No one knew exactly how old he was. Maybe six. Maybe seven.
He had dirt under his fingernails, hair that stuck out in uneven tufts, and clothes that were always a size too big. He slept wherever he could—sometimes under the awning near the emergency exit, sometimes behind the cafeteria dumpsters where it was warmer.
Hospital staff knew him well.
“Hey, Muddy Hands,” a security guard would call.
“Noah,” the boy would be correct seriously.
He liked the hospital. Not because of the sickness—but because people talked in softer voices there. Sometimes they gave him sandwiches. Sometimes warm soup.
And sometimes… he watched.
For illustrative purposes only
One afternoon, while wandering the hallway to escape the cold, Noah stopped outside Room 417.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, he saw a woman lying very still. Machines surrounded her, blinking and beeping like quiet stars. Her belly was round and high beneath the blue hospital blanket.
Noah Froze.
He stared, eyes wide.
“There’s a baby in there,” he whispered to himself.
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