Page 7 of The Guy in the Alley

He had a small scar on his stubbly chin.

His jacket seemed dry enough, but he needed to get out of those jeans. They were wet all the way up to his thighs.

“Do you live far away, sir?” I pushed down his jacket, revealing an old hoodie underneath. That, too, had been torn by what I could assume was a stab wound. “Are you homeless? Doubled up somewhere?”

A small pocketknife fell from his jacket. No surprise there.

“They took my car.” He let out a whimper, and it took me aback to see tears rolling down from the crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes.

The man was in serious pain, though I suspected that car was, in fact, a bigger loss to him.

“Did you live in that?” I asked quietly.

He drew an unsteady breath and mustered a small nod.

Fuck.

I dropped the jacket on the floor and side-eyed the shower. Which was more a storage for cleaning supplies and buckets. But we’d let people wash up here before, especially in the winter when it was vital to keep their heat up.

“Trace, here’s the kit.” Tonya returned with our kit from the kitchen.

“Thanks. Marisol isn’t working tonight, is she?” I went for the man’s hoodie next.

“No, afraid not. You need a nurse?”

I nodded. “Can you get me Jamaal?”

At least he’d almost been a corpsman when he’d decided to quit the Navy dream. His older brothers were all military, but he’d discovered it wasn’t a life for him. Together, we should be able to help this guy get patched up.

Tonya stalked out again, and I made quick work of shedding my own coat and gloves before I got the man to lose his hoodie. And…that revealed two more shirts underneath. Sounded about right for someone living in their car.

Oh, this could be a long night for me.

I scratched my forehead and cursed my folks. They’d made me this way. They’d made me give a fuck. Fucking assholes.

“Protect the business first, son. Without it, we can’t help others or ourselves. Then we open the doors to those in need.”

I had a long list of shelters, organizations, and emergency housing that came in handy every week, but at this hour… Fuck, they’d all be full—or there’d be an opening down in fucking Dolton, and they’d close before this guy could get there.

By the time Jamaal arrived on the scene, I’d gotten the man to shed the last shirt, and in another time and place, I would’ve appreciated the view a lot more. Now, not so much. He was fucking shaking.

I gave Jamaal the little information I had while I grabbed a stack of towels. The largest would have to function as a blanket for now, and I draped it around the man’s shoulders.

In the meantime, Jamaal went down on one knee to inspect the damage and open the aid kit.

“What’s your name?” Jamaal asked.

“Ben—ah, fuck.” He groaned in pain and dug his fingers into his thighs.

I stuck to the background, ready to assist, but it looked as if dressing like a Russian doll had protected him. The wound wasn’t deep, and it appeared to be a clean cut. Jamaal borrowed my flashlight to make sure, and then he poured a generous amount of wound cleanser.

Ben wasn’t talkative. When we asked him what’d happened, he just repeated that “they took my car” and added, “I don’t know, four of them—they fought me off and took it.”

“You sure you don’t want me to call someone, man?” I asked. “You should at least report the crime and?—”

“No,” he gritted out as Jamaal applied antiseptic cream. “What’s the point? I don’t have insurance.”

Of course he didn’t. Insurance wasn’t exactly a priority in his case.

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