The boy stood in front of Dick, bloodied and bruised hands limply at his sides, a jacket and a coat hanging off his shoulders.

"Sit down." Dick ordered, and he hastened to oblige, sitting down on a stretcher. Dick immediately felt sorry for putting the kid under so much pressure.

The air smelled of disinfectant and antibiotics. Dick really hated this smell—it brought memories, thoughts that he didn't want to be reminded of.

The police station was rather quiet. Only few people walled along the halls, holding clipboards, empty mugs and microwave foods. Dick glanced out the window before grabbing a plastic bottle half-full of disinfectant and several cotton swabs.

Picking up a clean towel from the clothes rack, he tossed it towards the kid, who caught it one-handed.

"Clean yourself up, will you?" Dick called out, and the kid did so, wiping his bare hands and arms after shrugging off the extra clothing draped over him. Flour fell onto the white-tiled floor.

He rubbed the white towel over his cheeks and the sides of his head, egg yolk dripping onto the stretcher. Smearing blood across his face from a cut upper lip, he set the towel down on his lap, awaiting Dick's next instructions.

Dick turned around and saw red all over the boy's cheek. With a soft sigh, he brought the disinfectant and cotton swabs over, set it on the small table near the window beside a potted plant.

"Hold still."

Dick pulled out his handkerchief from his breast pocket—the one Kory had given him—and wiped the blood away. The kid flinched every time the cloth grazed any of his cuts and black bruises.

"Press this against your lips—no, not too much pressure—good." Dick removed his hand from the boy's and stood there, inspecting his face. It was relatively cleaner compared to before, but yolk was still in his hair, flour on his shoulders and on his neck, scratches and cuts all over his cheeks. A particularly big gash on his forehead.

Retrieving the disinfectant again, he wet the cotton swab and holding his temple with his left hand, Dick tilted the boy's head up and dabbed at a cut on his chin.

The kid flinched a bit at the contact, but said nothing.

Dick, who decided to take a more friendlier approach, focused on cleaning the cut. "So, what do I call you?" He asked out loud, exhaling at the same time. "Garfield? Gar?" The name was foreign to his lips.

"Just Gar."

"Not Garfield?"

"Gar."

Another long uncomfortable silence followed. Dick cleared his throat. "Who were those guys back there?"

"Calum Ryder and his cronies." Gar muttered in response, suddenly looking a little more mature. "They like picking on kids."

"Doesn't seem like what they were doing to you counts as 'picking on', actually." He mentioned. "Do they do stuff to only you, or other kids as well?"

"They make fun of some others, but mostly it's me."

"Huh. How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"How are are they?"

"They're seniors, eighteen years old."

Dick started to fix another gash on Gar's chin. He could hear the kid breathing shakily, clamping his jaw shut.

"Where do you live?"

"Not far from here. A ten-minute walk, I guess."

"With your parents, yeah?"

"No, uh, with my uncle. He's rarely at home, though."

"Where are your parents?"

Gar didn't answer, before letting an answer slip. "Dead."

Dick cursed in his head, feeling like slapping himself. Why was he so ignorant?

"Sorry I asked."

"It's okay."

Dick took a few seconds to think of other things to actually say. He began wiping the other end of the cotton swab on the boy's cheek.

"Did your, uh, parents give you your name? Garfield?"

"Yeah."

"Is it like the cat from the comics, or that American president?"

"Like the president."

"M'kay."

Dick gently took hold of the kid's hand and removed the handkerchief from his lip. He then began applying the disinfectant to the cut—he hissed, pulling away.

"Hey, calm down." Dick said as softly as he could, removing the cotton swab from his face. "I know it stings, but just a few more seconds and this'll all be over. You hear me?"

After a while, the boy nodded, and sat up straight. Dick carefully moved the cotton swab back onto Gar's lip. His time, he didn't flinch at all.

After doing the same with other cuts and gashes—taping some gauze onto the biggest wound on his forehead—Dick put everything away and spread out his arms a little. "We're done—that wasn't so bad, was it?"

The kid shrugged. "I guess so."

Dick stayed quiet for a moment, biting his tongue inside of his mouth. After a pregnant pause, he looked up to look at Gar in the eyes. "Why did they do that to you?"

"Huh?" Gar's misty eyes snapped back into focus. "Oh, uh, it was Calum Ryder's birthday. The others had been planning to do this for a while now."

"You tried to fight back earlier. It was really brave of you."

"It was just an attempt. Pretty fruitless to me. Besides, I didn't try to fight afterwards."

"Still."

Another long silence.

"They think me as vulnerable and... weak. Easy to push around. A freak."

"They don't know you."

"You don't know me."

"You're a good kid, Gar. You really are."

"You don't know me."

The kid repeated the same line again, looking down blankly at the white-tiled floor. His shoes barely brushed against the ground, and white-knuckled hands gripped tightly onto the edge of the stretcher.

"I should get going now." Gar mentioned softly, getting to his feet. Dick couldn't help but notice him wincing at every small move he made.

"No, uh, how about you stay for today? Here, at the police station."

"But I—"

"You're hurt. And I think we need you for further investigation." Dick stated, glad that he was able to come up with such a reason for Gar to stay. "And you said your uncle is rarely home. It's our responsibility to help."

Whether he was too exhausted to argue, or whether he found logic in Dick's reasons, he didn't know; but the boy agreed to stay.

After a simple order for the kid to stay in the room, he went out into the hall to get that cup of coffee he had craved for.