Page 8 of The Guy in the Alley

I was just rambling bullshit. I was asking all the questions that the authorities believed mattered or should be asked for whatever reason. The reality looked a lot different, and the 311 system was nothing but a glorified audiobook that read shit off the government website. High on promises, low on action. More often than not, they dispatched you to 911 if something needed to be done. AKA, sending the cops.

I handed Jamaal the lidocaine next.

At least the bleeding had slowed down.

“If you pop a fever, you need to go to a hospital,” he told Ben. “Or if the wound changes color and gets infected. We’re not fuckin’ around with sepsis, okay?”

Judging by the sight of Ben’s torso, this wasn’t his first run-in with sharp objects. His form was equal parts cut and stocky; he had muscle definition and some padding. And a handful of scars where his chest hair didn’t grow.

All right, time for me to be useful again.

“If you’re willing to stick around a couple hours, I have a dryer upstairs for those jeans,” I said. “We’ll get some food in you too.”

Ben sniffled and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I—I-I don’t—” He clenched his jaw and wouldn’t make eye contact, a sight I’d encountered way too many times.

Pride.

“Listen,” I said, clearing my throat. “If you don’t want me to at least call someone, you’re staying. It’s fuckin’ freezin’ outside, and you’ve been hurt. Get those pants off. I’ll be back in a bit.” I squeezed Jamaal’s shoulder. “I’ll prepare the Green.” We kept two of the three smaller dining areas closed on slow days anyway.

He nodded with a dip of his chin, and then I walked out.

* * *

They took my car, they took my car, they took my fucking car. Where was I gonna sleep now? How would I get to Alvin? What would Ma say?

Would Angie notice I was gone? How would I make it to my interview tomorrow?

I felt so goddamn pathetic, and I wasn’t sure I could handle another hit. I was a fucking embarrassment. A useless piece of shit.

The kid—Jamaal, if I wasn’t mistaken—finished dressing my wound and said he’d be back with painkillers and dry clothes.

I’d heard of this place. The Dearborn Clover. It was on a list of soup kitchens I’d been given once at a shelter. The lady who’d checked me in to a room had said they were good people.

How lucky I was, then. To get robbed a block away from a sports bar that served the homeless.

Maybe later, the night outside could finish me off once and for all since I was too much of a coward to do the job myself.

I sniffled and carefully stood up. The pain made me wince every time I shifted, but it felt better than before. My fingers almost hurt more from the cold.

I had to stop trembling.

As I unbuttoned my jeans, I carefully removed my boots until I saw my phone was still intact. That was something. I always kept it in my left boot, along with my debit card. My phone flashed to life when I pushed my toe on the buttons.

They hadn’t taken that from me, at least. Just my clothes, the dummy wallet I kept in the glovebox, and…twenty bucks worth of gas.

God-fucking-dammit.

That other kid came back, the one who’d fucking blinded me—before saving my ass. I was still seeing white spots in my vision, though they’d gotten fainter.

“Oh—my bad. You want privacy?” He averted his gaze.

I shook my head. I didn’t care. I barely knew the meaning of privacy. “It’s okay.”

I fished out my actual wallet, not that it contained anything of value. I didn’t know when I’d find use for my driver’s license again. Out of the other cards, I supposed my library card was the most important.

“Lemme get that for you.” The kid bent down to grab my phone.

I didn’t want him to be too nice to me.

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