She ran. While the rain poured through the city of Seattle soaking her hoodie, and her shoes, full of water, made noise with every step she took. She didn't care, though. Anything was better than being with Mr. and Mrs. Woodlock. Anything.
After fifteen long minutes, the brunette finally came to a stop. Her bruised stomach couldn't handle any more running. So she stopped, looking around for any clue— anything to indicate that Mrs. Anderson, her social worker, was still following her. The coast was clear, finally allowing her to rest. A breath of relief could be heard leaving the child's mouth.
Dean Miller Memorial Clinic. Community clinic now open at Station 19, the poster on the streetlamp in front of her read.
Station 19. Didn't I just pass through it? The teen thought to herself. Maybe she could get her scraped hands and knees looked at. After all, they were really hurting.
—
Clinic day was going great. They had a pretty good number of people come in. Ben, a firefighter and co-worker at the clinic, looked happy. Well, he kind of always looked happy to Carina, but she supposed it meant it was a good day.
"Everything is looking great. The results came back negative, so you've got nothing to worry about," she said, smiling at the scared college girl sitting in front of her.
"Thank you, Dr. DeLuca. I guess I'll see you around then," the young blonde said, jumping from the clinic bed with a sigh of relief.
"Maddie, I say this with all my love, but I really hope I don't see you around here anytime soon. Please," the doctor laughed, waving goodbye.
The Italian headed over to the check-in table where Peggy and Dana, a volunteer couple, were holding up the line with their crazy stories and non-stop talking. Carina chuckled; Ben always told her they were a handful, but the tall brunette adored them. Everything felt lighter when they were around. However, this time it was another firefighter who was enduring the couple's rambling.
"Carina, we need to talk about–" Jack said, removing himself from the check-in table. "Just nod as if I'm telling you something interesting."
The doctor followed her friend's orders, laughing at the situation, "Is Peggy talking about her college years again?"
"Worse, they were telling me about Rose's pooping accident," he said, shaking his head hoping the images of the couple's daughter and Dana's hand covered in poop would go away.
—
Her knees were about to give up when she finally came across the big number 19 painted in red. She stood there, unsure if it was a good idea to actually go inside. It's just some scratches, she thought. But they really hurt. I'll just get them cleaned up and leave, she thought again. With a deep breath, she put on her best poker face and entered the station.
There were firefighters roaming around, people waiting to be checked out, and a couple of people wearing white coats. Yeah, I'm out.
"Oh, sorry," a voice said as she went to turn around. The young girl stood still, her gaze fixated on the ground. "Are you okay?" she heard, to which she quickly nodded. "Did you check in?"
The brunette thought for a moment, not really knowing what to say, "I was just leaving."
"Those scratches don't look so good, don't you want me to check them out? I'll be quick, I promise," the man said.
"I don't do white coats," the green-eyed girl said flatly. She looked around her and started to walk past him, but a hand on her shoulder made her stop, frightening her. She didn't like people touching her, and it seemed like the firefighter behind her understood, quickly removing his hand from the young girl's shoulder.
"Lucky for you, I'm not a doctor," he replied, looking for a way to comfort the teenager. Rolling her eyes, and not bothering to hide a huff that escaped her lips, she turned around. Jack smiled, "Let me help. No questions asked."
The girl stood there, looking at her shoes that were a size too small and had holes where her toes should be. The firefighter could see her weighing her options, so he let her think about it, no matter how long it took. He understood that it had to be her decision.
"No questions asked."
"Right this way," he said, leading her to the exam room and sitting on the chair across from her.
The firefighter cleaned her palms, apologizing when the fourteen-year-old flinched. They were big scratches but nothing to worry about. Her knees, however, had him worried. Blood covered the girl's legs, dirt all over, and the left knee looked like it needed serious care— care he couldn't provide.
"I'm Jack, by the way. What's your name?" he asked, trying to distract the brunette from the pain.
"No questions, remember?" the girl remarked, scrutinizing the man's every move. As kind as Jack seemed, she knew better than to let her guard down.
"Just making conversation."
"No need to."
As Jack was about to finish cleaning up her wounds, the voice of his Italian friend caught his attention. The perfect woman for the job, he thought. Calling her in, he explained that he believed his patient needed stitches. Carina, having just finished with her last patient, was more than happy to help.
"I said I don't do white coats," the green-eyed girl spat, pulling her knees to her chest. She hissed, the cut on her knee hurting, but refused to move. She had said it clearly, no doctors. The look on the woman's face was full of shock, not expecting such anger from the young girl before her.
"Listen, this is my friend Dr. DeLuca," the firefighter said gently. "I know you don't like doctors, and, trust me, I get it. I didn't like doctors either when I was younger," he continued. Carina watched proudly as her friend tried to calm the girl down. "But your knee looks like it might need stitches, and that's beyond my expertise."
The small brunette, whom you wouldn't think could make herself smaller, sat in silence. It felt like silence was her friend, it followed her everywhere— car rides to new foster homes, her social worker's office, school, and now at the clinic. In silence, nobody could hurt her, or at least that's how it felt for her. However, she knew silence never lasted long. People always wanted answers— answers she couldn't give them, or maybe she just didn't want to.
"Whatever," she said, rolling her eyes and getting up, "I don't even know why I came here anyway." As she tried to leave the room, she felt, yet again, another hand holding her back, but this time it wasn't Jack's.
"Look, if you don't let me take a look, you're going to end up in a hospital not even an hour after storming out of here," she heard the doctor say, seriousness filling her voice. "Your choice." Carina knew she was exaggerating, but she would say anything to scare the kid enough to stay.
Rolling her eyes, as if it was her signature move, which it probably was, she turned around and sat back down on the clinic bed, arms crossed, wearing the most annoyed look the doctor and the firefighter had ever seen. And in their jobs, they dealt with a lot of challenging people. However, none of them had as much attitude as the small teen in front of them.
The room fell silent as Carina examined the girl's knee, not without a young pair of eyes carefully observing her every move, and Jack, you could say was there to provide moral support. Suddenly, a loud voice sounded throughout the entire station, causing the young brunette to flinch and cover her ears, trying to drown out some of the noise.
Ladder 19, Engine 19, Aid Car 19, requested at 3729 Pointview Street.
"Are you good here? I have to leave," Jack said once the sound stopped, prompting an eye roll from the Italian. It's not like I'm the doctor. Oh, wait! I am, she thought to herself.
"We'll be fine, Jack. Go!" Carina told him, unamused. The young girl couldn't help but smirk as she witnessed the doctor practically shove the man out of the exam room, the scene helping her forget all about the scare she had moments before. "Okay, bambina, so you're going to need stitches, but other than that, you're good."
"Will it hurt?"
If the room hadn't been so quiet at that moment, the tall brunette would have sworn she hadn't heard her. The bold girl from two minutes before had turned into a small whisper.
"No, don't worry. I'm gonna give you some numbing medicine. You won't feel a thing. I promise."
The child stayed silent, swaying her right knee back and forth. I promise. It was the second time that day that someone had told her that. Jack's promise had already been broken. It hadn't been quick like he said it would. And now a second promise. She didn't believe in that stuff. Promises were meant to be broken.
She closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to hit, but it never did. Shocked, she opened her eyes again, watching the doctor's actions intently.
"So, how did this happen?"
"Your firefighter friend told me no questions asked."
There it was again— the façade the doctor was first met with when she had entered the room. Carina was curious as to why the young girl was so hurt and scared that it made her so mad at everyone who tried to help her.
Carina smirked, "Well, I'm not Jack now, am I?" she said, moving the chair closer to the teen.
"Is this how you treat your patients?" the green-eyed girl replied cheekily. Dr. DeLuca seemed nice, and she didn't want to be mean, but she couldn't help it. Nice people cared, and people who cared asked questions, and questions had always gotten her in trouble.
"Only the ones with difficult and stubborn personalities," the woman winked. She could have sworn she saw a small smile emerge from the girl before she hid it, rolling her eyes. "Care to tell me what happened then?"
"I fell," she mumbled, earning a stern look from the doctor. The small brunette huffed. "I was running, and I fell. That's all. Or am I not allowed to run now?" she argued, tugging at her sleeves.
"You were running in the rain?" Carina asked, her eyebrows arched in worry and curiosity. The teenager kept quiet, not having an answer for the doctor, so she shrugged. "Let's try something easier, sì? What's your name?"
"Emily" she lied. She knew better than to give her real name. She knew that at any moment the lady in front of her could call Child Protective Services, and she wasn't about to risk it.
Carina nodded, satisfied with the girl's answer. She focused on her stitching, knowing that too many questions could set them back to square one. She was worried, there was no denying it, but she needed to play her cards right. And, at that moment, healing the girl's knee was the number one priority.
The kid kept quiet, lost in her thoughts, and again, observed with close attention everything the doctor did.
"What does that mean?" she asked quietly, looking at her shoes.
"What does what mean?" Carina replied, confused.
"Bambina."
"Oh, it's Italian for baby," the doctor smiled, happy that the girl felt comfortable enough to start a conversation.
"You're Italian?" she said, surprised, making the doctor nod. She had noticed the accent but hadn't really given it much thought. "And I'm not a baby," she solemnly added.
And it was true. She took care of herself, protected herself, fed herself, and even sang herself to sleep at times. She wasn't a baby. Babies needed adults to care for them. She didn't. Even if Mrs. Anderson had told her otherwise numerous times.
"Okay, how old are you then?" the doctor said, taking off her gloves, finally finished with the stitches.
"Fourteen."
Carina couldn't hold back the grin that had appeared on her face. "Do your parents know you're here?" she pressed. She knew it was a long shot, but maybe if she were lucky, she could get something more than her name and age.
"No questions asked, remember?" the young brunette defiantly said, jumping off the bed and making her way out of the station.
Dr. DeLuca sighed. Saying she was worried was an understatement.
"Hi, my love," a blonde firefighter said, wrapping her arms around her from behind. "Is everything okay?"
Her wife nodded, turning around to kiss her. "Everything is better now that you're here, bella."