Last to die

This boy was ru

Slowly, she started moving in his direction, careful not to scare him off. She kept watch without making eye contact, wending her way through the crowd, taking a circuitous route to the street corner that the boy seemed to have claimed-he and scores of other children who passed their days begging in the streets.

The onslaught began as she drew closer, child after child with outstretched hand.

“S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle. S’il vous plaît.” If you were white, even the street children knew enough French to say please in the official language.

It was hard to ignore them, but she couldn’t help all of them. Only the slaves among them.

Though surrounded by other children, she never lost sight of the boy. Just ten feet away, her suspicions were confirmed. She could see the blisters on his hands and the crisscrossing of scars around the calves and ankles. Boys in the field cut the cocoa pods with machetes. It took one or two good lengthwise whacks to break open the woody shell and scoop out the beans. A good boy could split open five hundred pods an hour, though with fatigue or lack of experience they often slashed themselves. At least this one still had all his fingers and toes.

Finally, after continuous effort, she managed to plant herself beside him.

“S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle,” he said with outstretched hand.

His French was remarkably good, so she replied in the same language. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ve come to help you.”

He took a half-step back. Clearly he understood.

“I’ve helped lots of boys like you,” she said. “Boys who work in the cocoa fields.”

Other beggars tried to force their way between them, but Rene kept working him. “I’m a doctor.”

She pulled a photograph of her clinic from her pocket. She’d found it useful in past cases to be able to show the boys something. “It’s just around the corner. Come with me. I can help you get home.”

He shook his head, as if he’d heard that one before.

She stepped toward him, then stopped, fearing that she was coming on too strong. “Please,” she said. “You don’t look like the other children, you understand? Come with me. Let me help you before the child brokers find you again.”

He looked into her eyes, and she didn’t dare look away. Being a woman was such a huge advantage when talking to a boy who’d been lied to by so many men.

He nodded slowly, and she immediately took his hand. It was the coarse and calloused hand of an old man, surely not of the boy he was. She led him back across the market, down a dusty shortcut she knew to her clinic.

“What’s your name?”

“Kamun.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you want some water?”

“Yes.”

They stopped, and she let him drink from her canteen.

“Thank you.”

She smiled and patted his head. “You’re welcome.”

At the end of the dusty trail was the Children First clinic, which didn’t look like much of a clinic. It was one of the older buildings in the neighborhood, thick walls of mud-brick and an adobe-style roof. But it did have a noisy air-conditioning unit sticking out the window, which seemed to delight the boy.

“Cool,” he said, smiling.

“Yes. It is. Come inside.”

He followed her in, and she closed the door behind him. He seemed nervous again, so she took him by the hand and let him stand directly in front of the A/C and turned it on full-blast. He smiled, even laughed a little as the cold air dried the sweat on his brow.

Through the holes in his shirt she saw scars across his back, and she wondered how long it had been since he’d laughed like this.

“Come in here,” she said. She took him into the other room-there were only two-and sat him on the examination table.

“I want to listen to your heart,” she said. She placed the stethoscope on his knee and listened.

“I don’t hear your heart,” she said.

Finally, he laughed. “That’s not my heart,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She put it on his elbow.

He laughed again, and she laughed with him. But if he thought this routine was fu

“Good strong heart,” she said.

“Yes. That’s what Le Gros said.” Le Gros-the Big Man.

“Is that who you worked for?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Six.”

“Months?”

“No. Harvests.”

Rene had been around long enough to know that most cocoa farms had a main harvest lasting several months and a mid-crop harvest lasting several more. Six harvests meant that Kamun had been working almost three years straight.

It’s not going to be easy to get this boy home.

“What did you do there?”

He didn’t answer, which was to be expected. It generally took them a while to warm up.

“May I take your shirt off?”

He shook his head.

“I noticed some marks on your back. I just want to take a look.”

He folded his arms, refusing.

“It’s okay. We can do that later.”

She paused, then prepared herself to ask the one question she always asked. She knew the answer she’d get, talking to a child who’d never known a home with milk and sugar in the cupboard. But she asked anyway, hoping the answer would help her see purpose in her work and strengthen her resolve, hoping that it wouldn’t simply dampen her spirits and break her heart.

“Kamun. Have you ever tasted chocolate?”

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, chocolate. Have you ever tasted it?”

He shook his head. “What is…chocolate?”

The main door opened, and a man and woman entered. “Post” they said with their usual cheery smiles.

Rene quietly assured Kamun that they were friends. It was Jim and Judy Roberts, nonmedical volunteers who ran the administrative side of Children First’s operation. Rene had liked them from day one on the job, a couple of down-to-earth Oklahomans who didn’t do charity just to get their mugs in the society pages and who’d found a meaningful way to spend their retirement together. They were back from their daily jaunt to the post office, Jim the former Iowa State football player having led the way. Rene stepped out of the examination room and asked, “The usual?”

“No,” said Mr. Roberts. “There’s actually something here for you today.”

“Really? Put it on the desk. I’m with a patient.”

“It’s from a lawyer,” he said.

That piqued her interest. She crossed the room and took a look. She didn’t recognize the name.

“Who’s the boy?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

“Sorry?” said Rene, still focused on the envelope.

“The patient. Who is he?”

“His name is Kamun. I’ll introduce you in a minute. This looks kind of important. Maybe I should open it.”

Mr. Roberts handed her an opener. She quickly sliced the envelope from end to end, then removed the letter. It was one page long. Her eyes shifted from left to right as she read, then her lashes fluttered and her hand began to shake.

Mr. Roberts asked, “Is everything okay, Rene?”

Instinctively, she brought a hand to her mouth. “It’s my sister,” she said.

“She’s okay, I hope.”

Rene looked up from the letter and said, “She’s dead.”

Mrs. Roberts came to her, put her arm around her. “Oh no.”

Rene lowered herself onto the edge of the desk, the quickest place to sit down. “She was shot. A robbery or something. They don’t know exactly. In Miami.”

Mr. Roberts took her hand. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Mrs. Roberts said, “She was such a sweet girl. I mean, it seems like she was just here with us.”

“It’s been over two years since she left.”

“Really? That long? Oh, time flies. But she was still so young. I think I’m going to cry.”

“Please, don’t,” said Rene.

Mr. Roberts glanced at his wife, as if telling her to be strong for Rene. She cleared her throat and quickly toughened her resolve.