“Here comes the angel of mercy,” he said, pointing down the long, chaotic corridor.

Annie Waters was walking toward us with her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of herhospital coat. She had a tight look on her face, but she always does.

“I'm real sorry, Alex. The boy didn't make it. I think he was nearly gone when you got himhere. Probably living on all that hope you carry bottled up inside you.”

Powerful images and visceral sensations of carrying Marcus along Fifth and L streets flashedbefore me. I imagined the hospital death sheet covering Marcus. It's such a small sheet thatthey use for children.

“The boy was my patient. He adopted me this spring.” I told the two of them what had me sowild and crazed and suddenly depressed.

“Can I get you something, Alex?” said Annie Waters. She had a concerned look on her face.

I shook my head. I had to talk, had to get this out right now.

"Marcus found out I gave help at St. As, talked to people sometimes.

He started coming by the trailer afternoons. Once I passed his tests, he talked about his lifeat the crack house. Everybody he knew in his life was a junkie. Junkie came by my house today... Rita Washington.

Not Marcus's mother, not his father. The boy tried to slit his own throat, slit his wrists.

Just eleven years old."

My eyes were wet. A little boy dies, somebody should cry. The psychologist for an eleven-year-old suicide victim ought to mourn. I thought so, anyway.

Sampson finally stood up and put his long arm gently on my shoulder. He was six feet nineagain. “Let's head on home, Alex,” he said. “C'mon, my man. Time to go.”I went in and looked at Marcus for the last time.