I'm sitting on a bench outside the ER, still bleeding, still holding Pixie. I took off and tossed my vomit and blood-stained shirt and threw on my hoodie so my face would be obscured. The night has turned rainy and dark, which might help my cause. People feel sorry for you in the rain, and I need them to feel sorry for me if this is ever gonna work. On the way over here I tried to think of ways to get treatment for Pixie while still hiding our identities. The only way I could think of relies on trusting a stranger.

Pixie has fallen asleep again. She's a heavy, overly-warm bundle on my lap, making me sweat. I want to take my hood off but know I need to stay hidden. I keep my eyes on the sliding doors that lead out of the crowded ER. Finally I spot my target: a middle aged man who's obviously tired but put together enough that he doesn't look like a patient or a worried loved one.

"Excuse me, sir, are you a doctor?"

The man pauses, and I see the surprise register on his face when he sees us sitting on the bench. Up until I spoke to him, we were invisible.

"Yes... I'm leaving for the night," he says, frowning at me. "And I don't give money to people like you."

I just want to smack that smug look off his ugly-ass face, but I hold it together for Pixie.

"I'm not asking for money. My sister has a fever of a hundred and four degrees. It's really bad," I say slowly, trying to keep my voice from shaking with anger.

"So go into the ER and get yourselves checked in," the doctor says, like I'm stupid, and he's already walking away from me.

"No I can't. Wait, please!" I call, and he pauses and turns around. I hurry on when I see I've gotten his attention. "That's the thing. I can't check her in... for a lot of reasons."

"I'm guessing those reasons involve some kind of illegal activity?"

Bastard.

"I'm not a criminal. All I want is to get her treated without any questions. Please, she could die."

The man sighs and walks over to Pixie. He puts a hand on her forehead.

"God, she's burning up!"

"I know. Please help us," I say, and I can hear myself choking back tears. I'm not about to cry in front of this jerk.

He pulls his hand away. "You need to take that little girl inside now and get her checked in or I'll call the police myself."

"I'll pay! If you treat her and don't ask any questions, I'll pay anything," I say.

The doctor hesitates, and I can read his face like a book. This bastard is greedy and dirty. All it's gonna take is a little manipulation on my part. The right words.

"How much money do you have?" he asks.

Nothing, I think, not anymore. "Five hundred. Cash." I swallow, trying to look sad, desperate and pathetic, which really isn't that hard considering I'm all of those things right now. "I can pay tonight as soon as you treat her."

The man studies my face. I can tell he's working it all out in his head, weighing the pros and cons. Then he seems to come to a decision.

"Fine. Follow me."

I take Pixie and trail behind him. The huge waiting room is full of people. There are sick kids, teenagers pressing ice packs on sprains and bruises and old men holding bloody bandages over unseen wounds. I try not to look at any of them. My hood is still on, and I keep my head down and Pixie's face obscured.

The doctor leads us to one of the small treatment rooms behind the front desk and closes the door.

"Put her up here," he says, and I lay Pixie gently on the paper-covered examination bed.

I don't like being closed up in this tiny room with this guy, but I have no choice. Rain falls steadily on the window across from the bed, inky black rivers running down the glass. I can see our reflections there but nothing else.

The doctor moves around checking Pixie's temperature, her eyes, her throat. My heart is pounding. I don't think we can trust this guy, and I'm wondering how much time we'll have between the treatment and his realizing I don't have so much as a dollar, let alone five-hundred, and I'm wondering if that will be enough time to run for it. Pixie just lays there lifeless, her open, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling... doll's eyes.

"It looks like a bad case of strep throat. It's easy enough to treat, but she's dehydrated. I'm going to give her an IV so she can get some of her fluids back. I'll also give her a shot of Penicillin. That should start to take care of it in a couple of days."

"What about the fever? It's so high..."

"Young children often have very high fevers. I know it looks frightening, but it's normal."

I sink into a chair next to the bed, weak with relief. Pixie's going to be okay. That's the only thing I can think. Pixie surprisingly doesn't react much when the doctor hooks her up to the IV, but she comes back to herself as he prepares the shot. She whimpers but is too weak to fight or get up.

"It's okay. You're gonna get a shot to make you better," I say gently.

"I don't want a shot." Big tears are rolling down her cheeks again.

"Hold my hand," I say, "It'll be over so quick you won't even feel it. Look at me and just keep watching me."

As I say this, the doctor jabs the needle into her skin, and she starts squirming and crying. It's over in a second, but her tears don't stop even when he puts a Band-Aid over the puncture wound.

"You're all fixed up, Pixie," I smile, and I'm just starting to plan how we can get out of this situation when the doctor nods at me.

"Now you."

"I'm fine," I say.

I've pretty much forgotten about my cuts and bruises. When everything hurts, you get used to it after awhile. The doctor comes over despite my protests and studies my wounds.

"That cut on your arm needs stitches, but everything else looks pretty surface. Are you experiencing pain anywhere else?"

"It hurts when I breathe. I think I got a cracked rib," I say.

"There's not much I can do for that. It'll heal on its own after about a month."

Now that the adrenaline is gone and I've been reminded of the pain in my side, it hurts like hell. I'm conscious of each inhale and exhale, the misery coming in waves. My cough doesn't help things. Every time I cough it feels like my bones are breaking into pieces like dry sticks.

The doctor starts bandaging my face. Then he sews up my arm. I'm watching Pixie, who has fallen asleep again, and I feel my own eyelids starting to droop, the weight of the day and my exhaustion finally catching up to me. The doctor's hand on my face brings me back.

"There, fixed up," he says, but his finger lingers on my face, and he smooths his thumb down my cheek.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I snap, pulling back from him.

"You don't have cash," he says flatly. It's not a question. "So I expect you to pay some other way."

I glance at Pixie on the bed. Can I just grab her and run? I know she needs the fluid in the IV.

"Fuck no! I never agreed to that," I say.

I start to stand up, but the doctor blocks my path.

"You leave? I'll have ten security guards on you in a second. I don't know what you're running from, but I'm betting going back to it is worse than anything I'll ask you to do."

I look at Pixie again. I feel sick, sick enough to puke... I can't do this. Suddenly I'm eight years old again trapped in the motel room with one of Ray's clients. I can feel my heart jack-hammering inside my chest. My vision is tunneling. The pain in my side disappears as panic starts to take over, and I realize I don't have a choice.

I can do this... for her. I have to. I'll just go inside my head again, escape. It's nothing I haven't done before.

"Fine," I whisper, "But after, I'm taking my sister, and we're leaving, and you don't get to ask any fucking questions or call any cops. If you do, I'll tell them everything that happened tonight. I have a feeling you'll be in a hell of a lot more trouble than me."

"Deal," the doctor says.

I follow the doctor out of the room, leaving Pixie sleeping. He leads me to a small bathroom across the hallway. My legs feel numb. Already I'm leaving myself, floating, drifting. The light patterns on the tile floor move like water, and I could drown in them.

How did he know? How do perverts like this find us? Can they just tell? Can they read in our faces that we're victims, easy prey? Somehow they know we're damaged. Old fears about myself begin to surface, fears like there must be something fundamentally wrong with me that draws these perverts to me, just like I've always feared.

Ray would certainly agree. I can hear his voice now: "Do you think any of this would be happening to you if you were normal? No, of course not! These things don't happen to normal kids! But you like it don't you? Yeah, I know you like it, you sick little pervert. You fuckin' love what they do to you. Just admit it, faggot."

The doctor closes the door.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Take off your shirt."

Typical. Telling me what he wants to do to me, or what he wants me to do to him, would give me some kind of control over this situation. He wants me powerless and clueless, guessing in the dark. I remove my shirt, and he steps closer to me. I'm completely stuck in place, like I don't have any control over my own body, can't run, can't fight, can't even raise my eyes from the floor. Every muscle tightens as he runs his fingers across my lower stomach.

"What now?" I ask.

He smirks at me. "You've done this before?"

I nod.

"Then you know I'm in charge. I tell you what to do. Right now I wanna see the rest of you."

There's this sound in my ears like thunder. Darkness begins to seep into the corners of my vision as I feel myself begin to dissociate, my conscious mind peeling back from the walls of my skull like the petals of a flower recoiling from the night. Automatically, my hands go to the button on my jeans, and the doctor starts to unzip his pants.

That's when I come back. It turns out, escaping inside my head only worked when I was little. Reality smacks me right in the face. I can't do this. I. Can't. Do. This. For Pixie. It's for Pixie, I remind myself. I have to. Or we'll never get out of here. My head is swimming. I'm covered in a cold sweat, and that's when I feel it: I'm going to puke.

I do, all over the floor and the doctor, an instinctual, gut reaction born from years of trauma. My body won't let me do this anymore. Before, my mind jumped in to rescue me, letting me dissociate. Now, my body has joined the fight too.

"Dammit!" the doctor yells, desperately trying to clean himself, but I'm already out of there running back to Pixie, counting on the few extra seconds I've bought us.

I yank the IV out of her arm, pick her up and just run blindly out of the ER. There are voices shouting behind me, but I don't hear what they say. I don't dare look back to see if we're being chased. I run like we are. I run like hell.

Outside, the night is velvety with rain. I can't even feel my cracked rib as I run as fast as I can to the van, my shoes slapping puddles, water flying like sparks. Pixie is crying, begging me to stop, scared out of her mind. I can't even talk or begin to explain. I just have to keep running. As soon as I get us to the van, I throw her inside and then peel out of that parking lot, the tires hydroplaning on the wet pavement. The van zig-zags over deep puddles of water as I turn onto the street, narrowly missing a truck that's barreling up behind me.

I'm shaking uncontrollably. Two more times I have to stop and lean out the door to puke. I can't throw up enough to get the memories out of my head. My stomach feels like an anvil inside of me. I don't know where I'm going. I just drive blindly as fast as I can away from the hospital, and somehow I end up at the Natural Way grocery store.

I guess it makes sense. She's the only one I know in this whole city who could possibly help us, and I don't have anything to lose.

"Austin, I'm scared," Pixie whispers behind me when I park the van.

I put on my hoodie and then turn to look back at her. "It's okay. I'm gonna talk to Rory. She's gonna help us."

"Can I come with you?"

"No, just lay down. I'll be right back."

I leave Pixie in the van and go inside, praying she's here. If she's not here I have no other ideas, and I can't bear going back to the van and staring into Pixie's scared eyes and telling her I don't know what to do.

The store is getting ready to close so there are only a few people inside. I see Rory's red hair shining as she jokes with another cashier beside her empty register, and I wait until that person leaves before walking over to her.

"Austin?" she says, surprised. "Oh my God. What the hell happened to you?"

I reach up and touch my bandaged face. "It doesn't matter. We need help."