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thinks she’ll change the world by helping people like me?”
    My gaze drops to the table , and I fidget with my fingers. “I guess I deserved that.” I glance back up, catching his eyes for the slightest of seconds. “Sorry.”
    “ Whatever.” He pushes his plate away and leans against the chair.
    “So ?”
    H is eyebrow arches again, causing little wrinkles to form on the bridge of his nose. He knows what I’m asking, yet for whatever reason he’s forcing me to say the word again. “Homeless?”
    He pushes the curl off his forehead. “It seems to be the case now, doesn’t it?”
    “How old are you?” My filter must have fallen off on my way over here.
    His eyes narrow and he shifts f arther away from me. “Why do you want to know?”
    “You look like you’re my age , but….”
    “ But?” he presses.
    I flop my hands on the table. “I don’t know. You’re just not like the other people that come here.”
    H e’s different. Other than the bruises he’s clean. Clear eyes. No pock marks on his face or visible track marks. “Where are your parents? Did you run away from home?” He slides his chair back and stands. He doesn’t say a word as he backs away. With his hood still up, he dumps the rest of his dinner in the trash and places his plate and utensils in the proper place before heading out into the night.

What the hell was that? Twenty fucking questions? Well I guess I deserved it since I was staring at her tits for the first two minutes.
    I would have stayed longer. It was warm , and talking is a nice change, but as soon as she started asking about my parents, I was out of there.
    That c hick needs a reality check. Did she honestly think I would spill my guts to someone like her? I’m sure she lives her life as her entire high school watches and adores her.
    It’s still early, but I head over to the Y anyway. It’s been two days. Luck has to get back on my side. I want a hot shower more than anything, and I’d almost kill to sleep on something other than the ground at the trestle.
    I sit on the opposite side of the woods and wait for eight-thirty. If I had to guess, it’s close to seven. The curb is cold compared to the nice warm chair I was in at the soup kitchen.
    “Hey.”
    Wanda sits next to me a scarf tied around her neck, covering her tattoo.
    “Hey,” I say , looking away from her and back to the stairs.
    “It’s Dean, right?” Her voice is rough . Not like the girl from the soup kitchen whose voice was soft and sweet, completely void of hardship.
    I contemplate answering her, tugging at the strings on my hoodie. It’s just my name. “Yeah.”
    “I’m Wanda.”
    “I know.” A gust of wind whips by, so I shove my hands into my pockets. My skin is so dry my fingers look like the corpse inside the wrapping of a mummy.
    Wanda adjusts her scarf so it covers more of her neck. “Sorry you didn’t get in last night.”
    My head snaps up , eyebrows bunching in the center of my forehead. “Why do you care? You got in.”
    “ Because I can’t help but think about all the people who got stuck outdoors for the night.”
    “Why?”
    She shrugs, pulling her jacket snug around her. “If it was me out in the cold, I’d want someone to be worried.” Sadness engulfs her features, but she shakes it off. “So what’s your story?”
    What is this? The night that everyone wants me to cut my brain open and let everything out? Not happening.
    “What’s your story?”
    “My parents didn’t like the fact that I’m a lesbian. Once they realized church and therapy weren’t working, they kicked me out.”
    My eyes shoot wide. “They kicked you out for being gay?”
    “ Pretty shitty, huh?”
    At times I feel like my parents abandoned me, but they wouldn’t have kicked me out because of my sexual orientation. What happened to me was out of their hands. For Christ’s sakes, she is their flesh and blood. That should matter more than who she wants to screw.
    I take my hands out of my