Treats of the Place Where Jestin Kase was Born

Read the literal origin of everyone's favorite YA Urban Fantasy Hero (no...not that one...not that one either...Jestin, I'm talking about Jestin).

Oh, important note: This tiny story is based on the first chapter of Oliver Twist.

Treats of the Place Where Jestin Kase was Born

She gave birth on a public sidewalk and no one noticed. 

I never learned her name. The hospital flagged her as a Jane Doe, homeless, no older than 15 or 16. The “system” had checks and balances to make sure homeless, pregnant women had medical attention and shelter when needed. But this Jane Doe had fallen through the cracks—so many cracks in the “system.”

Jane Doe had wrapped the baby in a ragged shirt by the time paramedics arrived, during a cold evening, wet with the mist of rain. The infant could barely breathe—so small—and the mother drifted in and out of consciousness, face wet with tears. 

How did she end up on that sidewalk? Where was her family? Her friends? Why didn’t anyone help her? I didn’t have those answers. I did, however, understand the seriousness of her condition. High blood pressure, infection, internal bleeding—all preventable had she had access to the care she needed. 

Mother and baby almost died on their way to the hospital. Once there, in a room she shared with six others, she asked to hold the boy, to name him, just in case she didn’t make it. But doctors had placed him in an incubator as he battled death itself. Frail, small, weak—a runt against an unstoppable force of nature. The infant had not yet cried or screamed—he couldn’t. Just gasped. Gurgled. 

Jane said nothing of the father—he could have been anyone, from a famous politician to a nameless criminal. She said little of anything, just asked to hold her boy, to name him. 

She died alone while doctors and nurses attended to others. 

The boy almost followed, his tiny lungs unable to support the weight of his suffering. Nurses and doctors dismissed him as a lost cause. Hopeless. They could make the infant comfortable. Ease his pain. But nothing more. 

But the infant persisted. Fought. A small, new, faint spark of life against weakness, sickness. He battled himself. Not nearly developed enough in his several minutes of life to comprehend the nature of his struggle, orphaned, left for dead, he willed himself to live. 

The baby lasted through the night. And by the morning, he cried, and screamed, his lungs a burst with the agitation of his surroundings. 

A social worker named the boy “Jestin Kase” as a cruel joke (a jest), as the mom had asked to name him “just in case” she didn’t have a chance to do so before his or her death. 

Baby Jestin cried. And he cried some more, stronger with each sob. 

If he knew what his childhood held in store, a life of shelters and foster homes, cared for by no one, loved by no one, perhaps he would have cried louder. 

End

Narrator unknown