The Book of Daniel: Adopt and Die

By Brian D. Walker

About the Book
The Book of Daniel: Adopt and Die starts in 1989 with a three year old boy who is severely abused and neglected by his heroin-using parents. He is punished for not cleaning the apartment every morning, including the used syringes left by users who have slept on mattresses the previous night. When a social worker sees him being used as a mule to pick up the drugs his parents sell, she calls DSS, but not before he has been infected with HIV. Before the cops arrive, the boy is driven to a pedestrian mall and abandoned. The police are called and the boy is turned over to DSS. The social worker brings him to a disillusioned doctor who maintains his doctor's license but now writes mysteries to fill his time and takes abused children in for foster care. The doctor takes Daniel in, and the story really begins.

About the Author
Brian D. Walker is a United States Air Force Veteran. He programmed computers for thirty-five years and is now retired. In the past, he has enjoyed amateur photography but can no longer do so due to his failing eyesight. He has been thinking about this book for more than ten years, but he only started writing it in the last five years, using computer visual aids to write.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Apr 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887299051

Book preview

The Snack Cakes

and Nice Clothes Incident

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The little boy negotiated his way between the occupied mattresses on the bedroom floor, emptying ashtrays as he went. Periodically he came upon the remains of a short candle, which flamed and guttered in its last attempts at life. The boy picked up each one and blew it out. He also found syringes everywhere, and when he couldn’t carry any more of them, he put the needles in the yellow bucket. His parents beat him if he touched the drinking glasses that people left randomly placed amongst the mattresses, so he carefully tiptoed around them. Once, in an attempt to avoid punishment for not cleaning up properly, the little boy collected all of the glasses and emptied their contents down the drain in the kitchen sink. He carefully arranged the glasses on the drain board to dry after he washed them in plain water. His reward for that chore was a black eye and a pain in his chest that hurt when he breathed or coughed.

The double bed did not have a frame. It was covered with several blankets, but had no sheets. The skinny man from the bed and the skinny woman from the bed stayed there most of the time. If the boy opened his bedroom door just a tiny bit, he could see them. On the opposite side of the room was another door which led out to a sidewalk. The people who knew the man from the bed came through that door when they visited him. The boy went through the same door when the man from the bed sent him to the park to meet the man with the big brown envelopes. The little boy was not allowed outside at any other time.

After completing his clean-up chores in the bedroom, the boy went to the living room. Just like the bedroom, the living room floor was littered with mattresses stained with bodily fluids. People were asleep on all of that dirty bedding too. The little boy cleaned up the ashtrays, blew out the candles, and put more needles in the yellow bucket. He was quiet and careful while he did those things in order avoid being punished by the man from the bed. Waking anyone would make the man from the bed very angry, and the little boy would be whipped with a belt, and that was very painful.

Wearing only his underwear, the boy went into the kitchen. He knew the man from the bed would not catch him if he were quick and quiet. The drawn shades and mustard-colored walls made it difficult to see in the dim light. There was never any food in the cabinets, and he couldn’t reach them anyway. He didn’t open the refrigerator any more. The electric company had terminated service to the L-shaped apartment two months earlier, and the rotting food smelled bad. The boy searched through the trash basket, hoping to find the remains of takeout food, which the people who were visiting the man from the bed might have thrown away. The little boy found nothing to eat.

He couldn’t go next door. The woman who lived there always gave him some food, but he needed to take his clothes out from the bottom of the nightstand without waking the man from the bed. After the boy returned, he would have to strip and put his clothes back. There wasn’t enough time to do all of that before the man from the bed woke up.

The little boy used the bathroom and drank water from the sink, holding his hands together to form a cup under the faucet.

He returned to the bedroom. The man from the bed was awake. Still hoping that he might be given some food left over from the night before, the little boy stood at the foot of the bed, waiting for the man from the bed to speak to him. Sometimes there were crusts of pizza, or the remains of a sandwich. Several people on the mattresses were waking up. Behind the boy was a very skinny woman dressed all in black, with black hair, fingernails, and makeup. She spoke quietly to the man from the bed.

"Got any more? I need some."

You’re in my way! shouted the man from the bed, and kicked the little boy in the face. Get in your room! he shouted.

The boy scrambled away and pulled his bedroom door nearly closed so he could listen. The boy’s eye hurt, and blood trickled down his cheek. He wiped his chin with his hand, licked the blood off his palm, and waited for the bleeding to stop. The little boy could hear the adults talking, and tried to understand what they were saying.

I’m waiting for our checks, said the man from the bed. "They’ll come in the mail at about 3:00. I can cash them at the corner store. After we have money, I’ll send the boy to get more."

The little boy sat in his room for a long time. He was bored and lay down, curled up in a ball. He didn‘t sleep because he knew the man from the bed was going to send him to the park. The front door opened and closed. A short time later, it opened and closed again.

The man from the bed hammered on the door to the boy‘s room.

Get out here! he bellowed.

The little boy opened the door as quickly as he could. The man from the bed threw the boy’s clothes and shoes at him.

Put those on! he shouted.

The boy struggled to dress swiftly enough that the man from the bed wouldn‘t be mad. Once he was done, he waited at the foot of the bed.

Go see the man at the playground! the man from the bed demanded, throwing a wad of money bound with elastics at the boy.

The little boy knew what to do. He had done the same errand many times before. He stuffed the money in his pants pocket.

Go! the man from the bed roared. And don’t stop anywhere!

The boy couldn’t get out of the apartment fast enough. Being outside meant that he wouldn’t be hit for a while, he was away from the terrible smells, and there was temporary freedom from his tiny bedroom.

The winter dark had settled in very early that day. The cloud cover and falling snow made the early evening seem gloomier than it really was. Wet snow dimmed the streetlights by sticking to their lenses. Cars spewed slush and water on the sidewalks and unwary pedestrians.

The boy turned left, and ran to the end of the street. He stopped at the store on the corner. Sometimes the man from the store gave him things to eat. He lingered there for a few moments looking at the rack of snack cakes. As he turned to leave, the man from the store called the little boy back and gave him several sweet treats. The boy thanked the man from the store and left in a hurry. He devoured the sugary food on his way to see the man with the big brown envelopes, who would be waiting in the park for one of his contacts.

The little boy’s shoes were too big for his feet. He had no socks. Even when he tied the shoes as tightly as he could, there was a gap between the tops of them and his ankles. He didn’t mind being cold from wearing his thin spring jacket, but the snow that found its way into his shoes made his feet so cold that he could barely feel them.

The man with the big brown envelopes was nowhere to be found. The little boy was becoming very scared. The man from the bed would beat him until he bled if he went back without the big brown envelope. He walked all over the park. Snow piled into his shoes, no matter how careful he was to keep it out. The longer he searched, the more panicked the little boy became. He was going to be punished by the man from the bed for taking too long, even if he found the man with the big brown envelopes.

At the back of the park, the boy finally saw the man with the big brown envelopes seated on a bench. The little boy took the money out of his pants, and held it out. The man with the big brown envelopes counted the money, took one of the envelopes out of his winter coat and gave it to the little boy.

The boy paused for a moment to put the big brown envelope inside his own jacket to keep it from getting wet. He ran back to the dingy apartment as fast as he could, knowing that the man from the bed was probably already angry.

The man from the bed was sitting up against some pillows. His unkempt beard, long hair, and broken and taped-up eyeglasses accentuated the gaunt look on his face. The man from the bed looked very sick.

What took you so long? the man from the bed shouted.

The little boy withdrew the big brown envelope from his jacket and handed it to the man from the bed. The man from the bed opened the envelope with his bony fingers and looked inside.

"The man was in the back. I couldn‘t find him," the boy answered meekly. His soaked leather shoes were a testament to the boy’s honesty.

Where did you stop? the man demanded.

I only went there, the little boy answered, cowering.

The man from the bed backhanded the boy in the face.

Liar! the man from the bed shouted. Get undressed!

While the little boy stripped down to his underwear, the man from the bed had removed his belt from his own pants. That could only mean one thing. The boy’s body would hurt, and it would bleed where the buckle left its marks. Worse yet, if the little boy cried from the pain, the longer the whipping would last.

Get back in your room! the man from the bed ordered when he was done taking his anger out on the poor little boy‘s back.

The boy did as he was told, whimpering and closing the door behind him, hoping that the man from the bed would leave him alone for a while.

Sitting on the floor of his room, the boy remembered a time when his parents were not cruel. They didn’t hurt him. They fed him. They played together and did things. He didn’t understand what had happened to make them change. He knew that it had something to do with the big brown envelopes and the needles. His father had become abusive, and his mother had become nothing more than a lump on the bed. These people were no longer his parents, and the little boy knew he was powerless to fix that. He wanted to be bigger so he could fight back, but every day when he woke up he was still the same size as the day before.

After several hours, the boy opened the door a sliver. He was feeling claustrophobic, and needed to get out. Acrid smoked filled the living room. The man from the bed had been smoking some of the stuff from the big brown envelope. Soft music came from the battery-powered portable radio, which was the only sound in the room. The little boy needed to use the bathroom, and hoped to be allowed to sit at the table in the kitchenette. He knew that the man from the bed might hit him again, but he needed to get out of his room so desperately that he would have to risk the abuse in order to be allowed to stay out of his room for a little while.

The boy opened the door slightly wider. He approached the man from the bed quietly and gingerly.

Can I go to the bathroom and sit at the table? he asked softly.

Why do you have to piss me off? shouted the man from the bed.

I’m sorry, the little boy said, hanging his head.

"I don’t need any back-talk! I‘ll fix you up so I don‘t get any more! Stay right there!" roared the man from the bed.

The man from the bed swung his legs over the side and sat up.

The boy knew what was coming. It was just like before. While the little boy watched, the man from the bed did things with candles, spoons and a syringe. The man from the bed was going to give the little boy a needle with the same stuff from the big brown envelope that all of the other people in the apartment were injecting into themselves.

Come over here! the man from the bed shouted.

The punishment for disobeying orders issued by the man from the bed would be severe, and the boy was already in pain. The boy did exactly as he was told, even though he hated what the man from the bed was going to do to him. He stuck the needle into the little boy’s buttocks, and withdrew it a short time later. The little boy felt warmness where the man from the bed had stuck the needle in him.

The man from the bed stood up, grabbed the little boy by the arm, and flung him into his room.

"Now stay there! I don’t want to hear a sound out of you!" the man from the bed shouted. He slammed the door closed.

The little boy lay down. He waited for the sick feeling to start. There was no way to control it. Once it began, he would feel closed in and his body would itch. He fought the urge to open the door and leave because he would be punished for that. He finally went to sleep.

Much later, the little boy awoke to the sound of many voices. The front door to the apartment opened and closed repeatedly. The boy knew what that meant. People were coming to give money to the man from the bed so they could get something from the big brown envelope.

At that time, the people in the room were very lively, but the people who stuck around would be asleep on the filthy mattresses very soon.

Come out of there! the man from the bed commanded, throwing a shoe at the door to make sure the boy was awake. The man from the bed never asked him to come out of his room unless the little boy was going to be useful for something, so it was clear that things were about to get much worse.

He rose and opened the door to the tiny room. The man from the bed stood in front of him.

Go over there, said the man from the bed, pointing to a mattress where an older man lay under a blanket.

There was no mistake. The little boy was going to be hurt again. He couldn‘t refuse, even though he hated it. He made his way between the other people on their mattresses, but it wasn’t easy. They were so close together that he might trip over someone if he wasn’t careful, and the man from the bed would beat him for that.

When the little boy stopped beside the mattress where he had been told to go, the man who was laying there pulled him down on it. The man with the blanket covered him up, except for his head, and pulled the boy’s underwear down. The man with the blanket had already pulled his own pants and underwear down. He put his hand firmly over the little boy’s mouth, and hurt the boy repeatedly. The boy pretended to be somewhere else, and that the hurting was happening to someone else. He had learned that it was the only way he could deal with it.

The boy was released and the man from the bed ordered him back to his room. He pulled his underwear up and did what he was told. At least the hurting was over for that time.

The next morning, the boy came out of his room and repeated his cleaning chore. His brother, who was much older, was awake and sitting up. The little boy wasn’t allowed to speak to the older brother. He wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone except the man from the bed.

The boy went back to his room and closed the door as soon as he was done cleaning up. He stayed as quiet as he could. The man from the bed banged on the door to the boy’s room. The boy got up, opened the door, and waited for his instructions.

Go over to your brother, the man from the bed commanded.

The little boy didn’t want to go to the older brother’s mattress. The older brother hurt him worse than the others did. The boy had no choice. The older brother pulled the little boy’s underwear down and flipped him over onto his stomach. The older brother put his hand over the little boy’s mouth, and hurt him very badly. The little boy pretended that the hurting was happening to someone else again. He wanted to scream, and wished the hurting would stop. The older brother groaned and took his hand away from the little boy’s mouth. That meant the hurting was over.

The boy pulled his underwear up and went back to his room. He no longer cried when these things happened to him. He no longer cried at all. His anger was gone too. The little boy was numb. The only thing he had left was his fear of being hurt.

•••

Get out here!

The little boy awoke, opened the door, and stood in front of the man from the bed, waiting for his instructions.

Go over there! the man from the bed ordered, pointing to his own bed. The little boy hated that more than anything. It was wrong.

The boy knew he was going to be hurt again that same day. He was still sore from that morning when he went to the older brother. The boy had to obey the man from the bed, or be beaten with whatever the man from the bed could find nearby.

Once the boy got near the bed, the man from the bed pushed him down on the mattress and pulled his underpants down. The man from the bed got under the blankets, right next to the little boy. The man from the bed hurt the boy the same way the older brother had done. The little boy wondered why the woman from When the man from the bed finished hurting the little boy, he pulled the boy off the mattress and ordered him back to his room.

As time went by, the snow went away, and the weather got warmer. The boy continued to go to the park, but the man from the bed still did not allow him outside at any other time. The man from the bed continued to beat the little boy, ordered him to go to men on the mattresses, and inject him with the stuff from the big brown envelopes. He only got the remains of other people’s food to eat, or things from the lady next door.

When he was on his way back from the park one day, a lady with nice clothes stopped the little boy to talk to him. She asked him where he lived, and if he lived with his parents. The little boy answered the first two questions, but was afraid to say any more, so he ran away from the lady with nice clothes, and toward the depressing apartment. The man from the bed would punish him if he knew that the boy had spoken to the lady with nice clothes.

For the rest of the day, the little boy kept quiet in his room. He was waiting to see if the lady with the nice clothes would come to tell the man from the bed that he had talked to her.

Someone knocked on the door. A woman talked, and the man from the bed talked. Then the woman shouted, and the man from the bed also shouted. The door was slammed shut.

The man from the bed pounded on the door to the boy‘s room. The little boy opened it cautiously. If it was the lady with the nice clothes who had talked to the man from the bed, the punishment would be very painful.

Get dressed! the man from the bed shouted, throwing the little boy’s clothes and shoes at him.

The boy got dressed and the man from the bed also put his clothes on. The little boy thought he was going to be sent to the park again, but the man from the bed never went to the park. The boy couldn’t figure out why the man from the bed had put on pants and a shirt.

The man from the bed pulled a tiny suitcase out from behind the bed. He put the rest of the little boy’s clothes in it. He asked for something from one of the people on the dirty mattresses.

Go out front and wait for me! the man from the bed growled, shoving the tiny suitcase at the boy.

The little boy stood on the sidewalk, wondering what was going to happen to him. He had never carried a suitcase before, and had never gone outside with the man from the bed, either. At least not since before his parents changed.

The man from the bed came out of the apartment, looking as angry as the little boy had ever seen him.

Come with me! the man from the bed ordered.

The little boy struggled to keep up. The man from the bed finally stopped beside a car, and unlocked it with a key. He opened the door on the right side, ordered the little boy into it, and closed the door. The man from the bed got into the other side and started the car. The little boy was more confused than ever. He had only been in a car a couple of times during his life. It was before the man from the bed became angry all the time, and before he forced the little boy to be hurt. The little boy worried about where the man from the bed was taking him, and why he had a suitcase. He knew better than to say anything unless he was asked a question first.

The man from the bed drove for a while. He stopped the car on a street where there were a lot of people. He got out, and quickly opened the door next to the little boy. He had to get away before anyone noticed the boy.

Stand over there and don‘t move! the man from the bed said.

Once again, the little boy did as the man from the bed told him to do. He watched while the man from the bed took the tiny suitcase out of the car and put it on the sidewalk next to the boy.

I’ll come back for you later, the man from the bed snarled.

After the man from the bed drove away, the little boy looked around. There was a man inside a glass thing, and there were big blinking lights above him. People went in and came out on both sides of the man in the glass thing. Sometimes they gave him money. Sometimes they just talked to him. The little boy waited, not daring to budge. The man from the bed would be very angry if he came back and the boy had moved.

People walked by in both directions behind the little boy. He was scared, waiting there for the man from the bed to come back and get him. The little boy wondered if the man from the bed knew that he had spoken to the lady with the nice clothes, and this was the way he was being punished for doing that. The boy continued to wait patiently.

Two cars with blue lights on the top stopped in front of the little boy. He was terrified! Very big men got out of their cars with the blue lights on top. They wore black clothes and had guns. The little boy had seen a gun before. A big man who came to see the man from the bed had a gun. The little boy feared that the big men from the cars with the blue lights on top had brought their guns to shoot him for talking to the lady with the nice clothes.

The big men from the cars with the blue lights on top asked the little boy questions, but he was too scared to answer them. He didn’t know if the man from the bed would be mad. All of the new things around the little boy frightened and overwhelmed him. The big men from the cars with the blue lights on top walked around or stood next to the little boy. After a while, a little brown car stopped right behind the cars with the blue lights on top. A small woman got out of the little brown car, and talked to the big men from the cars with the blue lights on top. They each wrote some papers and traded them.

The small woman with the little brown car told the boy with the suitcase that he had to go with her. He didn’t want to leave unless the man from the bed said he could, but he was also terrified of the big men with the guns from the cars with the blue lights on top. The small woman with the little brown car told the little boy that he couldn‘t stay there, and he had to go with her.

The boy was worried that the man from the bed had sent the small woman with the little brown car to pick him up. He was afraid she would take him to someone else who would punish him some more. The small woman with the little brown car put the boy and his suitcase in the back seat, and drove away from the man inside the glass thing.

The small woman with the little brown car asked him a lot of questions while she drove. He was still so overwhelmed by what was happening to him that he was silent. The small woman with the little brown car finally gave up and stopped talking. The boy was being taken further away from where the man from the bed had left him. The little boy worried that the man from the bed would find him and punish him worse than ever for what he had done. He should not have talked to the lady with the nice clothes. And he should not have left where he was. The man from the bed was coming back for him later. The little boy knew it was the worst mistake he had ever made.

The Apple Pie

and Tiny Suitcase Incident

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I expected my medical training to be difficult, but that was naïve. The schoolwork was unbelievably grueling and the lab work was worse, but I eventually graduated with honors. Sheer determination helped me make it through my internship and residency. Through it all, I was spurred on by my expectation of all the people I would be able to help. With ‘Gavin Maxwell, M.D.’ on my nametag, I could cure the world of all its ills.

Practicing medicine on my own, however, was nothing like I had expected it to be. I found myself treating patients after regular office hours, because there were so many who couldn’t find another doctor whose fees they could afford. Constant issues with insurance companies or HMOs over patient co-pay amounts, and battles with them over testing and treatments had become daily occurrences. Approaching the drug companies to provide me with free or trial medication was a big waste of time. I guessed they hadn’t made enough money yet, and there weren’t enough people who had died from their trauma.

Many uninsured patients delayed making appointments with me until their problems became so debilitating that I couldn‘t treat them effectively. Others wouldn’t make appointments with me because they relied on free folk medicine to cure their ailments. When I wrote prescriptions, I knew some of them would go unfilled because the drug was too costly, and my patients would be forced to decide between getting their medication, or paying for luxuries like food and rent. It was difficult watching some of them slowly die because they wouldn’t accept charity and they couldn’t afford to be healthy. Most of the time, alleviating their suffering was the best I could do and sometimes I couldn‘t even do that. The nearest pharmacy filled prescriptions marked with our secret code, and charged the copay to me. Practicing the kind of Health Care I provided clawed at my understanding of right and wrong.

After we closed the office one night, I began to review the endless parade of paperwork. I couldn’t bear to see my patients suffer, so I wiped out the balances that some of them owed me. I knew that clearing their accounts wouldn’t keep my practice going, but I didn‘t care. I spent so much time and energy getting my license. I was disenchanted and unsure if I wanted to continue seeing patients at all. It had become impossible for me to maintain an objective outlook and attitude when it came to helping people with their illnesses, knowing that they probably couldn’t pay me for the current visit, or the medication I prescribed. Many of those patients would never come back.

My disillusionment and anger eventually began to affect the quality of care I was providing to my patients, which wasn‘t good for anyone. After a frustrating afternoon of appointments, I realized that it was in everyone’s best interest for me to sell my practice. A physician I respected wanted his own clinic, and was willing to buy all of my patient accounts, even the overdue ones. All of the equipment, supplies and facilities were included in the sale. He even agreed to keep my nurse on, which was the only other thing that worried me. The best news was that the new doctor had been granted special state assistance to pay down bills for some of those patients who had no insurance, and couldn’t afford medical care.

After the sale was finalized, I needed to determine what I would do with all of my free time. An airplane crash had taken my parents from me when I was in college. Being an only child, I inherited their medical device patents, an obscene amount of money, and the mansion where I grew up. I was blessed to have their money and our house when I stopped practicing medicine full time. It enabled me to start a second career writing the kind of mystery novels I always loved.

It took me two years to finish my first book. My lawyer, Julian, recommended that I hire a literary agent. The name he gave me was Gail Ginsberg. Gail’s impressive reputation was justified. Not only did she guide my first book through the publication process, she helped me make it onto several recommended reading lists. She set up book tours, and radio and television appearances, which propelled the sales even further. When my first book began to show serious signs of success, Gail recommended that I start writing a second one so my name would stay in the media.

The draft of my first novel had been written on yellow lined pads that I carried around the house with me. Making changes to it made a mess of the pads, and creating a novel out of that hodge-podge was grueling. I knew I needed to buy a computer with a word processor before I began writing my second novel. Instead of carrying pads around, and forgetting where I left them, I also needed to designate a specific space as my office. While there were unused bedrooms upstairs, I decided that the office had to be on the first floor so I could hear visitors coming in to see me.

I hired a contractor to build a double office under the stairs in the front hall, where a large storage area and cloakroom had been. The office in the front was meant for a secretary, and the one behind it was mine. A glass wall, framed by a one-foot-wide border of wood, separated the two offices. Having an office meant that I wouldn’t lose pads of notes all over the house, there was a place for office equipment, and my book wouldn’t be a constant part of my life. When I finally closed the office door, I left my writing behind for the rest of that day.

My new novel began to eat up a lot of my time, but I knew my sophomore book had to be just as good if not better than my debut. Several things interrupted my work regularly. Bills were not being paid. Correspondence went unanswered. Messages were ignored. Office supplies dwindled, and paperwork grew in stacks all around me. I needed an assistant desperately. Running the office had become a full-time job, and I couldn’t do that and write my novels as well.

Alex Bradford, a college student who was running out of money for his tuition, was one of the people who applied for the job. He was stocky, had a pudgy face, and wore glasses. Alex’s grossly disproportionate ears looked like coffee cup handles stuck out from the sides of his shaved head. He didn’t have a lot of office experience, but his vocabulary was exceptional, he had a professional manner, was organized, and eager to learn. I decided it was worth giving him a chance.

Hiring Alex turned out to be a good move for me. He took over most of the basic administrative work within his first week. By the end of the second week, he was composing my letters as well as typing them, saving me the time and trouble of writing them myself. Three weeks after he started, my desk was clear of all miscellaneous office paperwork and Alex passed to me only those documents that required my signature.

Around that same time, Alex started running personal errands for me, even though none of them had anything to do with his job. I appreciated his flexibility because, by doing those odd jobs, I could continue to write. I gave him a modest raise to thank him.

I was no longer doing clerical work, but progress on my second book was still too slow to suit me. The first half was complete, and read well, but I was so anxious to finish it that I raced through rest. A quick review showed what a shoddy mess I had made of the second half. My style shifted so dramatically in the middle that the second half seem to have been written by a different author and belonged to a different novel entirely. Several chapters were nothing more than a waste of paper, and would have to be scrapped, but I hoped to salvage a few sections with a little ‘punching-up.’ Oblivious to everything else, I made notes in the margins where changes needed to be made until the phone rang. By the time I reached to pick it up, Alex had already answered it. He always beat me to it. For the sake of my novel, it was usually better that I let him run interference anyway.

Dr. Maxwell? he called through the doorway. "It’s Caroline Booker for you. Do you want me to take a message or ask her to call back?"

"No. Transfer the call to me, Alex. I’ll take it."

Caroline was a licensed social worker with the Office of Children, Youth and Families. It was her job to place children needing foster care. At just under five feet tall and thin enough to blow away in a stiff wind, Caroline was actually a formidable powerhouse. She was beautiful, shapely, intimidating and aggressive, helpful, ruthless, relentless and compassionate. She was known as the Dragon Lady when it came to protecting and helping the foster families, and the damaged little souls in her care.

"Caroline! How’s my little apple pie?"

What‘s with the desserts lately, Gavin? she chuckled.

It’s because you’re so sweet!

Every time you refer to me as another kind of pastry, I gain weight and have to go on a diet, so knock it off!

I laughed.

Would you like to guess why I‘m calling? she asked seriously.

"You never call to tell me that I won a piece of oceanfront property in Colorado, so I think I can guess. Who do you have for me this time?"

"It’s a little boy who’s probably three or four years old. Can you take him until I find some space in a long-term care situation? I’ve run out of other options. I’ve been sleeping on the couch because there are eight kids taking all the beds in the four bedrooms I have."

Only for you, Caroline, only for you.

"I can’t bring him over there until 6:00pm. Is that okay?"

"That’s fine, sweetheart. I’ll be in my new office. The blank screen on my word processor is daring me to type something into it that makes sense. Everything I’ve typed is worse than what was there."

Caroline chuckled. Okay, I’ll see you then.

After we hung up, I leaned back in my chair and thought about how I came to be in the position of caring for foster children. It had begun more than two years before that call, when I saw an unkempt woman physically and verbally abusing a four-year-old boy in the front of my line at the supermarket. She shrieked at him, twisted his arms, and hit him in the head constantly. I called the police, but it was just my luck. She dragged the little boy out of the store before the officer arrived. The only information I could give the patrolman was the car’s license plate number. The scene played out repeatedly in my head after that. Three relentlessly sleepless nights later, I knew I had to do something. I took the CYF training to learn how to provide emergency shelter for kids, so they didn’t have to stay in a volatile situation. After the first few, Caroline always brought me the most severely abused and neglected kids because she claimed that I had a ‘gift’ caring for them. Many of those kids had been rescued from their own cruel and heartless parents. Thankfully, all of the children were resilient to some degree, and none of them had been damaged permanently.

Until Daniel.

Before leaving for the day, Alex forwarded all business calls to the answering machine. The house was silent, and I was making real progress on my book. My determination to finish the second half of my novel was all-consuming. Ben, my two-year-old Irish setter, was equally determined to eat. He sauntered into the office repeatedly, and gently prodded my hand with his nose until I realized what he wanted. I fed him, we went for a walk, and I went back to work.

A sign, reading ‘Come In,’ was mounted just above the doorbell on the right-hand side of the front door. It saved me from having to drop what I was doing to answer it. Shortly before six, the front door opened, and Caroline entered, punctual as always. She held hands with a very small boy, and carried a tiny brown dilapidated leather suitcase. After lifting the boy onto the straight-backed chair in Alex’s office, she placed his suitcase on the floor next to him. The little boy reached down and touched his luggage with his little fingers repeatedly, as if it were a security blanket.

"Hi, Gavin. I really appreciate this," Caroline said with a sigh, and sat in the chair across the desk from me.

"It’s no problem. You seem very tired to me, my friend. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"There are so many children who need help. My caseload keeps getting bigger, and the pool of available and willing foster parents seems to be shrinking. You wouldn‘t believe how much harder it is to place kids now than it was five years ago."

Yes, I would, and it worries me too.

"Okay. Enough about me." she said. "Not much is known about this little boy. He won’t talk. We don’t even know his name. He was abandoned downtown. A movie theater employee called the police after he noticed the boy had been standing in front of their entrance for nearly an hour. The only things in his suitcase are a pair of underwear and two oversized t-shirts. Unfortunately, those things are as filthy as the clothes he‘s wearing. I brought him to the hospital to have him checked out. He has injuries to his face and significant bruising, which is all over his body. I believe that he has been whipped with the buckle end of a belt. That would explain the puncture wounds and bruises on his back. The malnourishment is so bad that his upper arms are the size of a broom handle. He follows directions, so his hearing is normal. That also means that there is no language barrier, so I don‘t understand why he isn‘t talking. There isn’t much else I can tell you. I’m sorry. All of those things are going to make it more difficult for you to care for him."

"Don’t apologize, Caroline. Call me if you get any more information on him, or if you need progress notes from me. In the meantime, you know he’ll be safe here."

"Gavin, I still don’t understand these situations. I know if anyone can help him, it‘s you, but how did he end up like this? What kind of degenerate monsters did that to him? What can he possibly have done that was so bad that someone abused him so harshly? He’s just a little boy. Chances are that the abuse came at the hands of his parents. I’m not really expecting answers to those questions, I’m just angry. Call me if there’s something CYF should be doing. I‘ll make sure you get whatever support you need."

"Well, in order to keep my medical license, I have to see patients for a few days a month. I put that time in at the hospital, so I’ll have to find a babysitter for him. I’ll let you know what arrangements I make so you’ll know where he is, and who is caring for him."

I followed Caroline to the outer office to meet my new foster child, who was still in the chair, and still staring at the floor.

You’re going to stay here with Dr. Maxwell, she said to the little boy, soothingly. "He’s a very nice man. A lot of little children have lived with him. He’ll take very good care of you, and nobody will hurt you anymore. I promise. Don’t be scared. Okay?"

The boy gave no response, and continued to stare at the floor silently.

I watched him for a few moments after Caroline left. He sat motionless and mute, with his eyes cast downward. Because of my size, I worried that he would see me as a threatening giant, and might expect me to mistreat him just as the adults were doing wherever he had lived. No matter what it took, he would learn not to be afraid of me.

I instructed the boy to follow me. He trailed behind, out of the office and down the hall, and I walked in front carrying his suitcase for him.

The great room was my favorite place in the house. It was immense, taking up most of the first floor. At the height of summer, the skylight in the twenty-foot ceiling allowed so much light into the room that it seemed as bright and warm as being outdoors. The little boy followed me through the squares of early evening sunlight that organized themselves in patterns on the polished wood floor.

Years before that, I had created a living room area in the far right corner of the great room. The black leather furniture was a stark contrast against the cream-colored walls. The sofa had been angled to allow access to the kitchen through the archway. Situating everything in the corner made the seating area feel much more intimate and welcoming, too. Visitors always relaxed quickly after sinking into the soft leather sofa.

I put the little boy’s tiny suitcase down near the sofa, but he pulled it close to where he stood on the right side of the kitchen archway. He ran the little fingers of his right hand up and down the edge of the arch, and stared at his shoes as if he expected them to take flight and leave him.

Thinking about all of the abused children who had lived with me, the boy that Caroline brought to me that day was still the saddest little creature I had ever seen. What heinous thing had that boy done, which rule had he broken, or how was his behavior so awful, that it warranted the type of punishment he had received? He wasn’t much more than a baby. It made me want to cry.

Even though it was painful to look at him, I was sure that it hurt him more than it did me. There was a cut and a bad bruise under the boy’s left eye, and his lower lip had been split on the same side. Both sides of his gaunt face were also bruised. He was so grimy that he couldn’t have washed in quite some time. The cuffs of his pants were three inches above the tops of his adult size shoes, and the leather soles were separating from the tops. He had no socks. The large green t-shirt from an insurance company hung on him like a dress. His filthy hair was short, and of random lengths, as though someone had done a hatchet job with a pair of kitchen shears. Despite the damage to his face, his excruciatingly thin frame, the ill-fitting clothes and bad haircut, the little boy was beautiful. His olive skin, straight blond hair, big brown eyes, and delicate features made him irresistible. For my own peace of mind, I had to start figuring out how to help this defenseless little person.

I tried talking to the little boy, hoping that he might answer me if I spoke in calm, soft, even tones. When Ben showed up and lay a short distance away, the boy stole furtive glances at my pooch. The dog studied the boy intently, as if he knew that something was wrong. Taking care not to get too close to him and have him fear me, I bent down to his level.

Would you like something to eat? I asked.

There was no response, and the boy continued to stare at the floor, completely motionless.

Do you want to see the house?

No response.

How would you like to watch cartoons with me?

No response.

Assuming that he wouldn’t talk no matter what was asked of him; I went to the opposite end of the sofa from the archway, and turned the television on. When I found a classic cartoon, the little boy looked up at the TV. Twenty minutes later, he sat on the sofa, as far away from me as possible, and watched the brightly-colored flowers sing. He was very wary, checking periodically to see if I had moved.

It dawned on me that the boy had not answered any of my questions, including the one about watching cartoons, yet he was sitting on the sofa doing just that, so maybe he was hungry. I got food for both of us, just in case he would eat only if I did. The boy watched me put a glass of grape soda on the coffee table in front of him, and a plate with a sandwich on it next to where he was sitting. He stared at the sandwich for a moment. I sincerely hoped he’d eat it. He needed the weight. There was no way to tell when he had eaten last.

I made some sandwiches for us, I told him. I picked peanut butter and jelly because it’s my favorite and I thought maybe you‘d like it, too.

Pretending to watch the cartoon, I checked on the boy surreptitiously. Ten minutes later, he picked up the sandwich, shot a fleeting glance at me, and lifted it to his mouth. It was amazing to see how quickly he ate! When he was done, I went around the back of the sofa, picked up his empty plate, and made him another sandwich. I returned to the living area and put the plate back in the same place. Half of the grape soda was gone. That time, the boy glanced at me, and, without hesitation, he picked up the sandwich and began eating. He wolfed it down just as quickly as the first one and finished the soda, checking constantly to see if I was watching.

By the time the boy‘s second sandwich was gone, it was 8:00. His arms were resting at his sides, and his little body had sunk into the egg-shaped indentation of soft black leather that the sofa had created around him. Tired and unable to stave off sleep, his head was drooping and his eyelids were fluttering. At that hour, all little boys needed to go to bed. Especially those who had been through as much in one day as that one had. I rose, went to the other end of the sofa, and gently told him it was time to go to sleep. He started crying very softly as he climbed down off the couch.

"It occurred to me that he might think I was taking him somewhere to be punished for eating.

"I am not going to hurt you, and I’m not mad. I think it would be good for you to get some sleep. You’ll feel better."

 When I extended my hand, he surprised me by reaching up to grasp it. We ascended the beige carpeted stairs slowly so his little legs could keep up. Even though the boy was dirty, taking a bath would have to wait. He was falling asleep standing up and the sheets could be washed and changed.

I thought my little visitor might like the light blue bedroom next to mine. It also had the advantage that I would be nearby as he slept. I didn’t know what it would be like to get through the night with him, and I wanted to be able to hear him if he got up or if he was having some other kind of trouble I hadn’t anticipated.

It was obvious that the boy couldn’t sleep in the clothes he was wearing. The best thing I could use for pajamas was one of my T-shirts. I undressed him and put my undershirt on him. Because I’m a big guy, it hung on his little body like an evening gown, but I had nothing else for him to wear. It also bothered me that I was a stranger, and yet he hadn’t resisted when I undressed him. What did that mean or imply? I turned down the covers and lifted him onto the bed. When he was settled in and covered up, the boy looked me directly in the face for the first time.

Sleep well, little man, I said. "I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll get you some new clothes after breakfast."

He lay motionless when I turned the light out and pulled on the door, leaving it ajar just in case he needed me during the night.

I was taking his clothes downstairs to wash them when it hit me. Not only were his pants appallingly dirty, they also had a foul odor. Urine mixed with other things. I imagined that his clothes were clean when they were new, but they probably hadn‘t been washed since then. Wearing them had to have been awful for the little boy. Then again, it was possible he never knew anything else. I didn’t mind buying new clothes for him, but he would have to wear the things I was washing for one last time when I took him on a trip to the store. I vowed that he would never have to wear those awful clothes again. If he had a preference, the little boy might like to pick out clothes to wear on his own.

In the middle of the night, the little boy awoke, sat bolt upright in his bed, and screamed. I panicked and raced to his room. He was having night terrors. When I tried to comfort him, he pushed me away, so I turned the bedside lamp on low, and sat in the chair next to his bed. He eventually lay back down and watched me intently until he fell asleep. A half hour later, he was slumbering soundly, so I went back to my own bed, but not to sleep.

In the morning, my first thought was to check on the boy. He was already awake, had made his bed after a fashion, and sat on the side, looking at me with eyes that begged me for something. It infuriated me. What had those monsters done to him? He was surprised when I gave him his clean clothes, and asked him to put them on. He hesitated and smelled them several times. I hurried away to take a shower and get dressed. When I returned to the boy’s room, he was sitting on his bed again, wearing his clean clothes, and swinging his legs. He had folded the undershirt and placed it on his pillow.

Before we went down to breakfast, I led him into the bathroom. His injuries needed to be treated before the wounds got infected. Being as gentle as I could, I applied ointment and bandages. It surprised me that he was patient and didn’t move at all while I did that. I hoped the experience had started to teach him not to be afraid of me, and that he might learn that I could be counted upon to take care of him.

We descended the stairs slowly, holding hands again. Ben was standing at the bottom of the staircase, wagging his tail and watching us. Passing by the dog, I could feel the fear in the little boy’s hand, as if he expected Ben to attack him. He stared at Ben over his shoulder as we walked away from him and across the great room.

The kitchen was sunny and warm. Sunlight poured in through the windows above the sink, the one on the back wall, and through the sliding glass door. The breakfast bar was covered in small, bright yellow tiles, and the other countertops and walls were a pastel yellow color, so it was a cheerful place to be first thing in the morning. I hoped it would make the little boy less morose, and more prone to talk to me.

My search of the kitchen cabinets came up empty. I had no children’s cereal in the house. The only thing I found was shredded wheat, my breakfast of choice when I didn‘t have time to make eggs. To make the cereal more appetizing to the boy, I poured a little sugar on it. I lifted him up and sat him on a stool at the breakfast bar, right in front of a bowl of cereal. He was quiet and motionless. His vacant stare made me think that he was watching me set up the coffee maker, but that wasn’t it. He was having an episode of dissociation, probably reliving an horrendous event from his past, perpetrated by his parents.

At some point, while I was getting my breakfast together, the boy’s episode ended and he hunched his little body over so that only his head showed above the breakfast bar. Picking up the spoon furtively, he began to eat. The boy seemed to be hiding from me, as if I would punish him for what he was doing. Each bite he took was slow and deliberate. After eating a few spoons full of cereal, I realized that he was staring at me. I considered that to be progress.

I moved to the breakfast bar opposite him, and put my plate down. As soon as I did that, he froze, lowered the spoon into the bowl, and sunk down and cowered behind it.

We’ll buy some cereal and other food for you when we go to the grocery store today, I said. "You can show me if there’s something special you like to eat. Before we do that, you need some new clothes and shoes. I’ll buy you some things that fit you better than the ones you have."

Just as I expected, there was no response. The boy stared at me for a couple of minutes. Directly in the face. It was disconcerting, but I hoped it was his way of beginning to make contact with me.

"Go ahead and eat. I made that cereal just for you," I prompted.

He was still hunkered down, but picked up the spoon again. The little boy continued to study me intently while he ate, until every last morsel was gone. I was tempted to give him more, but I didn’t want to feed him too much. The starvation he had experienced might motivate him to eat as much food as he was given, and he would get sick from that. Having him regurgitate everything he had ingested was not the primary objective. He needed all the nourishment he could get to stay down if his weight were to improve. The little boy was really nothing but skin and bones.

We stopped by the office to get my keys on the way out. I only thought about it when I opened the car door. The boy would be much safer in a car seat, but I didn‘t have one. All of the other children I had in my care were several years older, so car seats were never a concern. There was no choice. For that one trip, the little boy would have to ride in the back, buckled in with an adult restraint. I drove slowly and carefully, checking on him frequently. He sat silent, motionless, and emotionless at first. Then he started crying, not understanding where we were going. Driving below the speed limit irritated the other drivers, but I didn’t care. There was an exceptionally precious cargo in the back seat of my car, and I was determined to keep him safe.

Not only did the little boy need new clothes and shoes, he had no pajamas or slippers, either. We went to a high-end department store where it would be easy to find sales staff to help me pick out clothes in the right sizes for the little boy.

Following the sales associate around the store, the little boy held my hand, but he behaved mechanically and seemed to have no concept of where he was or what was happening. Whenever we stopped to choose something for him, he stood quietly and waited for me to start walking again. I wondered if he was autistic, or had some other cognitive issue. It would explain a lot of his behavior, and would bear watching. If he didn’t start recuperating after a couple of weeks, I would take him to have testing done.

It was a challenge getting the car seat installed in my station wagon. Again, the boy stood still, off to the side, watching me and staring at the tarmac of the parking lot. I tested the booster to be sure it was cinched in solidly and was safe, then lifted the little boy up and strapped him in. Throughout that process he didn‘t react, and I wondered what that behavior meant. Caroline always said that I had a special talent with abused children. Looking at my current little one, I had to disagree.

The next stop was the grocery store. With the little boy in the seat of the metal shopping cart, I pushed it up and down all of the food aisles, hoping that he would show an interest in something. He stared at the floor, and still refused to talk, no matter how much I prompted. The cart was filled with all the food on my shopping list, and some things I guessed the boy might like, including some treats.

Three days after Caroline brought the little boy to stay with me, I witnessed a minor miracle. Ben began following the boy everywhere he went. They seemed to understand one another. A couple of times, I saw the little boy petting Ben. If he was petting the dog, perhaps the boy was beginning to reach out. At least that was my hope.

My agent insisted that I get a new photograph and biography for the jacket covers on my books. Writing the biography was no problem. I merely updated the one from the previous biography on my computer. Having a photograph taken was another matter altogether. I hated it.

 At 6’2" and 230 pounds, with an athletic build, I looked like a goofy football player. I kept my tightly curled blond hair very short. The moustache and beard I had grown for the picture were also blond and very curly. The point of the facial hair was to give me a sophisticated image. When I looked in the mirror, I realized that it didn’t. I looked like a scruffy, goofy football player.

I left the little boy watching television, and asked Alex to keep an eye on him while I went to the portrait studio. The photographer was very good, but all of the pictures that were taken of me were awful; at least in my opinion. Exasperated, I finally asked the photographer to pick the one that he liked the most, and I left with my frustration. Like it or not, I was stuck with the goofy football player image.

Everything related to my second book was complete and given to Gail. Since my part was done, and it was the publisher’s turn to do theirs, I finally had a welcome hiatus. While I thoroughly enjoyed writing, it was a relief to have completed the novel. No more deadlines. No more re-writes.

I had not kept up with the housework while I was writing. Because of