Chapter 7
The phone was still on speaker when the dispatcher asked for me.
I hadn't realized Dr. Patel had kept the call open. The little exam room smelled like paper sheet and hand sanitizer, and the fluorescent light hummed above us. I sat on the edge of the table with my feet not touching the floor, my hood still up, both hands fisted in the front of my jacket. She knelt down so we were eye level, her white coat sleeve pushed up just enough I could see the light blue cuff and the black watch on her wrist. She didn't reach for my zipper.
On the phone, the dispatcher's voice came through thin and clear. She asked if the minor was still clothed and breathing normally, and if an adult could put the child on to confirm welfare.
Dr. Patel looked at me and kept her voice low and even.
"They want to make sure you're okay while we wait," she said. "I'm going to hand you the phone. You don't have to tell anything you don't want to. If a question feels too big, you can just say pass. Okay? I'll stay right here."
I nodded. My breathing was loud in my own ears.
She lifted the phone off the counter and held it between us, not pressing it to my face, giving me space to lean in. Her hand was steady.
"Hey there, honey," the dispatcher said. Her voice changed a little when she talked to me, softer but still clipped, professional. "I know this is scary. I'm going to ask you some quick yes or no questions. You can just say yes, no, or pass. Can you do that for me?"
I swallowed. My mouth was dry.
"Yes," I said. It came out small.
"Thank you for being brave," she said. "Are you hurt right now?"
I felt Dr. Patel's eyes on me, not the jacket, just my face. She didn't nod or shake her head to tell me what to say.
I thought about what was under the zipper and how to answer without lying. The truth I could give was small.
"No," I said. Then I added, "Pass," because I wasn't sure if no was completely true and I didn't want to get trapped.
The dispatcher didn't push. "Okay, pass is fine. Are you bleeding anywhere?"
"No."
"Are you having any trouble breathing?"
"No."
Her questions kept coming, each one short, each one with a pause after.
"Is there blood you can see on your clothes?"
I looked down at my hands still locked on the gray fleece. The jacket was closed. Nothing showed.
"No."
"Are you cold or feeling dizzy?"
"No."
I could hear typing on her end, fast keys. Dr. Patel mouthed, you're doing good, and kept the phone angled so I didn't have to hold it.
"Can you tell me if someone hurt you today where your jacket is covering? Just yes, no, or pass."
My chest tightened. My fists squeezed harder. I didn't want to say the thing about the coveralls man or what I'd been hiding, but I also didn't want to lie. The rule she'd given me held.
"Pass," I said. My voice cracked on it but it was still one word.
"That's okay," the dispatcher said right away. "Thank you for answering what you can. You're being very clear."
She went back to Dr. Patel then, but she kept me on the line to listen.
"Ma'am, I'm logging this," she said, and I could hear her reading as she typed. "Minor clothed, breathing normal, no blood visible, refusal to disrobe at this time. Child answered yes/no questions coherently, declined to elaborate, which is noted as consent-based refusal. That's protective for you and for him."
Dr. Patel closed her eyes for a second. Relief moved through her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said. "We have not attempted to force exam. We're maintaining privacy in exam room one."
"Good. Keep that door closed," the dispatcher said. "I have police and EMS dispatched to your clinic. ETA six minutes. Stay on the line with me until they arrive, keep the doors locked as you are. Don't let anyone in or out without law enforcement, understood?"
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"Understood. Six minutes," Dr. Patel repeated, so I would hear it too. She looked at me again. "You hear that? Six minutes. Nobody's opening anything you don't want opened."
I nodded. The clock above the sink ticked. Six minutes felt both too long and too fast. The phone stayed between us on speaker, the dispatcher's breathing faint on the other end, logging every word I'd said. My jacket stayed zipped and clutched, but for the first time that afternoon my voice was part of the record, not just my silence.
