Chapter Text
Megan watches the clock tick closer to 10pm. The second the big hand hits, she’ll be clocking out and locking up. It’s been dead quiet for a Sunday night, only a handful of tired travellers coming to fill up on fuel and coffee. None of them have been interested in much conversation, not that Megan can blame them. It’s just that a friendly face keeps the boredom at bay in a job like this.
Outside it’s foggy, mist pouring down the hills and trees, covering the road. It’s eerie almost, like the perfect start to a Criminal Minds episode but Megan has worked here under all kinds of conditions (and was married to a man the aggressive end of drunk) and frankly nothing scares her anymore. It helps that she keeps a taser and pepper spray close to reach to counter any fears. She’s listened to too many True Crime Podcasts to know what happens to women working alone in gas stations in the middle of nowhere.
After her shift, she plans to go home, take a long warm bath and open the bottle of red that’s been screaming her name all day. Maybe she’ll work up the nerve to go back on Tinder, see if anyone new in the area has popped up. She’s already bled the app dry thrice over since the divorce, but it doesn’t hurt for a gawk. She’s been lonely, and it’s time for someone half-decent to warm her bed again.
The door slams, interrupting her thoughts. A man has stumbled in, almost falling into one of the shelves. He places his hands on it to balance himself, taking long deep breaths. His hair is long, past his chin, and greasy, hanging off his head and obscuring his features. He’s dressed light, t-shirt black with dirt, ripped in parts. His shoes are disgusting, like he just ran a marathon in the mud. He already left his mucky footprints imprinted on the white vinyl floor. It’ll be a bitch to clean up.
Megan can smell the stench of him from behind the till - BO and vomit - a combination she’s very acquainted to with thanks to her ex-husband.
Fucking perfect. A drunk, she groans to herself, already reaching for her phone to call the police station. Powell is probably working, and he owes her one after the disastrous date he took her on a few months ago.
He moans, low and guttural.
“If you're gonna throw up, I’d prefer you do it outside!” Megan snipes.
He jumps, turns and twists in the air in fright, as if he didn’t realise she was there. He falls to the ground in a heap, staring up at her.
Fuck. He’s just a kid she realises suddenly. A kid covered in a gruesome array of cuts and bruises, some healing and others open. A litany of greens, purples and blues. Dry blood crusted around his mouth. There is a large streak of blood on his neck, flesh and skin gaping , scabbing over, like someone took a blunt knife to it and tried to cut it open.
They look at each other, Megan’s hand tight on the phone, the boy's eyes wide with terror. The only sound Megan can hear is the boy’s fast intakes for air and the ticking of the clock.
“Help me,” he finally says.
*****
They bring the kid to the station. Then panic when they comprehend the state of his injuries and bring him to the hospital.
Look, the thing is Powell is used to garden gnomes being stolen, rebellious teenagers being caught with weed not a kid who looks like he’s lived through a horror film stumbling in to the local gas station. This is above his pay grade and he’s hoping it’s just some dumb kid who got high and lost in the woods.
The kid hasn’t spoken a word, allowing Graham and Leonard to bundle him in the back of the car and out again (and then back in again) without a word of complaint. In fact, no words have left his lips. The only thing he has said according to Megan, the gas station clerk, was ‘help me,’ before she rang them.
He looks exhausted, and like he’s fighting sleep. Everytime his head nods forward, it snaps straight back up again, as if he dares submits to it, something terrible will happen.
They call ahead and let them know they are coming. Doctor Johnson is waiting by the entrance with Nurse Kelly, and they usher the kid into a private room. It gives Powell time to think.
As far as he knows, there have been no missing kids matching the boy's description. They are checking the databases at the station just in case. Graham and Leonard have left to look around the Gas Station and question Megan again. She won’t be happy with that, probably desperate to get home, but he’ll make it up to her. Maybe she’ll say yes to another dinner and he can woo her properly this time-
“Powell?”
Doctor Johnson looks shaken, and Powell's stomach drops.
“Tell me he was just lost in the woods.”
“Yes. After being assaulted. Repeatedly. Just physically he insists. He’s severely malnourished. Dehydrated. Powell, he says he was kidnapped in late February. It’s May now. God only knows what’s he been through.”
Powell pinches his nose between his fingers.
“Fuck.”
*****
They’ve cleaned him up the best they can. Disinfected his wounds with a professional care that made him want to weep. They stitched up the wound in his neck and the Nurse let him squeeze her hand as hard as he wanted to distract from the pain. He’s so tired, and he just wants to sleep, but he still doesn’t feel safe. He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel safe again.
He hasn’t stopped shaking since he entered the gas station. He doesn’t know if it’s the cold leaving his body or the terror reminding him it’s still present.
There is a cough at the doorway, and the Sheriff stands there awkwardly.
“Hey kid, how you doing now?”
Robby shrugs and the Sheriff chuckles, “yeah stupid question.”
“Look I’m guessing you're tired, but I need to ask you some questions. Just a few. Can you tell me your name?”
He sits on the chair beside the bed, legs sprawled open and it makes Robby want to vomit.
“Robby Keene,” he swallows, voice hoarse with misuse.
The Sheriff flips open a notebook and writes it down carefully.
“Great. And where are you from Robby?”
“Reseda. California.”
The Sheriff double takes, “You’re a fair bit from home. Do you know where you are?”
“Oregon. I think. That’s what he told me.” It hurts to talk, there is dull pain in his neck and everytime he utters a word it burns in agony. It’s feels like barbwire is wrapped inside his throat, cutting into the skin. It makes him want to claw the flesh and fist it out.
“Right - can you tell me anything about this man? Did he take you from Reseda Robby?”
Robby nods. He counts the patterns on the bedsheets - one, two, three, four - anything to stop his mind drifting back to that night.
“OK. Can you describe him?”
Robby nods again and then shrugs. He wants to cry. He wants to sleep. He wants to never have to picture that man in his mind ever again.
The Nurse enters, an extra blanket in her hands. She tuts sternly.
“Sheriff Powell, I think you need to come back in the morning. Let the boy rest.”
The Sheriff sighs in annoyance, “Yeah, yeah, but one last question. We’re sure there is a missing persons report out there for you, but is there anyone we can call for you in the meantime?”
Robby looks at him blankly and then recites the only number he knows off by heart.
*****
Somewhere in Reseda, a mobile phone lights up on a nightstand with a phone call from an unfamiliar number.