Auggie (Federal Protection Agency #11)

Chapter 1

Auggie

The old cardboard felt so delicate in my hand, I feared it would break in half if I simply held it too hard.

The little book had been read so many times, by so many children, the ink was worn from its pages around the edges, showing the plank paper underneath.

Words that had once glittered in silver were now only legible by the engraving on the cover, spelling out the title “Grandfather Twilight”.

Even well funded hospitals didn’t usually have many books for their patients, so when I volunteered to read to patients, I usually just brought my own.

After volunteering for years, my shelves were now filled with an eclectic selection of reading material that I’d picked up from used books stores.

I’d only just recently moved to Baton Rouge, so it was my first time volunteering at the local hospital, but I knew the routine, and I’d brought a selection of my own books.

“Grandfather Twilight” was usually a good choice for children who needed a calming experience, and since it was late in the afternoon, I assumed the hospital staff wouldn’t appreciate me riling the patients up with a more excitable tale.

“Name,” a nurse demanded at the front desk when I arrived, not even looking up from her computer.

“Um, Augustine Conway,” I said, clutching small children’s book in my hands a little tighter as I tried to make my voice sound as unassuming as possible.

It was a futile effort.

When people saw my name on a list for volunteers to read to hospital patients, they always built a preemptive image of me in their head.

No one ever admitted it, but they usually pictured a middle-aged librarian or a retired professor that needed something to do on the weekends.

Someone soft and studious, with kind eyes probably framed by dainty little glasses, with pristine hands that had never held anything more dangerous than a particularly sharp pencil.

So, with this image in mind, they were always shocked to find themselves suddenly faced with a scarred up military veteran, well over six feet tall.

At forty years old, I’d already retired from the military, but working out was an ingrained habit by this point, and I still maintained a battle-ready physique.

When the nurse looked up and saw me, having to crane her neck much farther than expected in order to meet my eyes, the clipboard she was holding clattered from her hands.

“Uh… Mister Conway?”

The question mark after my name was subtle. She didn’t want to question me outright, probably afraid I’d make a scene, but she also didn’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth.

Moving slowly, I picked up her dropped clipboard and handed it back to her.

“That’s right, though most people just call me Auggie. I should be on the volunteer list for today.”

She looked wide-eyed at the clipboard like it might bite her. There, at the very top, my name stared right back at her.

“Right. Um, I’ll just need to see some ID to get you checked in.”

Withholding a sigh, I pulled out my wallet from my pocket. At first, my hand hovered over my driver’s license, which would be the easiest form of identification, but instead, I changed my mind at the last moment and handed over my veteran ID.

The picture on the card had been taken while I was still in service, before I’d received most of the scars that now marred my skin.

It made me look a little less frightening and reminded people that I wasn’t a monster.

I was just a human. A man who had served his country, and paid the price, but lived to tell the tale.

Plus, not to brag, but when I was younger, I looked pretty good in the military dress blues.

As expected, the nurse took one look at my ID, and an embarrassed blush spread over her cheeks. She didn’t say anything, but after quickly meeting my eyes, she waved me through the main doors and instructed me about where to go without ever looking me in the eye again.

Even the simplest hospital was always a winding maze of rooms and corridors that seemed to have been smashed together with no rhyme or reason.

Perhaps to an architect looking at the grand design spread out on a blueprint it made sense, in the same way that historians could look at scratches in a rock and decipher the writings of a dead language.

However, to anyone trying to actually walk the halls, the chaos was as easy to navigate as untangling a ball of Christmas lights.

I’d been in plenty of hospitals over the years, and I still managed to get lost three times before finding my destination.

Today, I’d been assigned to read at the Long-Term patient ward.

That included patients of all ages, but as usual, it was only the children who were interested in story time.

Most adults found it demeaning to have someone read to them, so I wasn’t surprised to find half a dozen kids huddled around the chair that had been set up for me in the visitor section.

As soon as I stepped into the room, every set of eyes turned toward me. The hospital staff and the children’s parents gave me a variety of different looks. Some were confused by my appearance, while others gawked openly at my size. A few even backed away, as if uncomfortable being near me.

The patients, however, all focused on the same thing.

My scars.

The marks on my skin came from a variety of different wounds, and created a twisted pattern of raised skin along both of my forearms and my neck. They were especially visible in the hospital’s florescent light, and stood out on my dark skin like glowing beacons.

When I’d first started volunteering, I’d tried covering up my scars, afraid the sight of them would upset the patients.

However, due to their placement they were impossible to hide completely unless I wanted to cover myself in extensive make up, so my scars were inevitably seen anyway.

It turned out, I’d had no reason to fear.

The patients actually liked the sight of my scars.

Apparently, knowing that someone of my size and strength could be wounded made them feel less ashamed of their own ailments and gave them hope that they’d survive just as I had.

Now, I walked into that hospital room displaying my scars proudly, like a living bulletin board of hope and proof that life could continue on after injury.

“Hello,” I greeted the room, putting on the best smile I had.

Admittedly, it wasn’t that great. I’d been told that my face was one better suited for tragedy than comedy.

Sometimes, I wondered if I’d accidentally been born missing a few muscles around my mouth.

Surely most people didn’t have to put in so much effort just to make a pleasant expression.

Still, with smile in place, I held up the books that I’d brought.

“My name’s Auggie. I’m here to read to you today. I’ve brought a few books of my own, but if anyone has one of their own that they’d prefer I read, then just let me know.”

From there, it was business as usual. The promise of a story made the children forget all about their interest of a newcomer.

They huddled around my chair to listen, arguing over which story to read first. A few of the kids were in their own wheelchairs, and one was even lying in a mobile hospital bed, hooked up to several wires and tubes.

These children stayed to the back of the group, too shy to interject into the group.

As I positioned myself on my too-small chair, I called out to the child in the bed and asked them to make the first choice.

Their head was shaved, and they were wrapped up in a hospital gown, so I couldn’t tell if they were male or female.

With a blush on their pale face, they leaned over to whisper to the nurse beside them, who then brought a book over to me.

“She wants you to read this one.”

The bright cover of a Doctor Seuss book stared up at me.

“Oh, The Places You’ll Go.”

I’d read this book several times before. It was a common choice for children who were trapped within hospital walls for a long time, and I wasn’t surprised to see it now.

When I held up the book for the other children to see, there was a collective groan from the group. Apparently, it wasn’t the first time this particular patient had requested this book during a reading session, and the other children insisted on picking something different.

I noticed some of the observing adults rolling their eyes or sighing in exasperation.

This was often one of the quickest ways to tell if a hospital had quality staff.

Good staff could handle stress and understood that children whined and complained.

Especially, sick children. There was no reason to get mad at them for it.

Luckily, most of the disgruntled adults seemed to be parents, many of whom looked even more exhausted than the nurses. That was understandable. I couldn’t imagine what I would do if my own daughter ended up in the hospital, but I probably wouldn’t be very patient, either.

I managed to get the group of kids calmed down by promising that we would be reading several books.

Then, propping the book open in front of me, I started to recite the words I almost had memorized.

Doctor Seuss’s lyrical prose easily rolled off the tongue, so I didn’t stumble over any of the words even when reading upside down.

It only took a couple pages for the rowdiest kids to settle down, and soon enough, everyone was engrossed in story time.

By the second book, even a few adult patients had stopped by to listen.

They pretended they weren’t too proud to be caught listening in on a children’s book, but it was no coincidence that they just so happened to decide to do some bird watching out the window of the visitor’s area at the same time I was reading.