“How is he?” Doc asks though he knows it better than me.
I nod. “Listen, I would like to add more personnel to this facility.”
Again—that list of agendas that never ends.
“Plus we’re expecting two dozen new arrivals who haven’t had medical checkup for two years. Do you have time to talk this week?”
Doc nods with a smile. “It’s been way overdue, yes.”
“Let’s do dinner?” I offer.
I’ve only had dinner with him once two years ago when he and his wife came to Zion.
“How about you tell me when you have time, Archer, and I’ll ask Susan to cook something special.”
“That would be nice.”
“Good, good.” Doc’s smile widens.
I just got invited to a family dinner. And as I leave the building, my chest tightens with unfamiliar warmth.
Because most of us forgot what it feels like to have a family.
31
ARCHER
I callSlate right away and tell him to take several guys to Port Mrei and locate the kid Droga was talking about.
“Be nice, yeah?” I say. “He is a guest. Tell him that the tattooed gentleman from Ayana and his lady want to talk to him. Bring him to the side docks at Ayana and call me when you get there.”
A guest.
Jesus. If I could be any nicer to people—some homeless kid at that—I would’ve thrown up in my mouth in amusement at myself.
I pour myself a drink. It’s afternoon. And I savor the first sip as I sit on the couch and stare at the ceiling.
I’m not doing this for the kid but for Droga. It will give me a chance to meet with him.
It’s only half an hour and not even the full drink down when Slate calls again, informing me they are at the docks.
My heart leaps in anticipation as I leave the villa, and three minutes later park my bike at the south docks.
The kid is…well, a kid.
He gives me a hostile look that changes to curiosity as I walk up to him and study him with amusement.
He’s barefoot, in torn shorts and a stained shirt several sizes too big. Smelly, too. I wonder how many kids like him live on the streets.
“Sonny Little,” he says businesslike and stretches his hand to me for a shake.
I can’t help but smile, hearing the guards’ sneers, and shake his little hand, wondering where it’s been and how many days—weeks—since it’s been washed.
“Who came up with the name?” I ask him as I pass Slate an adult life jacket that he puts on the kid against his struggle. He is like a naughty puppy, I swear. Seeing a kid on Ayana is weird to say the least.
“Guys on th’ street,” he says proudly like he is part of some gang.
I’m not taking Slate with me. It’s one of the few times I leave Ayana without security.