Page 3 of Enzo
I won’t go back.
I’d rather die than be dragged back into that nightmare.
TWO
Enzo
He fell quiet—unconscious.The pain in his eyes when he begged us not to tell anyone… I’d seen pain like that before, and it gutted me. The kind of pain that meant secrets too heavy to carry and too dangerous to speak of. I carried him into the garage. Rio was stunned into silence, and we got him upstairs to the apartment we kept for anyone who needed it. Rough and ready, but it had a couple of beds—singles in case of families—and a TV that worked most of the time.
The bed wasn’t made, so Rio grabbed an armful of blankets from the closet and tossed them over the mattress. We laid him down with as much care as we could manage. He didn’t stir. The air in the room was thick and foul, a rancid mix of sweat, coppery blood, and the sour tang of infection. It clung to everything, heavy enough to make my stomach churn.
“Put a 911 out to Doc,” I said, my voice low.
Rio was already ahead of me, waving his phone. “Already done. He’s fifteen out.”
I nodded, my hands still pressed to the young man’s side, feeling for the rise and fall of his breath.
Rio hovered nearby, eyes wide, voice quiet. “Do you think he’s gonna make it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But we’re going to try. We’re gonna give him a shot. That’s all we can do right now.”
Rio looked at me for a long moment and nodded. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”
I reached for the damp cloth beside the sink and dabbed at the worst of the grime and blood on the boy’s face, then took the scissors Rio passed me and began to cut away his jeans. He was skin and bones, nothing to him.
“Jesus, Enzo,” Rio whispered. “What the hell did he survive?”
“I don’t know,” I said again, swallowing hard. “But if he ran here, if he made it this far, it means he’s still fighting. That matters.”
The young man moaned in his sleep, flinching at the most gentle touch.
Rio stepped forward, placing the clean towels on the side table, his voice trembling. “Fuck, Enzo… fuck.”
Doc arrived with Jamie close behind, Rio staggering under the weight of towels and bandages. “Jesus Christ,” Doc muttered, recoiling as the stench hit him. Tall and thin, his face pinched with disgust, Doc wore a battered backpack slung over one shoulder.
“In my car—two boxes in the trunk,” he barked, tossing his keys to Rio.
Rio caught them and bolted out the door.
“Get his pants all the way off,” Doc ordered. “Then clear the room.”
“I’m staying.” I planted myself beside the bed.
Doc’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp with disapproval. “Fine. Jamie, out.”
Jamie hesitated. “But?—”
“Out!” Doc barked, and Jamie retreated, leaving me alone with Doc and the bloodied man.
Rio returned moments later, boxes balanced in his arms. We tore into them, digging out gauze, antiseptic, and sterile wipes, then Doc ushered Rio out as well.
“It might be better to just let him go,” Doc snarled when he tried to tug at denim. “I have enough morphine to?—”
“Fuck you asshole,” I snapped.
“Fucking bleeding hearts,” Doc grumbled. “Help me with these.” The fabric had stuck to the man’s skin with dried blood, stiff and crusted like old glue. Each tug made him flinch and whimper, despite being unconscious.
“Walking fucking corpse,” Doc muttered, his expression grim.
