Is this really family life/Является ли это действительно семейной жизни?

Chapter 8

Mickey walked the hall outside the strange boy's room. She didn't know his name and was certain something bad had happened to him. Every time he woke, he screamed and tried to escape. He was still delirious and would call out in two languages, which wasn't unusual given many children in California spoke two languages. When he called for his mama everyone who heard could only feel empathy for the boy.

She turned around as the doctor walked out of the room, "Mickey, I think he's waking up," the doctor announced. "Have you called the Sheriff yet?"

Mickey nodded, "Yeah Andy, Ed's stuck out helping with a pile up on the PCH right now, and he said when he's finished he'll get down here."

Andy nodded, "Where did you find him?" he asked.

"Just off the Santa Clara Truck trail, in the Mallory Cabin; I think he kicked the door in to escape the bad weather," she said.

"Um…He's not from around here. Did you hear that gibberish he was yelling?" Andy asked, looking at his friend.

"I think it was Russian or Eastern European. Do you think he's an illegal?" Mickey wondered.

"On his own? Na, he's a kid, he has to have family somewhere. Maybe he's a runaway. Whatever the situation, I am concerned about him. It looks like he got beaten up a few hours ago. We aren't that far from the freeway, he could have come from anywhere," Andy hypothesized.

Mickey and Andy walked back into the room where Callen was starting to wake up.

"Nyet, pozhaluystaya dolzhen derzhat' ikh seyfom!" He mumbled as he tried to pull the blankets off.

"Hey, kid its ok," Andy said trying to stop him from ripping out the IV they had put in his arm to get fluids into him.

At his touch, Callen flinched and moved away. "No…please…I have to go!"

"Jeez, Mickey; He's American!" Andy exclaimed. He walked over to the kid and sat on a chair next to the bed. "Hey kid, you're in Santa Clarita Medical Center. You want to tell me your name?"

Callen moved as far away from the man as possible.

"Listen, we heard you calling for your mom earlier, you want to tell me her name? We can call her for you," he offered nicely.

Callen turned his head away, not talking, a single tear working its way out from his treacherous eyelids.

"Nyet!" He replied and turned his back on them.

He knew from experience if he ignored them long enough they would get bored and leave him alone. If he told them who he was now they would send him back and the Rostov's would be in danger again. He grabbed his ribs as a wet hacking cough escaped him. Running into that gang as he hitchhiked out here had been a bad move. Not having any money had turned out to be a worse move and his ribs still ached from the kicking he had received. He had had worse over the years and had curled into a ball and tucked his bag underneath him staying still until the kids had given up and moved on. Then landing in that rainstorm, he had decided that God hated him.

That had to be it. Here he was yet again with people surrounding him, pretending that they cared and soon they would ship him off somewhere else.

He was tired of it. Tired of trying to fit in, tired of letting other people in. He was just tired.

He put up all of his defenses, and didn't care who was watching as he carefully climbed off the bed dragging a blanket and the IV pole into the corner where he could see the door and no one could come up behind him. Once in position, he sank to the floor.