“Care to sit?” Blake asked, as he pulled the chair out from behind his desk. He thought the man might feel better if he sat on something that was easier to get to his feet from.
The man glanced back at Tommy and saw what they wanted him to see—a young, thin, boy with an honest face. He waveredfor a moment and then sat. Or more accurately, fell onto the chair, his head hanging.
Tommy retrieved some water bottles they kept in their supplies and handed them out. The bald man glanced at it before taking it between his palms, his jacket sleeves pulling up to reveal his hands.
The man’s fingers were in bad shape. Red and swollen, with patches of white skin. The tips of his pinky and ring finger on his right hand were black. Blake’s mouth went dry.
Frostbite.
He leaned forward and uncapped the bottle, helping tip it into the man’s mouth. He didn’t stop drinking until the empty plastic bottle crinkled. Blake took it away.
“Thank you,” the bald man said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t think we would have…made it another night.”
Judging by the state of the group, they wouldn’t have. “Someone will get you some food. It’s not much, but it’ll fill your belly.”
He nodded, eyes on his fingers. “I can’t remember the last time my stomach was full.”
Blake nodded, keeping his eyes on the raggedy pompom on the top of the man’s hat. His father once told him the pompoms were for sailors, to keep themselves from slamming their heads in low ceilinged area of the ships. Blake didn’t know if that was true or not, but it sounded good.
“What’s your name?”
“Richard,” the bald man answered. “That’s my wife, Martha, and daughter, Emily. And our neighbors, the Staceys.”
Now that they’d begun to warm up and Tommy had softened their wariness, they’d begun removing hats and outerwear. Blake assumed the older couple were the Staceys. They looked rougher than the others, skin practically dripping off their bones, and their hands shaking. Mrs. Stacey was staringvacantly, not blinking, while her husband tried to coax her to drink.
The two others were Richard’s family. Emily looked young, her hair wild and curly. Her mother’s face was obscured behind her ratty blonde hair. She had her arm around Emily.
“The TV said we should go to the refugee camps. That we would be safe. I—our car died. We walked.” Richard was still staring down at his fingers, his shoulders slumping.
“Where are you from?”
“Philly.”
“That’s a long walk.”
Richard nodded, dumbly. Blake tried to piece together how long a walk like that would take—especially with an elderly couple who might not be in the best shape. Richard and his family could have left them behind and made better time. Maybe avoided the worst of winter.
This was the worst winter Blake could remember. It was also the first without central heating. There were nights when Blake had curled up with Tommy or someone else, anyone else, as long as they were warm. His hands shaking, breathing in air so cold it felt like razor blades in his throat.
And he’d been in the motel, by the stove. With shelter.
“We finally made it to the refugee camp, and I thought we’d be safe. I thought—but it…” he heaved a ragged breath. A breath he seemed to have been holding for a while now. The kind that propped up his ribs and spine, kept him putting one foot in front of the other. Now he was nothing more than flesh, collapsing in on himself.
“I couldn’t protect them.” Richard flinched at whatever memories he couldn’t avoid, turning his face so Blake could see a dark, purpled bruise taking up most of his left side.
Blake could guess what happened. His stomach dropped, and he had to bite back the urge to look away. He didn’t want Richard to carry any more guilt than he already did.
Tommy walked past him to ask the soldiers at the door for more blankets, food, and water. He glanced down at Richard’s hands and paused before asking for a bowl of water.
Richard followed his glance and winced as he tried to flex his fingers.
“May I?” Blake asked, reaching for his hands. Richard nodded.
All ten fingers were affected in some way. The thumbs seemed to be in the best shape, probably because he could curl them into a fist, while the most distal fingers were the worst. They were solid and cold to the touch, like a corpse. A couple had ugly, fluid-filled blisters. Blake’s hands shook as he poked at the fingertips, asking Richard if he could feel his touch. His heart was thundering in his chest, and it hurt. Like a physical ache, cramping down harder and harder until his lungs didn’t have room to expand.
His mouth was dry, and he tried to wet his lips, but his tongue felt thick and useless.
No, no, no. Not again. I can’t?—