Page 2 of Them Bones

The light in the alley flickered, illuminating an alarming amount of gum stuck to the side of the trash bins, and what appeared to be a used condom stuck to Shane’s right shoe.

He scowled and wiggled his foot (acutely aware of the small hole forming in his converse over his big left toe) but it hung limply off the bottom of his sneaker, mocking him like everything else in his life.

Stepping on it with his left foot, he tried to move forward and repressed a gag; it must have been inside out because itstuckto his other shoe as well.

It was unusually cold for a Tuesday in early October, and he was tucked between two dumpsters to break the icy wind tearing across the wheat field adjacent to the plaza he was standing in, ripping at his face like claws. He buried his hands farther into the front pocket of his hoodie. They were red and raw from the walk, and the only thing on his body that didn’t presently feel at risk of frostbite were his ears, courtesy of his loose grey wool beanie pulled low over his brow.

He frantically searched the ground for a piece of cardboard or a loose flyer to pull off the condom, the acid in his stomach churning.

God, when is the last time I ate?

That was why he was standing in the back of a shitty, rundown plaza at 4am in the freezing cold. A skinny, awkward kid named Dustin worked in the small plaza bakery on Tuesdays and Thursdays before school. When Dustin’s boss didn’t show up in the mornings (which was all of them, considering how frequently that guy liked to drink at the pool hall down the street) Dustin would bake extra loaves for Shane and hand them out the back door.

That past spring, before the mid-parking-lot snowbanks leftover from the plows had fully melted, Shane noticed a rusted out Intrepid with a flat tire parked in the plaza lot for several days while ambling back and forth between Fairy Lake Park and the new subdivision being built beside the Walmart, construction dormant for Easter. It had been raining for three days straight, and Cody’s mom – good Catholic that she was – had kicked him out for the long weekend because “family was coming”. The damp had seeped into his bones, his jaw stiff from seventy-two hours of teeth-chattering cold or possibly just from not speaking to another human being for too long. He waited until dark and jimmied the lock on the Intrepid, collapsing onto the seat, desperate for even an hour of something dry to lie down on that wasn’t sawdust-covered plywood or shrubbery drowning in geese shit.

He’d woken up to the weak, milky light of a not-quite-spring dawn and some kind of commotion outside. The rain had frozen over the windows into a thin sheet of pure ice overnight and he couldn’t see anything. Fear pricked the back of his neck, thinking someone had called the cops, so he cracked open the door and peeked outside.

A group of three boys, all shockingly blonde, were towering over a short kid with glasses and a noticeably awful haircut, clearly hassling him. One of the boys had a baby face butthe beefy body of a damned biker; he raised his ham-like fist and punched the kid in the face, sending him careening backwards against the brick wall. The Pork Rind laughed, blood spurting from Bad Haircut’s nose, while the slimmer boy whose face Shane couldn’t see entered the building. The other two remained outside, one glaring at the plaza entrance and the other leering down at the crumpled kid who was dribbling blood into both hands, eyes streaming tears but clearly trying not to whimper.

Shane sighed, and pushed the door open all the way, swinging his legs out of the car. The boys stared at him blankly while he stretched, his shoulders cracking from the cramped seat.

“Fuck off,” Pork Rind spat with a sneer. His voice was preternaturally high, like he’d been kicked in the balls too many times.

“You okay, kid?” Shane asked. The watery-eyed boy glanced nervously between him and Pork Rind, saying nothing.

“He’s fine,” Pork Rind said. “Get lost.”

Shane sauntered towards them, brow furrowed. They must have been close to his age, a little older maybe, eighteen or nineteen… The boy on the ground couldn’t have been older than twelve.Just a kid.

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to catch Bad Haircut’s eye, “why don’t we just head back inside?”

“I won’t say it again, fuck off man.”

Pork Rind was glaring at him, but Shane just stared right back, his face neutral, body relaxed, weight rolling slowly into the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent. Pork Rind’s glower faded a little as he looked him up and down, probably taking note of Shane’s casual stance. He looked questioningly at his friend – brother, maybe? – for a brief second, and back to Shane, sizing him up.

Shane waited patiently, unmoving, and could practically hear the gears turning in Pork Rind’s head, wondering why Shane was dripping with a complete and utter lack of fucks to give about the guy double his body mass with fists the size of Shane’s head, clearly capable of caving in his skull.

Shane focused on his breathing, kept it even and steady.

Pork Rind took a tiny step back.

Maybe he’s not as dumb as I thought.

The door to their right swung open, and the lean boy – definitely the leader by the way the other two fell back – stepped out with two fistfuls of cash and a steaming cinnamon roll between his teeth. He took in the scene with an almost bored expression.

“Don’t see how you fit into my morning,” he said.

“Who doesn’t want to wake up to this,” Shane shrugged, gesturing to himself.

The kid on the ground stifled a snicker.

The Leader’s eyes narrowed and he stood up a little taller, but a car pulled in and they all watched it warily. The driver seemed to pay them no attention, just pulling in to turn around and back out onto the road, but the brothers spooked and The Leader muttered under his breath that it was time for them to go.

“See you next week, Dusty,” he sneered, and they scurried away.

Shane watched them leave before extending a hand to the kid, who wiped his bloody palm on his jeans before accepting it and scrambling up.

“You good?”

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