Wesley Berlin was an interesting young man. Clearly, he was nervous and understandably cautious after living on the streets. I was concerned about his well-being and health at the moment. He had been very quiet this morning, and though he ate, he had gotten sick on everything he had eaten.

I had a growing concern over what Wesley had seen last night in the alley. Dean hadn’t seemed concerned over Wesley’s mental state after witnessing it…which deeply concerned me. I was still shocked over Dean’s behavior last night, and I hadn’t begun to wrap my head around it.

Without a doubt, one thing was apparent to me; I had a fourteen-year-old in my care that witnessed Dean committing a murder.

“When was the last time you’ve been seen by a physician?” I asked during our drive to my friend’s medical practice.

“I can’t remember.”

I glanced at him. Surely the adoptive family would have made sure he was cared for or at least seen by a doctor at some point.

“Were you ever seen for a cold or a sore throat?”

“No, sir,” Wesley murmured.

His legs bounced nervously in the car and then in the waiting room. I tried to reassure him that no one would hurt him, but I felt like he either wasn’t really hearing my words or that he just didn’t believe it.

I stood in the exam room and watched my good friend, Jasper, check Wesley over. Jasper had been a family friend ever since we were in school together. I spoke to him this morning and gave him a heads up about Wesley.

Wesley was indeed a mystery to me, and his wounds and scars would tell me a lot about him. The most peculiar thing that was revealed very quickly was a tattoo over the left side of his chest. It read “WB6.” When Jasper asked about it, Wesley clammed up. He lost color in his face, and even though he was looking at me, I felt as if he really wasn’t seeing me.

He was very young to have a tattoo. I even thought at first that maybe it was something he got within the past year while he was living on the streets. Maybe he befriended a few older boys and he lied about his age to get it done, or it was some sort of rite of passage on the streets.

“I think you might be my youngest patient with a tattoo,” Jasper commented and glanced at me.

Wesley was quiet and very still as Jasper listened to his heart. I was pretty sure the “WB” portion of the tattoo were his initials. The number portion could be anything.

“Oh, Thom,” Jasper said and motioned for me to take a look at his back.

Jasper’s tone told me that he had been caught off guard by something. I walked behind the exam table and had a hard time comprehending what I was looking at. Wesley’s back was covered in scars and indentations. My friend touched a few places, and we both noticed Wesley flinch. His body jerked at the touch.

“Wesley, how did this happen?” Jasper asked.

There was no response from Wesley as my friend continued to touch places on his back. I was stunned and didn’t know what to think, let alone say.

“My guess is that these are from a belt or something strap-like,” Jasper whispered when Wesley didn’t respond. “Some of these are quite old, Thom. He’s just fourteen.” I nodded and walked back around to face Wesley.

“What happened, Wesley?”

When he brought his head up to look at me, the look on his face told me enough at the moment. This boy had led a rough life. I saw a mix of emotions on his face and all of it saddened me. I could tell that he’s erected walls of toughness over the years. He probably had to in order to survive on the streets. But I also saw pieces of that wall crumbling. Behind those crumbling “tough guy” pieces was a scared boy.

“Wes,” I calmly whispered his name again.

His eyes were watery, and he looked back down to hide.

“I’m sorry, sir. I…can’t,” Wesley mumbled.

He was shaking so Jasper just stopped touching him. I put my hands on his upper arms and gave him a gentle squeeze. His body jerked again when I touched him. I think this might be a natural reaction from living on the streets for a year without any positive or nurturing touch.

“It’ll be okay, Wes,” I reassured him.

I could feel his body quake beneath my hands. My mind raced with thoughts of whatever was in his young past on top of watching a man be killed just a few feet away from him last night.

I had an overwhelming urge to embrace Wesley and soothe him, but I needed to tread cautiously with him. I didn’t want to scare him more than he already was. I simply hated to feel him tremble.

“Wesley, it’ll be okay,” I said again hoping it would sink in.

“Please don’t take me back there, Thom…I can’t go back to the docks,” Wesley begged.

“I’m not taking you back there, Wesley. I promise you.”

Whatever was at the place he referred to as the docks and had happened there was a major piece to Wesley. I intended to find out what went on there and why this boy had scars on his back.