Page 2 of Stealing Embers

I prefer the night. Shadows are a comfort in a way the glaring daylight will never be.

Hunger fists inside my gut at the same time my stomach lets out a pathetic grumble, reminding me it has been too long since my last meal. I don’t need as much food or sleep as a normal person, but three days without a bite is stretching it a bit far, even for me.

Slinking into the alley, I consider my options.

I usually rely on a combination of dumpster diving, charity, and occasionally the odd job to feed myself. I can’t afford to go to a mission—they ask too many questions and filling my belly isn’t worth getting tagged as a runaway minor. Begging isn’t a viable option because loitering in a public spot is too much of a risk as well.

Shelter isn’t a problem . . . until winter. Things get dicey during Colorado’s arctic months. Last year, I had to break into more private properties than I cared to keep track of, just to escape the frigid temperatures.

When I turn eighteen, I’ll breathe easier. Becoming a legal adult means I can’t get thrown back into the system—or worse. My last foster family wanted to commit me to a psychiatric hospital. To escape that fate, I need to age out. I only have to endure this degrading existence for six more months.

Leaving the city in search of a more peaceful life is the dream. Settling somewhere in the mountains would be nice. Somewhere far enough from prying eyes so there are no witnesses to my strange episodes in the spectrum world. Even better if I can build a home right into the rocks to protect me from my living nightmares.

Until then, it’s safer to hide among the masses—in plain sight, but basically invisible.

Just six more months, I remind myself. The reassurance feels good, so I say it again—this time aloud.

Talking to myself has become an odd sort of comfort. People look through you when you’re homeless—something I’d counted on when I ran away from my last foster family. Becoming invisible was an essential part of my survival, but what I didn’t figure into my plans was exactly how dehumanizing that would feel. Chitchatting with myself reminds me that I’m still a person, albeit a strange one.

My gut twists, telling me that my most urgent need is sustenance so I can stay alert for a few more days.

I mentally run through my anemic list of possibilities. There’s a grocer on 6thAvenue that throws away their expired food once a week, but that won’t be for two more days. It’s early, I could stop by Denver Bread and see if they need help hauling in their morning delivery of flour in exchange for a few bucks or even food. Fresh bread is delicious and hard to come by these days. People don’t throw fresh loaves in the trash for vagrants like me to fish out.

There are a few downtown restaurants I could hit up. Newberry and Sassafras are close, but don’t open for several more hours. Anita’s opens early though. It’s been . . . hmmm . . . two weeks? That could work.

Pulling the straps of my backpack tight, I dart out onto the sidewalk at a fast jog, heading toward the greasy spoon diner twelve blocks away.

This distance is barely a warm-up for me. I can run for hours before getting winded. It’s just another one of the oddities I hide from the world.

The city passes me by as I keep a steady pace. A few cars drive by, but the sidewalks are almost completely empty. It’s too early for Denver to be overrun. In a few hours, pedestrians will fill the walkways, hurrying to and from work. Midday, tourists lay claim to the city’s streets and sidewalks until they are flooded by commuters rushing to catch the rail or stuffing themselves into their cars to camp in stop-and-go traffic for hours.

The cycle repeats itself daily, a cylindrical juggernaut that never changes. One that I’ve learned to use to my advantage.

As I turn down Fifteenth Street and head toward the river. I try to remember what day it is, seventy-two percent sure it’s Tuesday. That’s important because Karen works Tuesdays. She’s liberal with the restaurant’s leftovers, so I try to only go to Anita’s during her shifts.

Picking up speed, I barely take note of the buildings flying by. The skyscrapers in the business district are a blur of gray that I’ve never found visually appealing. Resisting the urge to close my eyes, I focus instead on the crisp morning air hitting my face. When I was younger, I used to run full speed and pretend I was flying. The longing to do so again creeps up from time to time.

My hands twitch with the desire to rip off the wool hat concealing my hair and let it stream free. My scalp itches under the mass of hair and thick yarn. I like to feel the tickle of the breeze running its fingers through my strands. The early fall chill hasn’t quite set in yet, so it’s too early to be wearing the tight-fitting hat, but taking it off is out of the question.

My sigh is swallowed by the wind.

Rounding another corner, I spot Anita’s. The squat one-story restaurant is sandwiched between two twenty-story apartment buildings. The red Spanish-tiled roof and yellow stucco façade is out of place between the sleek buildings flanking it, but it’s been a neighborhood staple for over half a century, so it isn’t likely to change anytime soon.

Shaking off thoughts about my hair and replacing them with the anticipation of a hot meal, I go to the side of the building and peek through a window that gives me a partial view of the kitchen.

Wearing a pair of high-waisted skinny jeans and an Anita’s t-shirt, Karen is standing in front of a wall stacked high with dry ingredients and cans. She holds a clipboard in one hand, while the pencil clutched in the other bobs through the air as she takes inventory.

The hint of a smile moves my lips when I see her.

Five months ago, Karen spotted me curled up between dumpsters behind the restaurant. With cover on three sides and an easily scaled fence in the back, it was a great sleeping spot. I must have looked pretty pathetic because she’s been feeding me breakfast a couple times a month ever since. I always arrive before the restaurant opens and refuse to set foot inside the establishment. It’s too easy to get cornered in public buildings. If it came down to a chase, I’d rather be outside, where my chances of escaping are significantly higher.

Knowing my quirk, Karen always brings a plate out to the alley.

She’s good people, that one.

I don’t stop by every week because I don’t want her anticipating my visits. What if she gets overly worried about me one day? Her concern might compel her to call the authorities, not realizing how much harm that would cause me.

I appreciate her generosity, but I’m not willing to risk my freedom on the kindness of a stranger.

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