Under the harsh fluorescent lights, he looked almost fragile enough to vanish, every bone visible beneath bruised, stretched skin.
His name, they would learn later, was Eli Carter, and no one there yet understood how much strength could exist inside a child already exhausted by terror.
He was barefoot. His feet were cut and bleeding from gravel, though he never complained. His oversized shirt hung from his shoulders like something surrendered too early.
But Nurse Paige Holloway froze not because of his condition—she froze because of what he carried.
A baby girl. Maybe a year and a half old. Limp. Silent.
Eli didn’t cry. Fear had burned that out of him long ago. He pressed the toddler—Lily—against his chest like a vow he refused to break.
He reached the desk, stretching on his toes to be seen.
“Please help,” he whispered. “She stopped crying. Lily always cries. Then she didn’t.”
His voice was rough, unused, the voice of a child who had learned that speaking often brought pain.
Paige didn’t hesitate. She rushed around the counter. When she reached out, Eli flinched as if struck.
“Don’t take her,” he gasped.