The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(54)

“That’s right, Zoe,” I say softly, “you’re safe now. You’re at the hospital, your brothers are here. We’re going to help you. You’re safe here.”

The shuddering gasps turn into sobs, and she collapses forward, letting me cradle her against my chest. I carefully prop my shoulder under her cheek, keeping her face away from the exposed skin at my neck. I don’t want to get an accidental contact high from the meth on her skin and clothes. “We’ve got you,” I murmur, holding her steady for the nurses.

They work quickly, getting her vitals settled and an IV started for fluids. With a bit of coaching, Zoe turns her arm to let them draw blood. Meth is a given, but they’ll need to check to make sure that’s all it is.

“My brothers,” she chokes out.

“They’re here, Zoe, it’s okay. They’re getting help, too. They’re just on the other side of those curtains.”

She’s starting to wheeze, and I rub a gloved hand in circles against her back to try to settle her a bit. “The lady. She kept. She grabbed. The lady.” She flaps her hand, hard enough to almost dislodge the second draw needle at her elbow. There are red impressions around her wrist, darker than the rash. Fingers? The beginnings of bruises?

“She grabbed your arm, didn’t she, Zoe? Kept hold of you so your brothers wouldn’t fight?”

Nodding, she draws in a deeper breath. It’s still shaky, but it’s stronger, and followed by another good breath. “An angel, Mercy. She didn’t have wings.”

“Zoe, were you and your brothers sleeping when she came in?”

“Sleeping? Trying. Trying, but our skin was alive.” She looks down at her arms and tries to pull her hands away to scratch. One of the nurses holds her IV arm still, and I keep the other one against Zoe’s thigh.

“When did your skin come alive? Zoe? When did it start?”

“We wanted dinner. The beds were out of food. Mommy and Daddy made us dinner. We never eat in the kitchen. We ate in the kitchen, though, with Mommy and Daddy.”

“Cagaste y saltaste en la caca. Jesucristo.” Those idiots weren’t cooking meth in a shed or garage; they were using their own fucking kitchen. The beds were out of food? Did the kids hide food in their rooms so they wouldn’t have to go to the kitchen? Santa madre de Dios.

“You had dinner, you were trying to sleep. Zoe, what happened then? Zoe?”

“An angel came.” Her words are softer, her voice cracked and raw from screaming. “Angels have wings. Didn’t have wings.”

“What did the angel do, Zoe?”

“She . . . she . . .” With a sudden gasp, she starts seizing. The nurses grab her out of my arms to lower her to the bed, supporting her head and neck against the spasms. One of them eyes his watch, timing the fit.

“How long?” snaps a young doctor, pushing through the curtain.

“Forty-two seconds,” answers the one with the watch.

They push an injection into her IV, close to her hand, but it still takes a couple of minutes for the seizure to ease. Once she falls limp, they loop an oxygen mask over her face.

“I’m sorry, Agent, I need you out of here,” the doctor says, and to her credit, she does actually look sorry.

“Of course. Her brothers?”

“Not seizing. You can try.”

I peel off the gloves and get a fresh pair, just in case, and head to the next set of curtains. The quiet one is there, his hands shaking finely as he gulps down water under the watchful eye of a nurse. When the cup’s empty, he tries to hand it back to her, but can only hold it out vaguely in her direction. She pours in a little more from a pitcher and gives it back to him. He’s already got a self-adhering bandage looped around his elbow from a blood draw, the IV taped to the back of his hand. Because they didn’t have to struggle with him the way they did with Zoe, he’s also got heart monitor pads on his chest, and an oxygen mask is sitting on the bed by his hip.

“Dry mouth,” the nurse informs me quietly. “There’s only so much the water can help right now, but we’ll get the mask on him in a couple of minutes.”

I give her a quick smile and look back at the boy. “My name is Mercedes,” I tell him, and he nods, seeming to recognize it. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Brayden,” he rasps.

“Okay, Brayden. How old are you?”

“Nine. Caleb, too. Zoe’s eight.” He blinks rapidly, but his eyes won’t focus. “Is Zoe okay?”

“None of you are okay right now,” I answer honestly, my hands curling around the foot of the bed. “You’re getting help, though, and right now that’s what’s important.”

“They sounded scared.”

“She had a seizure.” The nurse looks startled, and opens her mouth like she’s about to cut me off, but subsides. “They gave her something to calm the seizure, and they’re going to run tests so they know how else to help her.”

“But she’s gonna be okay?”

“I don’t know, Brayden, but the doctors are doing their absolute best, I promise.”

“Mom and Dad didn’t get out of the house,” he tells me. “They were still sleeping. She had Zoe, and she pushed us out of the house, and it exploded. She said it was the way it needed to be.”