HIDING - every scar has a story

32. Shelter.

*Keep breathing lovelies, we got the boy out. I'll tell you a little more about this shelter at the end of the chapter...*

{Cary}

A staff person in shorts and a hot pink t-shirt looked up from his magazine when Cary came, blinking, through the doors. The guy smiled, but his eyes were uninterested. "Hi, are you looking for a place to stay?"

Cary nodded.

"Come on back. I'll give you a run-down of the shelter rules and do the paperwork on you."

Cary followed him into the main office, a big open space, with phones and computers and a window looking into the rec area. He wanted a smoke; he had to do an intake interview before he could go out back and light up.

The staff guy took his name and age and vital stats and explained the long list of shelter rules. Cary tuned out. He'd been here before; it was pretty straightforward—keep curfew, respect the staff, do chores when it was your turn. The youth shelter was temporary housing, which meant after thirty days he needed to find someplace else to stay. Most kids didn'tmake it past day ten. After living on your own, even if it was just sleeping under a bridge, the shelter rules and structured routine quickly became an impossible price to pay for three okay meals and a bed.

After Cary's own house, the shelter was easy.

When the guy finished talking, Cary said, "Is there a nurse or something?" He brushed his hand over the bruise on his cheek. "I think those kids broke my ribs. I'd really like a Tylenol."

The even way he spoke seemed to throw the guy off. He looked closely at Cary for the first time. "Um—no. There's no nurse. I'll ask my director about a Tylenol. Sorry, how did you break your ribs?"

"The fight with some kids from school. You wrote it down in your notes there." Cary pointed at the notepad between them. "When you call my mom she'll tell you all about it."

The staff guy nodded. "Right. I'll send someone with the Tylenol, if my director says that's okay."

"Thanks." Cary got up. "I'll be in the smoke pit." He headed through the office doors to the concrete yard at the back of the building where residents were permitted to smoke.

///

There were a couple kids already in the back, clustered together and goofing off while they passed a cigarette around. There was a girl Cary knew from the north doors, laughing loudly with her mouth wide open while two or three guys looked on hungrily. Cary kept his distance.

There was a storage shed making shade on the other side of the yard. Cary put his back against it and gingerly lowered himself to the ground. He didn't care about the kids or the phone call to his mother that was probably happening in the office. He lit his cigarette and turned his attention inside himself, checking the damages to try to figure out how long he needed to recover.

His hands remembered how hot Liam had been as he'd screamed and twisted underneath him. Cary stuffed his fists into his armpits. He knew exactly where Liam had bruises: every place Cary's fingers had touched him, holding him so tight. The stone lid scraped back a crack and there was a hole in him dark to the bottom. He heard his mother saying, I wasn't afraid before, and what she meant slipped up out of that crack, clear as if she had said it out loud: You scare me like he does.

He sat still watching the shadows lengthen in the yard, noticing the shape of the light and the dark as if he were planning to make them into a drawing. It worked; after a few minutes he was blank again. There was nothing inside him except the things his body told him: he was hurting and he was looking at light and shadow—one didn't matter more than the other.