A Friend in Need

by Demonwolf

When his family agrees to help care for a boy whose only relative is sick, James is initially eager to help out another boy in need. But Dylan Anderson couldn't be more different from James and not in a good way. But he's just a boy; he can't be that bad. Can he?

32. Chapter 32

Ch. 32

Chief Michael Beatcom was no stranger when it came to transporting perpetrators. He'd both taken first-time offenders to jail and escorted convicted criminals to more permanent prisons. On the whole, he preferred the later because at least then it felt like he'd actually won a case for the good guys. But occasionally there were cases like this one.

"I WANNA GO HOME!"

"Yeah, you've said. More than once."

"YOU GOTTA LET ME GO HOME!"

"No, kid, I don't."

"AHHHH! I HATE YOU! UGGGHHHH!" A moan and then blessed silence for the next few minutes. That was how it had been for the past half hour with Dylan Anderson in the back of the Search and Rescue vehicle and the boy was still complaining. At least he hadn't thrown up in the back of the car, but Chief Beatcom had little doubt it would take more than one wash to get the smell of sick out of the backseat. Oh well; he'd smelled worse in his career.

"Almost there." Leon Warwick peered through the almost solid sheet of snow in front of the jeep, the heavy windshield wipers doing their best to keep the glass clear.

"Thank God. Normally, we woulda been there fifteen minutes ago."

"Normally, I doubt you'd need me and my team to locate a missing kid," Leon replied.

"Fair."

"MY STOMACH HURTS!" Dylan had started up again.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Don't worry though, kid; the people at the center are gonna take good care of you."

"I WANNA GO HOME! GRANDMA TAKES CARE OF ME!" Dylan shrieked before making a sound that was halfway between a hiccup and a retch. Thankfully, he didn't start throwing up again, but he whined and rolled about on the backseat of the truck, clutching his stomach.

"At last." Leon pulled the truck to a stop, the heavy duty wheels shuddering under the piles of snow. Snapping on his gloves, hood, and goggles, the Search and Rescue Captain glanced over at Chief Beatcom. "Alright, Chief, you familiar with a sling carrier?"

"'Fraid not."

"It's a technique used for transport when someone's injured, but since Dylan is both sick and lacking in proper winter attire, it's the best way to get him inside in this weather. I have blankets in the backseat; I'm going to roll them around him and then we carry him between us."

"Like a sling. Got it." Chief Beatcom fastened up his own heavy wool coat and yanked his winter cap over his ears.

"Right. Let's go and remember, keep your hand on the truck at all times."

Together, the two men opened the truck doors and jumped out. The frigid air hit them hard enough to take their breath away and Chief Beatcom's vision blurred from the stinging snow. The wind was enough to make him stagger under its force and only by keeping his hand on the handle of the truck's door was Chief Beatcom not driven back into the stormy dark night. Clenching his teeth, Chief Beatcom kept his gloved hands on the truck as he made his way to Leon's side. He had to pause twice as vicious gusts of wind tried to drive him back, but he managed to stumble his way over to the drivers side and grasp the open door.

"Chief!" Leon's voice was barely audible over the wind.

"Here!"

Chief Beatcom felt Leon's gloved hand grasp his wrist and pull him closer. "Grab onto this," the Search and Rescue captain commanded.

Unable to see, Chief Beatcom felt a piece of heavy cloth thrust into his hands and he clenched it with all his might. His arms sagged from the weight of the burden, but he couldn't hear Dylan's furious wails over the wind.

"Hold on and follow me!"

The cloth tugged in Chief Beatcom's hands and he began trudging after Leon. Forced to shut his eyes against the onslaught of snow, Chief Beatcom could only take slow steps and it felt like forever before his booted foot came into contact with concrete steps.

"One at a time. Watch your feet!"

Slowly, the two men ascended the steps of the juvenile detention center, their heads bowed and Dylan swinging in his blanket prison. The boy's struggles had ceased, but Chief Beatcom was certain he could hear Dylan's wails of discomfort as his face was pounded snow. Behind his closed lids, Chief Beatcom sensed bright lights; biting his lip, he trudged on and was soon rewarded with a blast of warm air as a door was pushed open. His feet left the snow-covered stone and stepped onto a mat as the door was slammed shut behind him and the wind faded to a more tolerable shriek.

"You did good, Chief. Let him down now."

His eyes still closed, Chief Beatcom helped set the sling that contained the now-audible Dylan Anderson onto the floor. His hands free, Chief Beatcom swiped the remaining snow away from his eyes and blinked several times to clear his vision. The familiar front corridor of the city's main juvenile detention center swam into view and never more than now had the police chief been happy to see the stark gray walls and thin black carpet than he was right now. Behind the front desk, another officer in a grey uniform was hurrying over to meet them.

"Chief Michael Beatcom?"

"That's me. This is Captain Leon Warwick of Search and Rescue and the screaming bundle of misery here is Dylan Anderson."

Screaming bundle of misery was indeed the most apt way to describe Dylan at the moment. Without the absence of wind, the boy's angry cries were now echoing through the building and judging from the footsteps running toward the trio, said screams had caught the attention of several others in the building. Dylan had also managed to struggle free from his blanket sling and now lay on his back, kicking his chubby legs and flailing his arms in the air.

"I WANNA GO HOME! I WANNA GO HOME! YOU GOTTA LET ME GO! I HATE YOU! I-"

Dylan's stomach made a gurgling sound and just as two other officers ran up to the group to see what was going on, Dylan turned on his side and vomited. The flood of half-digested food sprayed from his mouth and splattered onto the shoes of the detention officers, who leapt back in disgust.

"Call the infirmary," the first officer said with a resigned sigh.

"Yes, sir. I'll get some of the nurses now and tell them to bring a stretcher."

"Can you bring a shoe shine kit too?" the second officer called after his partner. Meanwhile, Dylan heaved again, this time only coughing up a small amount of liquid before falling back against his blankets with a groan.

"The stupid bugs made me sick," he whined, tears beading in his eyes.

"Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure Mayor Centipede and his family didn't make you steal a bunch of desserts or trick hotels and stores into givin' you food you weren't gonna pay for."

"Oh boy, can't wait to read this report." The front desk officer rolled his eyes and sauntered back to his desk. A small hand-bell was set on the polished wood and the officer gave it three sharp raps. By the time a stretcher was wheeled into the front room by a pair of male orderlies in white uniforms, a man in a dark blue jumpsuit toting a mop and bucket had appeared on the scene.

"Another one, eh?" he asked, casting his watery grey eyes over Dylan. With a shrug, he began mopping up the pool of vomit, completely indifferent to Dylan's wails as the boy was hefted onto the stretcher.

"Hoo boy, kid, you're a heavy one."

"Apparently, he's been gorging himself on ice cream and candy all day," Leon said with a smirk.

"That'll do it. Chances are he'll lose some of that weight after a few days without sugar, though."

"NO! NO! NO!" Dylan shrieked, but the orderlies, far too used to the protests of their young charges by now, merely wheeled Dylan down the corridor without a word. The boy's shrieks faded, leaving the adults alone.

"Right. I'll need to check him in. Chief Beatcom, I'll need the full report from you."

"Sure thing. Leon, I guess you're gonna want to get back to your team?"

"Yep. Most of us booked rooms at a hotel on the East Side. Most of the guys should be there already, but I know two of my guys are taking Mayor Centipede and Miss Spider home now. But if you want, I can hang around and give you a lift home."

"You sure you don't mind? I might be here a while. I got a lot to go over with the people here."

"Nah, it's my job. I don't mind at all."

"Well, then, let's adjourn to my office so we can go over the paperwork. And how about some fresh coffee?"

"Sounds good to me."

"I'd love a cup."

"You guys go ahead." The officer- one of the duo whose shoes were soiled- had removed said footwear and was carefully carrying them down a nearby hall. "I got some cleaning up to do."

"Good thing we're all used to it," the janitor said, continuing to clean away Dylan's mess.

"That we are."

"Doubt you've seen a kid like Dylan," Chief Beatcom said with a rueful chuckle.

"We see all kinds here. And don't worry, whatever this boy of yours throws at us, we can handle it."
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At the moment, Dylan was unable to throw much of anything at anyone. His recent episode of vomiting had left him curled into a ball on the stretcher and he no longer had the strength to protest as the orderlies wheeled him down the hall and through a pair of swinging doors. The room that awaited them was much like a typical hospital room- light white walls, a few framed pictures, and windows framed with gauzy curtains, but there were several beds lining the walls. At the moment, only two beds were occupied; one with a boy wearing a heavy cast on his arm and the other another boy was tossing fitfully in a fevered slumber. A nurse who was attending to the second boy looked up as the orderlies pulled the stretcher over to her and she nodded over her shoulder.

"Exam room 1, please. Doctor Miller and I will be there shortly."

"Right away."

Dylan managed to raise his head in time to see the nurse bathing the fevered boy's face with cool water while reaching for a hypodermic needle on the bedside.

"I don't wanna shot," he whined as the stretcher halted in the examination room.

"If the doctor says you need one, you're getting one," one of the orderlies said firmly. "You won't be the first kid we've had to hold down."

"You can't! Grandma says if I don't wanna shot, I don't have to get one!"

"Your... grandmother let you forgo injections?" The orderlies looked at each other and frowned.

"Uh-huh. We'll probably have to let the doctor know about that."

"I don't WANT the doctor!" Unfortunately, Dylan's stomach chose that moment to rumble ominously again and the boy groaned, clutching his middle even harder.

"Well, you clearly need one."

"NOOOOOOO!"

"Another yeller, huh?"

Through bleary eyes, Dylan looked up to see that a man in a white coat and carrying a clipboard had entered the room. He was closely followed by the nurse from the other room and she wasted no time in opening a few of the cabinets set against the walls and pulling out various pieces of equipment.

"I don't want shots! My grandma said I don't HAVE to have them! And I WANNA GO HOME!"

"What you want is not my concern, young man. What is my concern is your health and from the looks out it, that health has been sorely neglected. Tell me, have you truly never had an injection in your life?"

Dylan scowled and curled further into himself, sulking fiercely.

"I see. Well, I'll have to check your medical records to be sure, but if that is the case, I'll have to see about remedying that immediately. In the meantime, you'll need to stay in the infirmary until I'm sure you can be exposed to the other children here. But in the meantime, let's see about this stomach issue of yours. I understand you've had quite a day of junk food."

Dylan remained silent, but the doctor merely glanced at his vomit-smeared clothes and pudgy figure and nodded.

"Right, first things first. Please help Dylan remove his soiled clothing and weigh him please."

"Yes, doctor."

"AHHHHH! GO AWAY! LEMME GO! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

"Young man, you're acting like a toddler."

"Right, you could make this a good deal easier on yourself if you just cooperated with us."

"NOOOOO! AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

Dylan's protests were to no avail. Like Mrs. Ladybug was used to bathing infants, the doctor, nurse, and orderlies were experts when it came to defiant patients. In no time, Dylan was stripped to his underclothes and carried over to the scale. He would have kicked and flailed as he was placed on the platform, but his stomach chose that moment to give another unpleasant gargle and as such, the nurse was able to weigh the boy quite easily.

"115 pounds."

"115? Not good, young man." The doctor noted something down on the paper attached to his clipboard. "That's over twenty pounds what you should be and I doubt all that extra weight came from today."

Dylan groaned, clutching his stomach. "I'm cold."

"I imagine you are, given how you rushed into that storm earlier. I'll have to check you for frostbite during your examination, but after we're done, you can have a good hot bath."

"NOOOOO! I HATE BATHS!"

"Well, you're getting a bath," the nurse said. "And I'll have to wash all of your clothes so they'll be clean when you are released from the center. While you're here, you'll have to wear the clothes we provide and you'll learn how to clean them."

"NOOOOO!"

"I know, it's not a skill young boys like yourself usually learn. But consider yourself lucky, young man; most places like this would simply throw you in a cell with an older boy and turn a blind eye to what happens while forcing you to earn your keep. Mayor Centipede's been cracking down on those places and he was the one who insisted you be brought here where we provide proper care for our charges. Now, onto the exam table with you. Nora, we're going to need a blood test."

"NOOOO!" Dylan struggled as hard as he could. "NO NO NO! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! THE STUPID BUGS SHOULD BE IN JAIL NOT ME! AHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"Right, hold him still."

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!" Dylan wailed and screamed, but the orderlies kept him pinned down as the nurse managed to take a blood sample from the boy's arm. The whole process, from swabbing Dylan's arm with a disinfectant to taping a piece of gauze over the tiny wound, took less than a minute, but Dylan continued to buck and struggle against the firm hands of the orderlies.

"Hmmm, healthy enough lungs," was the doctor's only comment as he placed his stethoscope on Dylan's chest. "Oh, but the state of that mouth. Nora, hold the light over here, please."

"I see what you mean, doctor." The nurse held her light over Dylan's gaping mouth as the doctor pressed the boy's tongue down with a depressor. "His tongue and teeth are discolored."

"We'll have to bring a dentist in here. Thankfully, a few of the boys are due for dental exams, so we'll just add Dylan to the roster."

"AH ATE A ENIST!" Dylan shrieked as best he could with a tongue depressor in his mouth.

"I'm sure you do. But I can already tell you've not been caring for your teeth properly. No surprise there, I'm sure. Still, I imagine you'll want to brush your teeth and rinse your mouth out now."

"I WANNA COKE!"

"Out of the question."

"Grandma lets me have it when I throw up! She says it helps!"

"Ginger ale could help with that, but ginger tea is better. I'm sure we can give you a dose of that later."

"NOOOO! I HATE TEA!"

"Either way, I am going to recommend a course of fluids after your vomiting episodes. Nora, you can clean him up and get him to bed. Make sure he drinks water and-"

"I DON'T LIKE WATER! I WANT COKE! GRANDMA GIVES ME COKE WHEN I'M SICK!"

"Water and easy to digest foods. Plain toast, clear broth and the like."

"Yes, doctor. I'll start him on an IV if he doesn't drink."

"WHAT'S THAT? I DON'T WANT IT! AHHHHHH!"

"If you don't want an IV- and yes, that involves a needle in your arm- than I suggest you drink the water I give you. Now let's get you to the bath and-"

"AHHHHHHHH! NO NO NO! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOOOOOUUUU! AHHHHHH!"

"Good luck, Nora. I'm afraid we can't do anything more than treat Dylan's stomach ache until we get his medical records and with this storm, that likely won't be until Monday or Tuesday. Until then, he's not to leave the infirmary and make sure he has no contact with the other children."

"Yes, Doctor. Let me know the results of his blood test as soon as possible."

"I shall indeed."

"LEMME GO! LEMME GO! AHHHHHH!"

The orderlies once again ignored Dylan as they lifted him back onto the stretcher and wheeled him after Nurse Nora into a small bathroom. Already Nora was standing by a small bathtub and was in the process of filling it with steaming water.

"Right, into the bath with you, young man. You are most fortunate that you are not suffering from frostbite or hypothermia, but I doubt you being out in this awful weather did you any good. I'll be keeping a close eye on you for the next few days to be safe, though. Now into the tub!"

"I HATE BATHS! AHHHH! IT'S HOT! AHHHH! LEMME GO!"

"Oh hush, it's fine! And anyway, you're filthy! The hot water will kill any germs. Now hold still!"

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Dylan screamed and thrashed, but the only thing he managed to do was splash more warm water into his eyes as Nurse Nora scrubbed him from head to toe. "I HATE BATHS! AHHHHHHHH!

"Sadly, so do most boys your age. I've yet to meet a boy within these walls who likes baths. But they are necessary and you're in dire need of one!"

"AHHHHHHHHH!" The only thing that remotely comforted Dylan as he was subjected to soap and hot water was the remote possibility that James would also have to suffer through a bath that night.

As it turned out, James was indeed in the middle of a hot bath at the same time as Dylan. But it would have been to the older boy's dismay to learn that not only was James not suffering, but that he was enjoying it.