The left sleeve of her coat was shredded, revealing puffs of white polyester filling. Gingerly, Sir pulled down the sleeve, turning it inside out in the process. As he eased her left arm free, the girl’s upper lip drew up and her eyebrows pulled together. But she still didn’t wake up.
Even I could tell her left wrist was broken. Three inches above her thumb was a bump, like someone had stuck an egg underneath her skin. “I need to get the bones lined up so I can splint it.” Sir began to rummage through my stuff. “And it will be better for everyone if she’s still unconscious when that happens.”
From the nightstand, he took one of my three magazines, the October 2007 issue of Real Simple. Curling it in his hands, he gave it an experimental twist. Even though I had read every word on every page, my heart still sank when he set it on the bed next to the girl.
Then he dug through the clothes in the drawer underneath the nightstand and plucked out my blue turtleneck. The turtleneck I had been wearing the day he took me. One of my last links to the time before. When he pulled the knife from the sheath on his belt, I bit my lip so I wouldn’t protest.
He slid the knife inside the body of the turtleneck. Stretching the cloth tight with his other hand, he pulled until it dimpled and then split. Then he yanked the silver shine of the blade toward him, slicing the fabric. He moved the knife a few inches over and repeated the process. And again. And again. The turtleneck was being turned into strips. Finally he cut them all free.
“Now hold her arm tight just below the elbow. And don’t let go even if she wakes up.”
There was not enough room for both of us to be at the end of the bed, so I crawled around and behind the girl, trying not to jostle her. I looked down at her face. Aside from the scrape, her skin looked smooth and soft. Unmarked. It must be why he had taken her.
Sir rolled her on her side so that my knees pressed against her back. At a nod from him, I wrapped my fingers around the middle of her arm.
Taking her hand in both of his, he positioned himself so that her arm and body formed a line. Then he pulled.
It was like she had been shocked by a downed power line. Her body stiffened and then immediately went slack again.
He ran his fingers over the broken part of her arm. Most of the pronounced bump was gone, but it was still puffy. “I can’t cast it until the swelling goes down, and that’s going to take a few days.”
He wrapped the magazine around her forearm, then had me hold it in place while he tied it off with strips of my turtleneck. Then he turned one of my cardigans into a sling, knotting the sleeves behind the girl’s neck. The whole time, she didn’t stir.
Finally, he was finished. “Pull back the covers.” Picking her up, he squeezed between the bed and the wall and laid her down. After he straightened up, we both looked at her. Even in the dim light, her color looked bad to me, the smooth skin of her face pale and sweaty.
“Is she going to be okay?”
“She took a pretty hard hit to the head. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a concussion. Just let her sleep.”
Careful not to raise my gaze to his face, I risked a question. “Isn’t that bad, Sir? I thought you were supposed to keep someone awake if they had a concussion.” Would I get in trouble for talking back? But I most definitely did not want to wake up next to a dead girl.
He sighed. “They used to think that, but it depends on the type of concussion—it’s complicated. Sleep is good. It will allow her brain to recover.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He moved to the doorway. “When she does wake up, it’s going to be your job to teach her how to act. Your job to teach her the rules.” I was still silently digesting this when he demanded, “And what are the rules?” His hand moved to the butt of his Taser, as if to remind me how I had learned them.
Quickly, before he could get mad, I blurted out, “Always call you Sir.” To be safe, I quickly added, “Sir.”
“Don’t mumble,” he said. “Go on.”
“Never look you in the eye.” Out of the corner of my own eye, I saw him nod. “Never talk back,” I continued. “Dress attractively. Keep things picked up. Don’t make noise.”
“And?” he prompted.
“Be grateful that you keep me—I mean us—alive. Sir.”
He nodded again. “That’s right,” he said. “Good girl. It’s better that she learns them from you rather than the hard way, don’t you think?” As a reminder, he tapped the butt of the Taser again before dropping his hand.
And then he left me alone with the girl. A girl like the one I had once been, ten months ago.
MICHAEL DIAZ
“Ms. Taylor?” I asked the plump thirty-ish woman shifting from foot to foot in the school office. When she nodded, I stuck out my hand.
Despite her strong grip, Lorraine Taylor looked ready to fall apart. Dark circles weighted her light eyes. Her brown hair appeared uncombed. Her open coat revealed wrinkled blue scrubs. Tattoos covered her arms and even her hands and neck. A quick scan did not reveal any related to gangs or prison.
Being a school resource officer did not mean that I was a glorified security guard, as some people thought. I was a sworn Portland police officer, covering the Wilson cluster: Wilson High, the two middle schools, and five elementaries that fed into it. With the younger kids, by and large it was the parents I needed to concern myself with. The older students got, the more likely it was that they were the ones getting into trouble. At Wilson, I dealt with theft, assaults, drugs, suicide attempts. Every now and then, even a student who might be thinking about shooting up the school.
And then there were extracurriculars. Community meetings. Bike fairs. We were currently working on a talent show for all of Portland Public Schools. I did whatever I could to build relationships with students and parents.
The irony was that I was close to so many kids. Just not my own son.
But that was a problem for another day. And today a student was missing.
“I need to talk to you about my daughter, Savannah,” Ms. Taylor began. “She never came—”
I raised my hand, glancing meaningfully at the three students waiting in the office. They were all listening, and I knew they would be whispering about it as soon as they were back out in the hallways. Before lunch period, rumors about Savannah would be flying all over school. I motioned Ms. Taylor to follow me back to my tiny office.
Once we were behind a closed door, I said, “I understand your daughter didn’t come home last night.” I’d never heard of Savannah Taylor before today, but Wilson was a big school. The secretary had told me that Savannah had transferred in from out of state and that so far, she was getting good grades. And that this was the first time she had missed school.
“No, she didn’t come home.” Ms. Taylor blinked rapidly. “I was really hoping she might have come to school this morning, but when I called the office, they said she didn’t show up. I’m afraid she might have run away.”
I pulled out my notebook, thinking about the many times I’d had this conversation with parents over the years. Give it a day, maybe two, and with luck, this would all be over and the girl would be home, not much worse for wear.
But if it wasn’t, things would probably get worse for Savannah Taylor. Runaways had to sustain themselves, and typically they had no money or skills at doing so. She would need a place to sleep. She needed to eat. If Savannah had left without her school-supplied transit pass, she needed a way to get around. Even if she was currently couch-surfing at a friend’s, eventually she would be forced to go someplace else. Making her even more vulnerable to anyone who would want to take advantage of a teenage girl.