Marty was awakened when the door to his room opened and light from the hallway outside shone in on his bed. Stirring faintly, he slitted open his eyes to see someone entering the room, carrying something. It took him several seconds to remember where he was and what had happened, and when he did, a slight shiver ran through his body. A voice came then, saying, "Computer, raise lights by one half." The lights went up a bit, and Marty lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. When he had adjusted some, Marty could see a young woman, younger than Doctor McKenzie had been, standing near his bed and holding a small tray.

"Marty," she began softly, "I'm Doctor Knight. Do you think we could talk for a few minutes?"

It was as if Marty's vocal chords had simply stopped working. Mutely he shrugged, then nodded slightly, wishing it didn't hurt so much to move so he could sit up a bit. He was rewarded with a smile from the doctor who, seeming to sense what he wanted, asked, "Would you like me to fix that bed so you can sit up a little?"

Relieved that he had somehow been understood without having to speak, Marty nodded. The doctor went to the head of the bed and tapped a few buttons, causing the top half to raise up, allowing Marty to sit without having to pull himself up. Seeing the young boy wince in pain at the movement, Doctor Knight said, "You're hurting; I'll put a note on your chart to increase your painkiller dosage, and that should help." Marty nodded again, still silent but further gratified to know that some of the pain might go away. *I'd better behave,* he thought suddenly. *I have to be good, or she'll tell them not to give me anything at all.* Suddenly frightened, Marty went rigid for a moment before his aching body forced him to relax.

Lindsay Knight had been busy pulling up a stool and didn't notice her patient's change in demeanor, but before she sat, she set the tray she had been carrying on a nearby table, moving the table over to Marty's bed. "I brought along some food," she told him, smiling. "You must be hungry." *Of course he's hungry,* she added silently. *He's skin and bones; his father was only slowly starving him to death, after all.*

Returning her attention to Marty, Doctor Knight watched as he gazed at the food in front of him, not so much as nibbling at it. Suddenly, his good hand started to reach toward the tray, seemingly of its own accord, but it stopped halfway there when, with a half-agonized grimace on Marty's part, the hand fell back to his side.

Marty stared at the food as it taunted him, sitting only a foot or two away as he struggled to keep himself under control. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he had smelled it, when it had been as if someone had bored a hole into his stomach. He wanted to eat it so badly, but he didn't dare, not until someone had given him permission. *It's just a trick,* he told himself, trying not to look at the contents of the tray. *She's just waiting for you to do something so she can get you, they all are.* It wasn't until Doctor Knight's voice broke in on his thoughts that Marty was provided with a diversion from the food.

"Eat something, Marty," she said quietly. "You're ill, you need to give your body something to work with while you get better." Startled, Marty glanced over at her to see her nod slightly, smiling a small, rather sorrowful smile before he cautiously reached out and pulled the tray closer. It wasn't much, just some soup and toast, but it was more than Marty had had in almost three days. Picking up the spoon, he shakily took some of the soup, but Marty felt awkward, far more clumsy than usual, thanks to the forced use of his left hand. He was a righty, normally, but the splint on his arm made using that hand impossible, so he was reduced to trying to eat with his left, managing to get more soup out of the bowl and onto the tray than anywhere else. Giving up on the spoon for a moment and turning to using the toast to mop up some of the soup, he found that that worked better. It wasn't until after a few bites of food that his initial, hunger-induced single-mindedness had subsided enough for him to realize that Doctor Knight seemed to be watching him carefully.

Suddenly wary, Marty turned a puzzled, half-frightened gaze on the doctor. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, why she was staring, but he didn't dare. Instead, the young boy returned his dull stare to the half-finished tray of food in front of him and kept it locked there as he ate quickly, terrified at the thought of angering what appeared to be his source of food for the time being. *They aren't going to give you anything after this,* he thought anxiously, hating himself for caring about being hungry but unable to do anything about it. *You'd better eat it all before they change their minds and take it away. Or before Dad comes to bring you back home.* A shudder coursed through Marty's skinny frame at this, and Lindsay noticed at once.

"Marty?" she asked, her concerned tone breaking the silence that had settled. "Are you all right?"

Marty's eyes flicked up to Doctor Knight, but it was as though they stared right through her, not seeing her at all. As she studied the boy in front of her, Knight thought sadly that she had never seen a child look so old. Cautiously, plainly weighing every action for any possible chance of trouble, Marty nodded, still refusing to speak.

"You're sure?" the doctor prodded, unconvinced. "The pain isn't any worse? I'll make sure a nurse stops by to adjust your IV after you're done eating, that should make you more comfortable."

All she received in response was another silent nod. Swallowing a sigh, Doctor Knight regarded Marty for a long moment before electing not to force anything for the time being as she said, "Marty, after you're done eating I have to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to it right now, or would you rather wait?"

The doctor's words were enough to cause Marty to stop eating, though he was nearly finished with the food that had been brought, anyway. Allowing the spoon to clatter back into the plastic bowl (Marty had been forced to resort to the spoon again after running out of toast), he looked at her with a mixture of wariness and terror. This had happened before, of course- people at hospitals were always peppering him with questions, everything from when was the last time he ate anything to how was he doing in school, but they had never sent anyone specifically to talk to him so soon before. A large part of Marty wanted to just shake his head, put off the inevitable, but this doctor hadn't been very hard on him yet- she had been nice, even, or at least it seemed she would be until the questions started.

*She's going to know,* he thought ashamedly, swallowing hard. *She's going to ask about what happened, and then she'll know what an awful, wicked boy I am. What does it matter when I tell her? She'll just agree with Dad, anyway.* With a shudder, Marty forced himself to speak, whispering, "Now... is fine, Miss."

Lindsay frowned at that. She was watching Marty carefully, and she could see that now clearly *wasn't* fine. Even as he spoke, the young boy was clutching so hard at the blankets covering him that his knuckles had gone white, and he was trembling slightly. "It's all right to say 'no,'" she told him softly, and was surprised at his reaction.

When Marty heard those words, his first impulse was to start weeping. *How could she not know?* he wondered. *Why don't any of them understand?* It was *never* all right to say "no." Ever. That was the sort of thing that incensed Dad beyond the point of control; it wound up in hospital scenes like this, in fact.

Quickly, Marty swallowed the sob that had risen in him, instead gazing at the doctor with the faintest ghost of a smile crossing his face. It would have been funny, really, he thought, if it all didn't hurt so much. Looking away, Marty gingerly scrubbed at his bruised eyes with one hand, at the same time murmuring, "No, Miss, I- I'm fine."

"If you're sure, Marty," Doctor Knight answered, forcing herself to sound relaxed, even though she was anything but. There was a lengthy pause then, and the young doctor studied Marty for a moment, trying to fathom how anyone so young could have been exposed to the things he had. She had looked over his sizable file before coming in, and the whole thing was heartbreaking.

Nine years before, the very same Martin Columcille Isaac McManus that sat before her now had been born in this hospital. The proud parents were Ian and Rebekkah McManus, by all reports both intelligent, dependable people. Almost as soon as Rebekkah was admitted to give birth, however, complications arose. No one was completely sure what had gone so wrong, but by the time the baby was ready to be delivered, it was uncertain whether he or his mother would survive.

Both mother and son made it through the birth, but Rebekkah had lost a great deal of blood. Several surgeries were performed in an attempt to save her, but after lingering for barely a week after the birth of her son, Rebekkah McManus died. Her husband Ian, of course, was devastated, but given some time to recover from the shock, he seemed well enough to take baby Martin home. Things thereafter appeared to be quiet in the McManus household, and most of the people that had been spoken to thus far agreed that for a time, they were.

It was a little more than a year after Martin's birth that Ian first brought his son to an emergency room for treatment. The explanation given was that the toddler had fallen down the stairs and managed to injure his leg (which turned out to be broken), and since doctors could find no record of past problems, they assumed that Ian's story was the truth. Martin was brought in on several other occasions for similar injuries, but by reporting to different hospitals throughout Dublin, Ian had managed to avoid suspicion.

Things continued in that vein for the next eight years. Though both doctors and Martin's teachers had voiced concern over the current situation in the boy's home, Martin refused to answer questions about it, only saying that he was clumsy and fell a lot. It was only now that the full horror of the abuse that Martin had been suffering was being laid in full view, and all parties involved were appalled that nothing had been done sooner. Now Doctor Knight sat looking at the skinny, terrified boy in front of her, taking in his appearance and trying to decide how to approach this.

He was a beautiful child- everyone had commented on that almost from the moment he was brought in, several staff members also adding that it was "a real shame" that there was a good chance he would come away from this latest incident with scars. Knight had noticed as soon as she saw him what blue eyes he had- the clearest blue she thought she had ever seen, and yet there was a dull, aged quality about them that looked as if it had killed any happiness that had ever lurked within. Marty had been a mess when he was brought in; besides the most serious of his injuries, he was filthy, absurdly underweight, and wearing what amounted to glorified rags. Some of that had been taken care of, of course; a nurse had come in and cleaned Marty up as much as was possible without aggravating his injuries, but it still remained in question what Federation Child Services was going to elect to do with him after his stay in the hospital.

Shoving such thoughts aside, Lindsay shifted position on the stool, watching Marty for a moment before she spoke, taking care to keep her voice low in an attempt to relax him some. "So Marty," she began, deciding that it might help to start with a few completely unloaded questions, "how old are you again?"

Marty didn't answer right away, a puzzled frown crossing his face as he processed the question. This didn't make any sense- Doctor Knight had his chart right in front of her, and he knew that it had all of this sort of information on it. At the same time, he felt oddly relieved; he could answer this question, it wouldn't get him into any trouble to tell her old he was, so at least he wouldn't have to lie about it. "I'm 'most t-ten, Miss," he whispered, so quiet that Knight had to lean in to hear him properly.

"Oh, that's right," Linsday answered, nodding as she glanced down at the chart. "It says here you'll be having a birthday in not too long." Martin just shrugged in response; he didn't see what was so special about that- the only reason he knew when his birthday was at all was because they had had to know it for school.

Lindsay hadn't really been expecting much of an answer to that- she doubted that birthdays were occasions of much significance in the McManus family, anyway. Changing tack slightly, she asked, "Where do you go to school, then?"

"Saint Francis', Miss." Again Martin was relieved, if a little confused. She should have had that bit of information already, but again it was a question he could answer without fear of breaking any of Dad's rules.

"Do you like school?" Lindsay watched Marty carefully as she asked this, unsurprised when he looked away, shrugging mutely. Seeing at once that she wouldn't receive any further response, at least not right away, she continued, "Your teachers said that you do well in school- your father must be proud of you." At this, Marty seemed to retreat even further into himself, if that were possible. He shrugged again, but the movement was almost imperceptible, and Doctor Knight would have missed it if she hadn't been watching carefully. She knew that saying that the McManus boy "did well" in school was a gross understatement- his teachers had stated in the reports that he was working far beyond his agemates, allowed to progress as quickly as he liked with his schoolwork, but she doubted that this cut much ice with his father.

"Are your friends as good in school as you are?" Lindsay thought she actually saw Marty flinch at this question, and she ached for him. Still, this had to be done, and there was always the possibility that it would help, as hard as it was for him to be subjected to such questions.

Marty's pained gaze shot up to meet the doctor's, despite his efforts to keep it firmly schooled on the empty tray in front of him. Swallowing hard, he murmured, "I... don't 'ave any friends, Miss." It was true, Marty thought- no one at school wanted anything to do with him; even some of the teachers kept him at arm's length. He had never been completely sure of why, whether it was because they all knew how stupid and wicked he was, because of how he dressed, or because he wasn't very good at anything that would matter to other children, but Marty had learned the hard way to just try and avoid people all together.

Lindsay frowned slightly, shaking her head. "Of course you must have friends, Marty," she reassured, though deep down she knew that he probably wasn't exaggerating. "You seem like a very nice boy- why wouldn't you have friends?"

Marty shrugged. "Dunno, Miss," he answered softly, staring down at his one good hand, clenched tightly in his lap, as though it might yield an answer. "Sometimes- some of the kids- they say... I'm 'off,' that I'm not the full quid, Miss." Marty's shame was evident, but suddenly he raised his head to pin Doctor Knight with a gaze of mixed outrage and frustration. "It's not true," he told her tightly, raising his voice to normal speaking level for the first time since he had waken up in the hospital. "I- I'm just as much the full quid as anyone else is, Miss."

It was the most emotion that Marty had evinced since Lindsay had come into the room, and instinctively, the young doctor reached out and laid a comforting hand on his good shoulder. "I know you are, Marty," she told him firmly, forcing herself to smile, despite being sure that her heart was breaking for him. "Of *course* you're 'the full quid'- you're a very, very smart young man, and anyone who tells you otherwise is just... wrong."

Marty had cringed at the sudden physical contact, but relaxed as Doctor Knight spoke, and by the time she had finished, a small, cautious smile ghosted his lips. No one had ever said anything like that to him before, no one other than the occasional teacher at least, and they were supposed to say those things. Almost as soon as the smile appeared, though, it was gone again. It wasn't just the people at school who told Marty that he wasn't "the full quid"- it was his father, too. He'd said that for as long as Marty could remember, said that Marty was "off his head, most men wouldn't bother with the likes of you, you're more trouble than you're worth."

Marty was lucky, he knew. Dad only hit him sometimes, and at least he let him sleep on the floor of the flat; most men would have thrown him out on the streets long ago. Turning a desolate gaze toward Doctor Knight, he saw things properly- she was just like his teachers, really; she had to say nice things to him, at least sometimes. It was her job, not a case where she really meant it. It hurt Marty to admit that to himself, and he couldn't help but think that he probably should have realized it more quickly. "Thank you, Miss," he whispered politely, not making real eye contact with her.

Lindsay could sense the change in Martin's demeanor almost before it was actually visible, and she couldn't help but wonder if she had done anything to cause it. "Is- what's wrong?" she asked finally, knowing that to ask such a question of a boy who had been through what Marty had was probably ludicrous, but hoping that it would yield something more than a silent nod or shrug.

Startled blue eyes darted up from the empty tray to peer questioningly at Lindsay as Marty struggled to figure out just where this line of questioning was headed. He knew it was a trap, it had to be; there was no other explanation for it, but even so.... None of the other doctors that Marty had seen asked him anything like that- why was this one? "I'm... fine, Miss," he said cautiously.

"If you come clean now, I won't have to keep asking you these questions," Lindsay answered, softening her words with a gentle smile. Watching Marty grow increasingly distressed, she told him, "Marty, we already know what your father did to you."

At this, Marty became even more tense. *It's not true,* he thought wildly. *They're just trying to trip you up like they always do. Just shut up, don't say anything, or they'll get you, *Dad'll* get you.* His breath grew shuddering, panicky, and he had paled noticeably. Dad was going to hear of this, and he'd think that Marty had told, and when that happened.... The young boy's eyes flew shut and he covered them with his good hand, trembling. "I...," he whispered, sounding strangled, "I- don't.... Dad- he...." Marty's chest had started to ache, and his hand left his eyes to clutch at the bedclothes.

Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, Lindsay realized that she had made a mistake. *How could you do that to him?* she asked herself. *Hasn't he been through enough without being harassed by you?* "Marty," she began. "Marty, I'm sorry. It's all right, you don't have to say anything, it's okay...." A soft sob left her patient's throat, and just as Lindsay Knight opened her mouth to continue apologizing, she heard the door slide open. Turning to see who was there, it was all Lindsay could do to keep from groaning aloud. Standing in the doorway and looking confused and vaguely appalled was Doctor John McKenzie.