The Glass Child

The Children’s ER smelled like bleach and panic. Anya Sol had just pulled on her gloves when the triage nurse pointed at the hallway instead of the usual paperwork cart. “Peds trauma bay. Boy. No family with him. Transport says he’s stable, but look at his hands.”

Milo Glass was small for ten, pale under the lights, and too still when they eased him onto the gurney. His joints looked tight, like someone had forced them into an older shape. There were bruises on his forearms that didn’t match the story on the intake form. Anya scanned his face for pain, but his eyes stayed awake in a careful way.

A paramedic shoved the folder toward her. “Age on the papers is ten. But the scan report from the truck—” He stopped, as if the words might break something. Anya took the folder without looking at the cover, because she needed her hands to stay busy.