Page 54 of Shades of Silver City

“A few streets over from The Rising Star,” Archer says.

“Downtown,” I mutter.

Between us and the road, a couple of makeshift tents are clustered together between trash bins, pressed up against the exposed brick, and a handful of half-conscious people are lying about. Junk is strewn all around—old shoes, empty food containers, broken furniture.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere safe, to eat and rest and figure out a plan.”

“This doesn’t look safe,” I whisper.

A weathered man grins toothlessly at me from where he sprawls next to a shelter made of blue tarp and stacks of bricks on the dirty cement. He winks, catcalling me and lifting an amber bottle in my direction.

Unease swirls in my gut.

Automatically, I scoot closer to Archer, wrapping my hands around one of his firm biceps. He tenses briefly under my touch before relaxing.

“Be patient,” he says, placing his hand atop mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’re going to my house.”

I nod, accepting that I’ll figure it out when we get there.

“Gods,” I mutter as I almost trip on a piece of trash. “This place is a dump. I can’t believe they live like this.”

Archer’s stride stutters, and he gives me a sidelong glance. “I’m sure they feel the same.”

“They ended up here because of their own actions.” I wave my hand around, gesturing toward the beer bottles and needles that lie on the ground in surplus.

He halts and glances down at me, brows pulled together tightly.

“So that inherently means they must enjoy living like this?” The hardness in his voice catches me off guard. “Are you saying they deserve to spend their entire lives like this because of a bad decision or two somewhere along the line?”

“That’s not at all what I said.”

“You implied it,” he says in a low voice.

Frustration heats me from the inside out, and my fingers automatically tighten around Archer’s bicep. He winces when my nails dig in. I make a face and loosen up but don’t apologize out loud.

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” I say. “Please.” We walk a few steps in silence, and then I add, “No one in the PD deserves the shit they’re dealt. But here we all are. Best we can do is make better decisions with the few choices we have. Being born into poverty isn’t a valid excuse for letting your entire life go to shit.”

“Nice vocabulary,” Archer mutters, and I roll my eyes.

“I grew up in foster care not too far from here. I could’ve easily ended up rotting away in an alley, too.” I used to choose the easier path—using alcohol, drugs, and sex to numb myself. Had I not chosen to sober up and throw myself into work and art, I could’ve easily ended up in this alley.

Or worse, dead in a ditch somewhere.

I don’t have much—and working for it was hard as hell—but I chose the harder option for myself.

“You’re speaking from a place of privilege.”

“Privilege?” I mutter, yanking on his arm to make him stop again. I unlink myself from him, leveling him with a serious stare. “My parents were murdered, I was abused in foster care for years, and I almost ended up on the streets myself. How is that privileged?”

He returns my stare without any hint of emotion. “Why didn’t you end up here?” he asks, voice low.

“Because I chose not to.”

“What did you choose instead?”

I think for a second. “Working.”

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