warnings: references to child abuse and neglect

Chapter 34: Angelica & the cluster

In which Angelica visits the church

Angelica doesn't leave the hospital until Will's doctor has checked in on him. She waits outside his room, pacing, staring at the closed blinds of his window.

"How is he?" she asks as soon as the doctor emerges from the room.

Dr. El-Saadawi smiles slightly. "He's doing very well," she replies. "Even better than I expected. His vitals are good, breathing is good. He doesn't seem to have sustained any brain damage." She gives a brief nod. "He's a very lucky boy."

Angelica feels a rush of relief.

"I'd like to keep him overnight to monitor him and make sure no complications arise," Dr. El-Saadawi goes on. "But I predict he'll be ready to leave tomorrow."

"That's wonderful news," says Angelica. "Thank you. He— his name is Will; did he tell you?"

The doctor nods. "He did. Will Gorski. That's about all he'd say about himself though; I'm about to contact local law enforcement and see what they can dig up on him. Hopefully he's got some family somewhere."

"He's a homeless teenager," says Angelica grimly, shaking her head. "I wouldn't bank on him having any family. At least not any that he'd want a visit from."

Dr. El-Saadawi blinks. "He's homeless?"

"He is."

The doctor sighs. "I see," she says. "Well, it would help me sleep better to check, at least. I'd like to avoid discharging him onto the streets, if possible."

Angelica understands the sentiment, but also knows that these situations must be handled carefully. "Ask him before you call any family," she says. "Please."

The doctor stares at her for a moment. "Yes. Alright," she agrees at last.

"And call me if there's any change in his condition."

The doctor promises she will.

o - o - o

It's still raining when Angelica exits the hospital, even harder than before, if possible. She sighs, wishing for the hundredth time that day that she were wearing something other than a dress. Then she zips up her raincoat, opens her umbrella, and steps out into the downpour.

Despite her umbrella, she's wet by the time she reaches her van, a behemoth that Jonas jokingly calls "the school bus." It used to belong to her friend Raoul, and when he offered it to her after her old car broke down, she couldn't really say no — social workers don't exactly make a fortune, after all.

She turns on her windshield wipers and starts to drive, trepidation bubbling in her stomach.

These friends of Will's, they probably aren't going to like her. They certainly aren't going to trust her. She wonders vaguely if they're going to be drug users like Will. If she had to bet, she'd go with yes.

She hopes they don't prove dangerous.

She hopes this isn't a mistake.

o - o - o

The church is right where Will said it would be, in a run-down part of town about a half hour drive from the hospital. It's still light out when Angelica arrives, and she parks by the curb and sits in her car for a few moments, watching the rain lash against her windshield.

Then, before she can second-guess herself too much, she steps out of the car, umbrella in hand.

She walks up to the front of the church and raps on the door. "Hello in there?" she says against the crack. "Open up please? Will sent me."

She hears scuffling coming from inside, followed by the sound of a lock turning. Then the door opens maybe three inches, and a teenage boy with wet blond hair peers out at her, frowning.

"Where is he?" is all he says. His voice is steely.

"He's safe," Angelica tells him. "May I come in?"

The boy glares at her, his eyes hard and his stance imposing. But Angelica knows a scared kid when she sees one, and this boy? This boy is terrified.

"Fine," he says at last, still glaring. He opens the door a bit more and stands aside to let Angelica enter. "The ground's wet," he tells her unnecessarily as she steps inside the church and her rainboot sinks into half an inch of water.

"I see that," she says, glancing up at the caved-in roof, which isn't doing much to keep out the deluge.

The boy leads her to the back corner of the church, where the ground is still flooded but at least the roof is intact. Here, near an assortment of soggy wet sleeping bags, a group of teenagers sit crammed together on a mattress.

"She says Will sent her," the boy announces gruffly, crossing his arms and jerking his head toward Angelica.

"I— that's right," says Angelica.

The kids watch her with wide eyes, uniformly drenched and shivering. Only a few of their jackets have hoods, and the blankets they've got tucked around them are just as wet as they are.

She sighs.

Part of being a social worker is becoming numb to terrible things.

And Angelica has seen plenty of terrible things: horrific cases of abuse and neglect and poverty and violence and dysfunction. Malnourished infants left alone in roach-infested apartments. Concussed toddlers in emergency rooms who already know how to lie about falling down stairs. Children with multiple untreated STDs from years of sexual abuse.

She's good at her job— good at compartmentalizing, good at staying objective.

But something about the sight of these kids holed up in a miserable old church, soaking wet and huddled together for warmth in the middle of a rainstorm, pricks her at the very core of her heart. She feels a surge of protectiveness toward them, a desire to help, a need to help—

But no, she tells herself. Not so fast. If there's one thing she's learned over the years, it's that you can't help everyone, and if you try, it'll only end up destroying you.

She isn't here to save these kids, just to tell them about Will. So that's what she needs to do.

Carefully, she crouches down next to the mattress, trying not to let her dress drag too much in the water on the ground. "I'm Angelica," she tells them, "and for the sake of transparency, I'm a social worker, but right now I'm not here in that capacity. I'm just here as a friend."

"And... you know where Will is?" asks one of the girls, fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist.

Angelica takes a deep breath and nods. "He's in the hospital," she says. There's a collective sort of gasp. "But he's going to be alright," she hurries to assure them.

No one speaks for a minute.

Finally, a girl with curly black hair echoes in a hushed voice: "The hospital?"

Angelica nods.

"What happened to him?"

"He overdosed," says Angelica, as gently and succinctly as she can. "On heroin. Some police officers found him unresponsive in an alley. He was pretty out of it for a while, but he's awake now, and talking, and his doctor says he should make a full recovery."

"So he's okay," says a boy with dark skin, frowning.

"He's okay," Angelica affirms.

There are a few moments of silence, broken only by the sound of rain. Then one of the girls starts to cry.

"Riley," murmurs a dark-haired boy, taking her hand. "She said he's okay."

"I know," the girl, Riley, sniffs. "I just—" She wipes her face on the sleeve of her sweatshirt and glances up at Angelica, clearly embarrassed. "We've just all been so worried," she whispers.

Angelica nods. "I know," she says quietly. She swallows the lump in her throat. "I'm sure you have been."

"When will he be getting out?" the brown-haired boy asks, still holding the girl's hand.

"They want to keep him overnight for observation, so sometime tomorrow," says Angelica, glancing around at the cluster of concerned faces staring back at her. Then, before she's thought it through, before she even realizes what she's saying: "You could visit him tonight, if you want," she offers. "Visiting hours go for about another hour. And I can drive; my car is huge; it'll fit you all no problem," she adds, grateful for once to have such an oversized van.

"Yes please," Riley whispers immediately, and a few of the others nod.

But the boy who opened the door shakes his head. "No," he says, staring at Angelica with undisguised suspicion.

"Wolfgang," Riley says, "we have to. You know we have to."

The boy, Wolfgang, just clenches his jaw.

"Come on, Wolfie," says another boy, elbowing him in the shin. "Will needs us, man."

And at this, the boy's expression softens somewhat. "Fine," he says, looking straight at Angelica. "But you drive us to the hospital and drive us right back here, got it? And if you fucking try anything—"

"Of course," says Angelica, nodding fervently. "I understand. You have my word."

She waits for a moment to see if anyone else will object. No one does.

"Well," she says. "I'm parked right outside."

She stands up and begins to head for the door.

And one by one, the kids follow suit.