Free Sweet Sanctuary by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

sheclattered the cup onto its saucer and fixed Nic with a haughty glare. “I hope not, Mr. Pankin. Because yours isn’t the only available child in the city.”
    Nic puffed his chest and glowered at the woman. “Maybe not. But I reckon I’m the only one willing to deal with . . .” He allowed his gaze to flick to the discarded cup then back to her flushed face. “The likes o’ you.”
    She blanched. Shifting her face sharply away, she set her chin at an arrogant angle. “Just bring me the child, Mr. Pankin, without any further delays. I’ll have your money ready.”

    Micah gave a big smile to the little boy slumped on the edge of the examination table. The boy, flushed with fever, managed a wavering smile in return, then lowered his head. Micah tapped the youngster on the shoulder. When the child looked at him, he pointed to his own mouth, then opened it as wide as he could. His mouth still gaping, he touched the boy’s chin and nodded, trying to give the message to open up. Micah had played this game of pantomime many times before. He had it down to an art.
    The boy dropped his jaw, and his dark eyes widened when Micah placed a wooden depressor on his tongue and pressed gently. But, bravely, he didn’t try to pull away. A peek at the child’s throat gave Micah all the proof he needed—tonsillitis. He removed the depressor and offered it to the boy, who took it with a weak smile of thanks.
    Micah would have liked to treat the infection with a dose of penicillin and then schedule the child for a tonsillectomy once the illness had cleared. But neither were an option. He had no penicillin on hand in the clinic, and no hospital would take this child without advance payment, which Micah already knew wasan impossibility. So the best he could do was give the child’s mother a gargle for the boy to use to ease the pain, show her how to keep his temperature down, and let the infection run its course. It was frustrating to know what to do but be unable to carry it out.
    With a sigh, he turned to the boy’s mother, who perched on a chair in the corner, her brow furrowed with worry. In her arms, she held another, smaller child. Micah suddenly envisioned the ill child playing “doctor” with the younger one and infecting the little one with germs from the tongue depressor. He reached into his pocket, found a penny, and offered it in trade for the stick. The child made an immediate swap.
    Micah winked, then turned his attention to the mother again. He showed her the directions of how to mix the gargle, then demonstrated rinsing a rag in cold water and placing it on the boy’s sweaty head. The mother nodded as if she understood. She took the items and replayed Micah’s actions.
    Micah smiled broadly and patted the woman’s shoulder. “Good.” He nodded exuberantly. “Yes, that’s right.”
    The woman nodded, too, patting Micah back. “Thanks you. Good man. Thanks you.”
    Micah sighed as the trio left the clinic. He needed to learn Russian, German, Italian, Polish, Yiddish, and Dutch just to communicate clearly with the people in his neighborhood. And, he thought with a self-deprecating chuckle, according to Nicky, he had difficulty just spitting out English. What a disadvantage these people had, living in a country where they couldn’t speak the language. Yet they were safer here than in their homelands, what with the Nazis marching across Europe, wreaking their havoc. Micah was grateful for each “foreigner” who came in—it meant one less to be mowed down in Hitler’s quest for power.
    He washed the table where the child had sat, using a disinfectantsolution so potent the vapors stung his eyes. Yet it wouldn’t do to spread germs. Some people were uneasy enough, blaming the immigrants for all types of illnesses. He would do whatever he could to keep diseases from spreading. As close as these