It was the hardest thing he could say.
Or do.
He looked at the kid and tried to find the words.
The boy had cocoa smudged under his nose.
Dried now.
At the bottom of the plastic cup, only brown sugar remained.
The kid looked up at him.
Straight into his eyes.
Nurses rushed behind them.
He felt shame for his scrubs.
For the stains.
“So,” he said softly. “Do you have your father’s number?”
The kid shook his head.
“No. Mommy said he left soon after I was born.”
He nodded.
Tried to do something with the lump in his throat.
Someone called him.
Bay three.
Urgent.
He shook his head.
A colleague took over.
“Grandparents?”
“No. Mommy was a kid when they died.”
Fate has grim humour, he thought.
“Uncles? Aunts? Godparents?”
The kid shrugged.
“Mommy said she grew up fossered. So she had a small family.”
He tried to breathe.
“Another cocoa?” he asked.
A fake smile.
The kid nodded quickly.
He patted the boy’s tousled hair.
Fetched the cocoa.
“Give me a second, kiddo,” he said.
Warmly.
He walked to the reception desk.
Spoke in a whisper.
Eyes lowered.
“Call the police and child services for me, please.”
-ck