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Isaac knew he wasn’t well enough to play. He’d known it the moment he’d been dragged from the freezer by one arm, all the while his skin was hot and sweaty. He’d known it all through his classes when he could barely keep himself upright and he’d known it when Coach Finstock pulled him to the side and asked him outright, “Are you fit enough to play, Lahey?” and he’d insisted that he was. A minute later in the locker room, he had his head between his knees. No one noticed.
Even when the game started and adrenaline was flowing, he found himself struggling to even run in a straight line. He was dizzy and nauseous, and a game which involved this much motion wasn’t great for that. A few times he lost track of the ball, eyes twitching around the field until he found it. This time, he only found it when it landed in his net, and Coach Finstock was yelling at him to run. So that was what he did – he pelted down the field towards the goal, breathing heavily and blinking as he tried to clear his vision. The sudden motions which came with dodging around other players had his stomach protesting loudly. Just a little longer, he told it, you can torture me as soon as this game is over. Just let us win. Just let me make this goal.
A solid body collided with his and he hit the ground hard, the ball rolling out of his net as he found himself with no choice but to let go. He choked heavily around the weight on top of him. Between the padding of his uniform and the other player, he was struggling to even take in a single breath. He tried to choke out a protest, tried to beg them to move, but his voice wasn’t working. All he could do was wheeze pathetically until the player noticed and rolled off him, their worried eyes on his face. The weight gone, he gasped in a few breaths but only succeeded in choking on them.
The field was silent other than his noises. Even the game had stopped to watch him, most of the players on both sides just waiting to see if he was going to die in the middle of a lacrosse game. A few members of the crowd whispered anxiously to one another but no one was near him. That was a relief because all he wanted to do was lie here until he felt a little better.
His stomach disagreed, however, as its churning grew to unbearable levels. He lifted one heavy arm to fumble with his helmet, all the while rolling onto his side and curling up as much as he could. But his fingers, heavy and exhausted, refused to cooperate. He began to panic, pawing at the bottom of his helmet without ever grasping it. That was when the noise started up again and Coach Finstock was suddenly at his side, pushing his hands away to take the helmet off himself. The moment it was off, Isaac’s entire body lurched and he began to dry heave – he hadn’t eaten enough in the last day or so to bring anything up.
Distantly, he heard Coach saying things like, “It’s alright, Lahey, just breathe,” and then much louder, “We need some help over here!” His voice was almost desperate in a way it never was, not even when they were losing a game, as were the rapidly approaching footsteps so loud that Isaac flinched and tried to hide his face behind his arms.
“Sorry Coach,” he slurred in a low voice, “I can still play, I promise,” and for a few seconds he struggled desperately to even sit up. A few pairs of hands pushed him down again. He was too tired to even flinch, so settled for a weak, pathetic whimper that took most of the air from his lungs.
“Damn it kid, just stay down,” Coach swore, his face floating somewhere over Isaac’s. A few seconds later two more faces joined him, faces Isaac didn’t recognise and wanted to run from. One of them leaned in close with a light which she shined in his eyes, then pressed a hand to his forehead before immediately pulling it away. Isaac moaned lightly; her hand was so cool, such a contrast to the rest of his body.
She looked at the other strange face and said, “He’s burning. We need to get him to the hospital and get this fever down.” Then she turned to Isaac and said, “What’s your first name? Can you tell me?”
Isaac took a few wheezing breaths before answering, and then adding, “Please don’t tell my dad I’m sick.”
The woman exchanged glances with the man, her face unreadable to Isaac but apparently not to anyone else because the other floating head gave a grim nod and sighed. “Hi Isaac, I’m Melissa, I’m a nurse. Do you recognise him?” She pointed at the man.
Isaac shook his head mutely, groaning at the dizziness it caused.
“That’s alright, Isaac. I know you’re confused, that can happen when your temperature gets so high. This is Sheriff Stilinski, he’s going to give us a ride to the hospital okay? We don’t have time to wait for an ambulance, so it’s going to be a bit of a bumpy ride. Can you deal with that?”
As the face suddenly became more familiar, Isaac flinched away from Sheriff Stilinski. “I’m sorry, don’t arrest me, I can play,” he slurred and once more fought to sit up.
Sheriff Stilinski swore loudly and caught him as his arms buckled. “I’m not going to arrest you, son, but I am going to take you to the hospital. Just hold onto us, we’ll do all the hard work. Think you can move your feet when we need you to?” As he spoke, the sheriff had one of Isaac’s arms over his shoulders and on the other side Melissa was doing the same. They stood up, pulling Isaac with him. His head flopped forwards weakly and his legs threatened to collapse. He was shivering despite the layer of sweat over his body. His feet wouldn’t move when he told them to.
“Um, ma’am?” he slurred when the dizziness in his head was almost overwhelming, “I…I, uh.” He couldn’t finish his sentence before a wave of weakness silenced him. His body hung limply between the two adults, not quite unconscious but too weak to even support himself. He let out a long sigh as he slipped into semi-conscious oblivion.
Melissa tightened the arm around Isaac’s waist as he seemed to lose any remaining strength. His breathing was loud and wheezing, as if each breath took an unspeakable amount of effort – if he was as sick as she was expecting then it really was taking a lot of work. His body was burning even through his uniform. She regretted not having any sort of first aid kit to see just how warm his fever was because as it was, she was anxious about the possibility of a seizure.
Reaching Sheriff Stilinski’s car, they spent several minutes easing the boy into a seat, using the belt to keep him mostly upright. His body was lax and malleable, making the task simultaneously easier and more difficult. Melissa slid in after him and wound an arm around his shoulders so that the motion of the car wouldn’t jar him too much – she realised then how tall he was because when he’d been standing, his hunch made him several inches shorter, but now in his limpness he was all limbs and lankiness. He even lost all of that tension which had to have his muscles permanently aching.
As Sheriff Stilinski pulled away, Melissa brushed a hand across Isaac’s cheek, calling his name all the while. His fever burned her palm but she didn’t pull away, cradling his face like she might cradle Scott’s when he was sick.
“What’s the matter with him?” the sheriff called from the front seat, shooting the two of them a quick glance in the rearview mirror. His driving was a lot more careful than it had been the few times she’d ridden with him before, and she realised that he was just as concerned as she was.
She shrugged. “He’s on fire, I don’t know why but he is. I’m calling ahead to get a gurney ready. And some oxygen, he’s struggling,” she explained briefly. And he was, he was struggling to take in any oxygen, his chest heaving with the effort. From his symptoms, she had her suspicions but only a chest x-ray could confirm them.
Isaac suddenly coughed without regaining consciousness. The force of it wracked his entire body and had him wheezing, unable to catch his breath as cough after cough forced its way from his body. Each one sounded more painful than the last. Melissa shifted her hands to his shoulders, keeping him upright in an attempt to open up his airways for the oxygen he so desperately fought for.
Something bright red and gooey flew from between his lips and landed on his knee. Melissa could only gape at it for a few seconds before bursting into action. With one arm across Isaac’s chest and the other fumbling for her phone, she shouted to the sheriff, “Put your damn siren on, we’ve got an emergency!” Then in a voice equally as frantic, she shouted down the phone to one of the hospital receptionists she knew well, “Pneumonia patient incoming with Sheriff Stilinski, we need oxygen and a gurney!” By the time she’d hung up the phone, Isaac was no longer coughing. He was limp and almost silent, the only sounds his shallow, raspy breaths.
Arriving at the hospital, Sheriff Stilinski was out of the car in seconds and dragging Isaac into his arms in a bridal carry. He winced at the way limbs just hung there, head thrown all the way back and making the boy look just a little too vulnerable. His body was shaking aggressively, all the while a thin layer of sweat stuck to every visible inch of skin. Every breath was a struggle. Noah found himself having to consciously focus on keeping himself calm, professional and detached – this was just a sick boy. Just a sick boy on his son’s lacrosse team. The same age as his son, but with an even more vulnerable appearance.
It was more difficult than it should have been to let go of Isaac after laying him on the gurney.
He stepped back and allowed Melissa and another couple of nurses to rush around; strapping an oxygen mask on, checking the boy’s pupils, calling his name, all the while Melissa explained every single symptom he’d been showing. Noah followed behind the gurney, unable to tear his eyes away from that face.
Isaac’s cheeks were flushed from his fever but the rest of him was sickly pale. His eyelids flickered a few times as the noise surrounding him disturbed his unconsciousness. Noah watched anxiously as frightened, barely aware eyes twitched around, never resting for more than a second at a time. Isaac was clearly confused and afraid, but too weak to actually act on those emotions. Noah’s heart throbbed at the thought, throbbed even more as they pushed Isaac into a room and Melissa shot an arm out to keep him from following.
“This isn’t a police matter – he’s just a sick boy,” she said and pushed him the rest of the way out of the room. The door slammed in his face.
About half an hour later – although it felt like an eternity – Melissa emerged. The other nurses had left before then but she’d lingered, and anyone Noah had tried to question about Isaac’s condition insisted he wait for her. So he’d waited with bated breath, unable to even sit down for more than a few seconds before returning to pace anxiously. His only reassurance was that he hadn’t heard any alarms from the room, which meant that Isaac was at least stable.
“Melissa,” he called to her as soon as she appeared, looking drained, “how’s the kid?”
She slumped heavily into the chair just outside of the room and dropped her head into her hands. “He’s alive and on oxygen. No vent, thank god,” she answered. Her face was pale and sunken from the stress and exhaustion, and Noah couldn’t say he blamed her; working when you hadn’t woken up prepared for it made everything a lot more draining and difficult to deal with. And that was just the case for his work – it had to be even worse when she had a life in her hands.
But despite how exhausted she was, Noah was glad she’d been the one to treat the boy; he knew how good she was as a nurse, knew that if anyone could help, it was her. He sat forwards so he could see her face. “How does a healthy teenager suddenly catch pneumonia?” he asked her because he couldn’t figure it out and she was the medical expert, not him.
“It's viral pneumonia, it’s a complication of a cold or flu. But with a teenager who regularly plays sport and doesn't suffer any form of chronic illness, he shouldn’t be at risk,” she explained and then went quiet for a minute. Her teeth were locked around her lower lip as she thought something over. Finally, she turned to him with sad eyes and said, “he has scars.”
Noah tensed. Fuck. “Tell me everything you’ve got on him,” he ordered in his sheriff voice.
He realised only then that Melissa had been clutching a file, and he watched her open it up. Even he didn’t like how thick it was. “Isaac Lahey, age 15. Mom died when he was young, brother killed in action a couple years back. Father is Mark Lahey, doesn’t he run the graveyard? Isaac’s medical records look normal enough up until a few years ago – brought in with a persistent fever at three, fell out of a tree at six, tonsilectomy at seven... Then suddenly when he hits eleven and he’s brought in three times in a year; concussion, broken wrist, shock, malnutrition. Continues that way until he’s fourteen and his brother dies. After that it’s almost once a month. Nurses who treat him note here that he seems withdrawn and his father is just a little too unconcerned. Call put into social services but the case is dropped when they find no evidence of child abuse. But after that, the visits slow to once every two months but the injuries are just as bad. Father insists he’s just a fighter who needs to learn to control his temper,” Melissa said while flicking through the pages. With every incident, her face grew darker, graver, as if she was imagining visiting Mr Lahey herself. Noah couldn’t say he blamed her.
“And the scars?” he prompted.
“Callouses to his knuckles as if he’s spent a lot of time hitting something hard, a few glass scars on his palms and up his arms. Same on his feet. Those aren’t on his record.”
It sounded bad, but Noah was just grateful it wasn’t worse, that there weren’t any bigger, more sadistic scars. At least Mr Lahey had some sense of restraint – or did that make it worse? “And has Mr Lahey been contacted about his son's condition?” he asked.
Melissa nodded. “Said he’d be here in an hour or so, as soon as he’s finished work. Which means you have two hours to get an answer out of him.”
Regretfully, Noah shook his head. “You know I can’t do anything if the boy doesn’t tell me. We don’t even know if he is being abused – maybe he does get into a lot of fights?” he grumbled, even if he didn’t believe it himself. An abuser had to be punished by law which meant evidence was required, and almost nothing was more valid as evidence than the victim's word.
“No,” Melissa snapped and shook her head angrily. “I texted Scott about Isaac, apparently he’s a quiet kid, keeps to himself. In Scott's words, “probably wouldn’t fight even if Jackson himself punched him in the face”. Does that sound like a fighter to you?”
It didn’t.
He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “An hour, you said?” That gave him enough time to sit in on the kid and maybe even talk to him if he was awake. And even if he wasn’t, police presence would be a warning to Mr Lahey – we know what you’re doing, we're watching you closely.
Melissa caught his wrist just before he opened the door to Isaac's room. “Don't get him worked up, his body can’t take the stress,” she warned with a pointed stare. Don't interrogate him, he read it to say. He nodded firmly and entered the room before she could change her mind and decide that Isaac wasn’t allowed visitors.
Isaac was conscious – barely, but he was. His eyes were half-open and squinting over an oxygen mask, his breaths still a little noisy. Even such a simple bodily function was clearly exhausting, or maybe it was pain or a mix of the two. Either way, he looked rather a lot like a small child who'd missed his bedtime.
“Hey, kid. How’re you feeling?” Noah asked quietly, settling in a chair near Isaac’s bed and positioning himself in the least threatening position he could figure out.
Shyly, Isaac shrugged. “Are you going to arrest me now?” he mumbled, his voice muffled and weak behind the mask. Despite the IV going into one hand and the thin hospital bracelet around a wrist, he held both hands like he was expecting to be handcuffed.
Noah didn’t know why he kept asking that – if he was going to be arrested. Arrested for what? What had he done, or what did he think he’d done? “No I’m not, why would I? You’ve got pneumonia, that’s not a crime. Your dad will be here soon.” He didn’t miss Isaac’s minute flinch at the mention of Mr Lahey and it was like a stab in the chest. He was a sheriff, of course he’d seen abused kids before but it never stopped being difficult, he never stopped seeing the flinches and imagining it was Stiles in front of him.
“Then…why are you here?” Isaac asked with furrowed brows. He coughed a few times into the oxygen mask; harsh coughs which jarred his entire frame and had him gasping for air. Noah jumped to his feet and helped the boy into a half-upright position, holding on even as Isaac flinched against the touches.
As they died down, Noah moved his hands away. “Better?”
Isaac nodded once, still wheezing. His eyes fluttered several times as he fought to remain conscious against his exhaustion. But it was so obvious that Noah couldn’t not mention it.
“You can sleep, you know. I’ve heard pneumonia can be exhausting,” he said. He hadn’t heard anything of the sort but he figured that it was just as draining as the flu, maybe even more so. And anyway, he wasn’t cruel enough to make a terrified kid lose sleep for an interrogation he could do later on. He watched as Isaac struggled with consciousness for several more seconds before his eyes closed one final time and remained that way. Noah shifted until he was comfortable and spent the next hour watching the door, waiting for Mr Lahey to show up.
Isaac’s father didn’t look in the least bit concerned to see his son in such a state, nor that the town sheriff was at his bedside. He only frowned and shook his head without saying a word. He didn’t even move to get a better look at the figure on the bed.
Noah stood silently and offered a nod. “I didn’t think he should be alone – I wouldn’t want my son in hospital all by himself. It can be a scary place, even if they’ve been in one before,” he said pointedly, hoping to provoke something – anything – out of Mr Lahey which he could use as evidence. He got nothing; no blush at the references to his bad parenting, no immediately defensive remarks. Just a short nod.
“I tried to come sooner but I had to finish work. You understand that, don’t you Sheriff Stilinski?” Mr Lahey said shortly with a smirk which could almost be considered victorious. Noah held back a sigh. Isaac’s father wasn’t going to give up anything. He was so used to hiding details of his shoddy parenting that if anyone was going to provide enough evidence to build a case, it would have to come from Isaac, not his father. And he was asleep now, so no evidence anytime soon.
Noah was hesitant to leave, but it would be strange for him to stay, not to mention there was a chance Mr Lahey would assume Isaac had said something which would only cause further trouble for the boy. So he made his excuses and left, stopping briefly to talk to Melissa in the hallway. “If you see anything, call me,” he told her then left. He had a case to build, one that would hopefully save a scared teenage boy from a very evil man.