Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

"You're pretty bold, aren't you? Whose kid are you?"
"From the last house on the west end."
He paused to think. "Aiden's your dad?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
Finding it awkward to keep looking down at me, he shifted and sat on the couch. "Didn't you see that night too? I hit your dad," he said, picking up the
glass of water from the table.
"Are you going to hit me too?" I asked.
"Do you deserve it?" he shot back.
I shook my head quickly. My dad might deserve it, but I sure don't.
He raised an eyebrow. "There you go then."
He meant he wouldn't touch me. For some reason, I believed him.
Noticing the conversation had drifted, I nudged the ten-dollar bill on the table forward again. Maybe I was too nonchalant about my dad getting beaten
or too determined to get help from the person who did it. He looked surprised. "Don't you hate me?"
"I do. I hate that you didn't beat him to death," I blurted out without a second thought.
The guy across from me choked, coughing a few times. He held the glass tighter. "How do you want me to protect you?"
"Finish off my dad."
Half-joking, half-serious. He stopped drinking and set the glass down. "You've got quite the wild streak for a kid."
Feeling unsure, I had to dial it back. "Then just rough him up a bit."
He rubbed his temples, sounding annoyed. "I can't take on that job."
I hadn't really hoped for much, but hearing 'no' still stung a bit. My heart sank, and I felt breathless and lightheaded as my vision blurred.
The next thing I knew, I was falling forward into a hurried embrace.

The man sounded both annoyed and amused as he laughed. "Great, I run into a scammer first thing in the morning."
I felt groggy. It seemed like I'd slept for ages. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. My lips felt cool, maybe no longer swollen. My right hand was
gently clasped by a warm palm, oddly comforting.
Nearby, I caught snippets of a low conversation between a man and a woman.
"Geez, half the reason she fainted was because you scared her," the woman's voice had a scolding edge.
"This got nothing to do with me," the man replied, sounding laid-back.
"Really? The doctor just said she had a high fever, emotional stress, poor nutrition, and low blood sugar. Can you really say the first two aren't your
fault? She was burning up, and you were just dragging your feet," the woman's voice suddenly rose.
Not satisfied, she shifted and gave the man a solid punch.
"Ouch," he feigned pain. Then the familiar presence drew closer, and my right hand was gently held again.
"You didn't see when I changed her into the hospital gown. She’s skinny, covered in bruises, not a spot of healthy skin," the voice paused, sounding
choked up. "This kid's been through hell."
The man's casual tone vanished, replaced by sudden sharpness. "Damn it, Aiden really is a bastard. How could a man hurt his own daughter like
tha?. Should've finished him off that day."
"Jonah! Can you calm down?" The words seemed to hit a nerve, and they both fell silent, leaving the hospital room eerily quiet.
The cool medicine seeped through the needle in my right hand, slowly melding into my system.
So his name was Jonah.