Page 2 of Seeing Grayscale

Next thing I knew, I had a felony, was eighteen, no one would hire me, and I had nowhere to live becauseyou’re an adult now, Gray.Figure it out was the bulk of my teachings.

Fast forward a few years, and I’m stuck in the same cycle. A few more misdemeanors, some jail time, and broke with nowhere to go. It doesn’t do me any favors to rehash it all, nor does it stop me from doing what I need to to see another day.

There’s this weird network of people like me shrouded in mystique. If you know how to communicate through it, you do. If not, well, you’re just a walking target.

One Tooth Ray is the guy you go to when you need fast cash—pushing product ‘n such. Tammy down in the Pines complex is where you go if you want consistent, quick cash and a place to shower. Sex sells, even when you aren’t worth selling.

You could be the ugliest motherfucker on planet Earth, and someone would still pay to bend you over.

I know a few other people in our network, but they are even shadier than the first two—people youdo notwant to come crawling to. I made that mistake once already.

Some folks get a couple of dogs to keep them company and protect them. The dog doesn’t know it’s missing out on a warm home and good food, but the person toting it arounddoes.As someone who knows firsthand how sacred both are, I’d never subject anyone—human or animal—to walk these streets beside me.

It’s wrong.

Sipping my soda, I rest my head against the side of the dumpster, serving as a shield from the wind, and close my eyes. I swear it’s only about five seconds before the sound of feet pricks my ears. I stiffen, hand absently reaching for the side pocket of my old backpack. It’s not dark yet, but I wouldn’t put it past whoever stole from me last time to come back looking for seconds.

Slipping the knife from the pocket, I keep it concealed in my fist, face blank as the footsteps get closer.

Sleek, black loafers enter my peripheral first, followed by crisp, clean slacks. “Uh…hi there,” a man says.

I slowly glance up. “Yeah?”

“You look like you need this.” In his outstretched hand is the hot dog I abandoned, complete with the same condiments I’d tucked into the box.

The guy looks to be in his thirties, maybe a smidgen younger. His beard is throwing me off, so I can’t tell. “Thanks,” I murmur and take the offering.

Another thing I learned a long time ago: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

So I don’t.

Tucking the knife under my leg and not bothering to hide my hunger, I open the box and start fixing up my hot dog. It’s only when I take my first bite, a satisfied groan leaving me, that I realize I’ve got an audience. With his hands tucked in his pockets, the man stares at me like he doesn’t know what to do.

I mean, the logical thing would be to leave and go about his life. He did his good deed for the week, I’m sure.

“Unless you’re going to give me money, you don’t need to linger,” I tell him through a mouthful.

“Oh. Right.” He quickly digs into his back pocket, retrieving one of those fancy leather wallets my dad used to have, and starts thumbing through bills.

My eyes narrow as I swallow my food. “I was being sarcastic.”

“No. I meant to. I just—you seemed—never mind. Will two hundred get you a place to sleep tonight?”

The slits on my face become saucers. “Huh?” I almost drop my hot dog.

“Not with the way they keep raising prices, and then they’ll probably be full because of the—never mind.” He pulls out five stiff green bills and folds them. “Here. Get somewhere safe.” Iblink at him; then my eyes dip to the wad of cash in front of my face. “I promise I’m not a creep. I want to help.”

Kind hazel irises meet mine, and a half smile forms on his lips.

I know a red flag when I see one, and this guy has an entire parade’s worth waving. You don’t takethatkind of cash from strangers. Especially not ones in a fucking suit. I’ve managed to remain unscathed when it comes to sexual predators, and I’m damn well keeping that streak.

“I’m good, thanks anyway.”

Returning to my food, I eat with my eyes on my lap.

“How can I convince you to take the money?” he asks after a few beats.

“I don’t want it.” I do. I want that money, but not at whatever catch he hasn’t coughed up yet.

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