by Joe Hart
Her eyes darted to his. “No, I haven’t, but it’s just . . .” She blinked away the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “I don’t feel whole anymore, not just because of this,” she said, motioning to her legs, “but everything. I dream about it, about what happened, and I just want to wake up from it and not have it be real.”
He squeezed her hand. “I know, and the fear will get better. We can help each other, you’ll see. I promise, it just takes time.”
Dani sniffed, looking down at her lap. “And you don’t mind Freddy Krueger legs?”
He laughed and stood from the wheelchair, bending over the rail of her bed to kiss her long and deep. “Like I said, you’re beautiful.”
She smiled and stroked his face. “You shouldn’t be up out of that thing, didn’t the doctor say that?”
“He says a lot of things.”
“You’re just lucky the bullet didn’t go any deeper. You would’ve—”
“But I’m not,” he said, cutting off her words. “I’m fine, and you saved me.” She rubbed the back of his hand, her eyes shining. “Wanna go for a ride?”
They acquired a wheelchair for Dani and rolled along next to each other until they came to the elevator. They rode it up to the third floor and went to Eric’s door, the uniformed cop long since departed, and knocked before hearing the boy answer.
Eric sat propped in the bed, an iPad on his lap. His face lit up with the sight of Dani alongside Liam, and he got out of the bed and raced to her to give her a hug.
“I was going to come see you again today!” Eric said, pulling back from her.
“You’ve come to see me every day,” Dani said, laughing.
“I know, but I didn’t think you’d be able to leave your room yet.”
“I pulled some strings,” Liam said.
Dani rolled her eyes as they followed Eric back to his bed. The stump of the boy’s arm was bare now, and only an S-shaped row of stiches could be seen over the puckered red scar that lay beneath the thread. With an already practiced-looking heave from his remaining arm, Eric shrugged himself back into bed.
“How are you feeling?” Liam asked.
Eric tipped his head to one side. “Okay. It’s weird how I can still feel my hand, you know? And . . .” His face darkened. “I miss Mom and Dad a lot. Champ too.”
Liam didn’t know what to say to that. He hoped to shield Eric from the facts surrounding his parents’ death as long as possible, perhaps until he was old enough to understand them, if there was such an age.
“Some of my friends from school came by yesterday, and so did Mr. Swanson, my Little League coach.”
“Really? That’s great!” Liam said, grateful for the change of subject.
“Yeah, Mr. Swanson said I could still be on the team this fall if I wanted!”
The boy’s rising mood was contagious, and Liam felt himself grinning. “I told you, you’re going to be an MVP!”
Eric smiled and began to chatter about when the first practice was and how he’d let some of his friends touch the stump of his arm.
A half hour later, after they’d shared cookies and a few juice boxes that a nurse brought in, Eric began to grow quieter and quieter, soon only nodding or shaking his head in response to their questions.
Liam rolled closer to the bed, setting down his half-eaten cookie on a tray nearby. “What’s wrong, Eric?”
The boy glanced at him and then looked away. “You’re both leaving soon, huh?”
Liam examined the boy’s features; his hair poked past his ears. His father would’ve called it “the shags” from around his cigarette, and would’ve commenced to say that hair should go behind ears, not over them.
“Yes, we’re being discharged today or tomorrow.”
Eric nodded. “I have another week before I can . . . well, I guess I can’t go home.” The boy faced Liam, and he saw that he was trying not to cry, his lower lip trembling slightly. “A lady came and told me a few days ago that I’d be in a foster home for a while before they could find somewhere else for me to live.”
Liam swallowed. “And how did you feel about that?”
Tears spilled over Eric’s eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. “I’m scared. I don’t want to live with people I don’t know—I want my mom and dad.”
Liam reached out and squeezed his arm, and Dani approached from the right to pat Eric’s legs.
“I know you do, buddy. And I know they want you to be happy,” Liam said.
Eric nodded, wiping another flood of tears from his face. Liam licked his lips, his heart beating harder than he’d expected it to.
“Eric, what if the foster home the lady talked about was my place?”
Eric swiped once more at his eyes before blinking, searching Liam’s face for a long time. “You mean, I could come stay with you?”
Liam nodded. “Only if you want to.”
The boy looked as though he might start crying again, and Liam mentally kicked himself. Why would Eric want to live with him? The boy didn’t even know him other than the visits they’d shared over the last two weeks, although it had almost been a daily ritual. He was just about to tell Eric that it was okay if he didn’t want to when the boy shifted his gaze to Dani.
“Will you be there too?”
Dani nodded, tears clouding her vision. “Yes, I think so,” she said, reaching for and holding Liam’s hand.
Eric began to grin, and bobbed his head. “I’d like that a lot.”
The apprehension inside Liam’s chest broke like a dam, and relief flooded through him. A smile pulled at his mouth, and although it still seemed alien, he liked the feeling of it there. He was pretty sure he could get used to it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No book gets written alone. There is the author, that’s for sure, but there’s also a bunch of people behind the author, helping and guiding in small ways that most never see. The River Is Dark is no exception. Thank you to my sister, Ang, for once again answering my odd questions about cases and procedure; you’re a big help whether you know it or not. Thanks to my cover artist, Kealan Patrick Burke, for coming up with my favorite cover so far; you sir, are not only an extremely gifted author, your skills as a designer are second to none. To my wife, as always, honey, you make everything happen; from concept to fruition, you’re there, and without your help there would be no stories. And to you, reader, you’re the reason my mind won’t rest, and I thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © April 2014 Jade Hart
Joe Hart was born and raised in northern Minnesota. He’s been writing since he was nine years old in the horror and thriller genres. He is the author of five novels and numerous short stories. When he’s not writing, Joe enjoys reading, working out, watching movies with his family, and spending time outdoors.
Learn more about Joe by following him on Twitter @AuthorJoeHart or connect with him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/pages/Joe-Hart/345933805484346.