Tristan?” She whispered softly. His eyelids flew open and
he shifted his bottom and pushed himself, using the heels of his feet until he
was flush against the wall, his hands clutched in tight balls, making two fists.
Knowing that every reaction she had would determine how the boy related to her,
Hope didn’t react at all except to give him a half smile. She gently bit down
on the left side of her bottom lip and the corner of her mouth curled just a
bit. She watched and waited until his hands seemed to slowly open and his
fingers relaxed a bit before she spoke again.
“Tristan, you’re safe here, we aren’t going to let anyone
hurt you.” Her smile was warm and she made every movement very slow and
deliberate, hoping to gain his trust.
“DIRTY!” The word came out extremely loud and fast; everyone
else in the room jumped back at his sudden outburst; but Marty noticed that
Hope had the composure not to react. The boy repeated it over and over again. “DIRTY,
DIRTY, DIRTY.” He hollered as he shook his head violently, a mass of brown
curls whipping around, slapping his own face. His arms and legs, extended,
pounded the air.
Marty went to stop her, but controlled his instinct as she
took a chance of getting hurt by maneuvering herself so she was able to reach
out and grab the boy’s shoulders. Once she had his shoulders secure in her
hands, she shook her head and deliberately began mimicking his movements. “No,
Tristan, you’re not dirty. You’re safe now; no one’s going to hurt you. I’m not
going to let anyone hurt you.” She told him.
Marty watched as the little boy’s eyes began to focus on
Hope and she slowly changed the rhythm of her own head movement. Tristan’s
breathing became less frantic and he seemed to follow her lead and his hair
stopped whipping around and now he appeared to be imitating Hope’s movements.
Eventually, he sat still, staring at her, and then his eyes shifted to the pile
of clothes on her lap. With his eyes locked on Hope, he quickly grabbed for the
pair of jeans, thrusting the other clothes onto the floor. He started anxiously
rummaging through the pockets until he found what he was looking for. His hand
came out wrapped around a plastic purple whistle, and without any hesitation,
he raised it to his lips and blew as hard as his little lungs would let him.
With each blow, he stopped and looked around, as if he was waiting for someone
to answer his call, and every time there was no response to his frantic blows,
his expression appeared to become more despondent.
She didn’t want to stop him, but the whistle was
loud and piercing and they were in a hospital. She put out her arm, her
the rest of them. He had a little boy at home and another one on the way.
“There is no missing juvenile around his age, matching his
description with the name of Tristan in the system, nothing even remotely close.”
Frustration dotted his words.
“Maybe that’s not his real name.” Jean offered. “Maybe
that’s the purpose of the name tag. Maybe these guys were trying to train him
to answer to it. Somebody has got to be desperately looking for this kid. We
just have to look harder.” She said, glancing over at the boy. He hadn’t moved
a muscle. The lids of his eyes were still shut as if he was asleep, although Marty
thought he saw them flutter. He had the feeling he was paying very close
attention and heard every word they were saying. Marty was pretty sure he saw
him cock his head slightly when Justin made mention of ‘the guy in surgery.’ It
could have been his imagination, and he could have been mistaken, but he got
the strange feeling that he was listening to their conversation for a specific
reason.
Marty watched as Hope grabbed the rolling stool from the
corner of the room and placed it close to the head of the bed. Now there was no
doubt, Marty could see the boy’s eyes flutter underneath his still closed lids.
“Tristan?” She whispered softly. His eyelids flew open and
he shifted his bottom and pushed himself, using the heels of his feet until he
was flush against the wall, his hands clutched in tight balls, making two fists.
Knowing that every reaction she had would determine how the boy related to her,
Hope didn’t react at all except to give him a half smile. She gently bit down
on the left side of her bottom lip and the corner of her mouth curled just a
bit. She watched and waited until his hands seemed to slowly open and his
fingers relaxed a bit before she spoke again.
“Tristan, you’re safe here, we aren’t going to let anyone
hurt you.” Her smile was warm and she made every movement very slow and
deliberate, hoping to gain his trust.
“DIRTY!” The word came out extremely loud and fast; everyone
else in the room jumped back at his sudden outburst; but Marty noticed that
Hope had the composure not to react. The boy repeated it over and over again. “DIRTY,
DIRTY, DIRTY.” He hollered as he shook his head violently, a mass of brown
curls whipping around, slapping his own face. His arms and legs, extended,
pounded the air.
Marty went to stop her, but controlled his instinct as she
took a chance of getting hurt by maneuvering herself so she was able to reach
out and grab the boy’s shoulders. Once she had his shoulders secure in her
hands, she shook her head and deliberately began mimicking his movements. “No,
Tristan, you’re not dirty. You’re safe now; no one’s going to hurt you. I’m not
going to let anyone hurt you.” She told him.
Marty watched as the little boy’s eyes began to focus on
Hope and she slowly changed the rhythm of her own head movement. Tristan’s
breathing became less frantic and he seemed to follow her lead and his hair
stopped whipping around and now he appeared to be imitating Hope’s movements.
Eventually, he sat still, staring at her, and then his eyes shifted to the pile
of clothes on her lap. With his eyes locked on Hope, he quickly grabbed for the
pair of jeans, thrusting the other clothes onto the floor. He started anxiously
rummaging through the pockets until he found what he was looking for. His hand
came out wrapped around a plastic purple whistle, and without any hesitation,
he raised it to his lips and blew as hard as his little lungs would let him.
With each blow, he stopped and looked around, as if he was waiting for someone
to answer his call, and every time there was no response to his frantic blows,
his expression appeared to become more despondent.
She didn’t want to stop him, but the whistle was
loud and piercing and they were in a hospital. She put out her arm, her
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