Breaking Creed

4

They were kids. Creed guessed the oldest was maybe thirteen, fourteen at the most. Three girls. Two boys. One boy looked younger than ten. Each of them crawled slowly out of the hold like a timid animal, needing assistance, then jerking and blinking at the sunlight. Wild eyes darted all around, looking for permission as much as trying to anticipate what came next in this terrifying journey.

They were filthy. Hair matted and tangled in clumps. Faces dirty and feet bare and bruised. Despite the stink of fish, Creed could smell the sweat and urine and feces that soiled their clothes. But through the smears of dirt and grime, one thing was obvious. These weren’t Colombian kids. They weren’t being trafficked from their South American homes to the United States.

Now, in the sunlight, even the dirt and grime couldn’t hide the obvious. Smears revealed blond hair and streaks of white skin as pale as the fish bellies that surrounded them.

These kids looked like they were from the United States.

Creed remembered what Commander Wilson had said about this vessel bypassing feeding grounds for mahi-mahi, its hold filled but continuing south, out of the Gulf of Mexico and closer to the coast of Colombia. Usually traffickers smuggled people into the United States. When did it start to go both ways? Were they delivering this cargo to South America?

Everyone on board had gone silent, even the guardsmen as they helped the kids up. They’d been looking for smuggled cocaine. Not human cargo. And certainly not kids.

The wind had calmed, almost as if it, also, were gasping at their revelation. In the silence Creed could hear the lapping of waves against the boat. A few gulls dared to hover closer to inspect the load of fish. But there was still a faint humming, a sad whimper like that of a scared or wounded animal. The same sound Creed had heard before the floorboards were yanked away. Grace had heard it first, and she still cocked her head, listening. Creed saw that her eyes were staring at the source, and he followed her gaze.

The sound was coming from the littlest boy.

He was small, with bony shoulders and stick legs. Creed caught a glimpse of his eyes. Fear had been replaced with the vacant look that often accompanies an overload of shock. His skinny arms were wrapped tight across his body. His chin tucked into his chest. He didn’t look scared or upset. He simply didn’t look like he was there anymore, an empty shell. Except for the whimper that came from inside him. It came without him opening his mouth or even moving his lips.

The other kids didn’t seem to notice. Their own eyes were just as vacant.

And their rescuers? The guardsmen glanced at one another, and Creed thought they looked lost and uncomfortable. They were used to dealing with the criminals who did this sort of thing. They rescued victims from capsized boats and ministered to those brought out of the water. Usually their victims were glad to see them. But these kids cowered as if they still weren’t sure who was friend or foe. And the guardsmen responded by keeping a safe distance, not wanting to treat them like cornered animals, refraining from any attempt to touch or comfort. Afraid it might spook the kids even more.

It was Liz Bailey, the Coast Guard rescue swimmer — and the only woman on board — who broke the silence. Suddenly she was there, having waded down through the mahi-mahi. She still wore her flight suit, and instead of its bright orange fabric scaring the children, they all looked at her as if they were bedazzled. Creed had to admit that, with her short, spiky hair and aviator sunglasses, she did look like a superhero.

“Let’s get you something to drink,” she said to them while she pulled bottles of water and sports drinks from her shoulder pack.

Creed was closest to Bailey, and he moved in to help distribute her offerings. That’s when he noticed that the rescue swimmer’s hands were trembling.

“We need to get you hydrated.” Her voice was friendly and soothing but had the authority of a mother at summer camp, and it did not reveal an iota of the tremor or her uncertainty.

But the kids still didn’t move.

Bailey gave the drinks to Creed to hold. She dug into her bag again.

“I have protein bars, too,” she told them.

The kids didn’t budge. Instead, they huddled even closer together. The oldest girl just stared at Bailey as if she knew there could be nothing in that pack that would make this right.

“We’re gonna get you back home,” one of the guardsmen finally said. But he stayed back behind his oversized shovel that kept the fish from sliding into the small reception area they had created.

Still, the kids just stared. None of them made a move toward Bailey’s offerings or responded in any way to the guardsman’s attempt at reassurance.

Creed felt Grace wiggling against him, restless in the mesh carrier under his arm. Bailey’s taking treats out of her pack must have reminded Grace that she’d found what they were looking for, and yet she had not been rewarded. But it wasn’t treats that Grace was interested in, though some of Creed’s dogs did prefer treats. Grace insisted on her pink squeaky elephant, and she knew that Creed had it somewhere on him.

She poked her nose under his elbow. He put his hand inside the carrier to calm her, but Grace wasn’t satisfied. She pushed her head and shoulders forward and swatted at him with one paw.

That’s when the little boy noticed her, and his eyes grew wide. The empty shell that up until now had only stared and whimpered, suddenly pointed and shouted, “There’s a puppy dog!”

All the children’s heads bobbed up, following the boy’s finger. For the first time, they were wide-eyed and alert. Creed took a step back, not wanting to add yet another object to fear. He started to gently push Grace farther into the mesh carrier when one of the girls asked, “Can we pet her?”

Before he could answer, the other little boy asked, “What’s her name?”

“Does she bite?” It was the same little girl who wanted to pet Grace, but the question seemed instinctive, from years of parental instruction, as if it were something she was always supposed to ask before approaching a dog she didn’t know.

“Is she your dog?”

“How old is she?”

Finally Creed smiled and put up a hand to ward off more questions. “She’s my dog,” he told them. “Her name is Grace. I’m not sure how old she is because I found her when she was already grown up.”

“Where did you find her?”

“She was hiding under a trailer on my property. Someone had taken her from her home and dumped her. She was hurt and hungry.”

He watched their faces and realized what they were thinking. Grace wasn’t much different from them.

Then the oldest girl said, “I bet she was scared, too.”

Creed nodded. “Yup, she was very scared. She wasn’t sure who to trust. But she’s not scared now. You all can pet her if you go slow and if you’re gentle.”

He stood in place, waiting for the kids to decide on their own to come to him.

The littlest boy, who had noticed Grace first, came forward slowly and offered his dirty hand for Grace to sniff. She immediately licked his fingers and the boy giggled.

“That tickles.”

Suddenly Creed and Grace were surrounded, all five children taking turns, remembering to be gentle and letting Grace sniff, then lick. Smiles and giggles, even a laugh.

Creed looked over at Bailey and the guardsmen. They still kept their distance and continued to stare at the macabre scene, all of them in awe as one Jack Russell terrier transported these scared and bruised victims back to being kids.