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Foster holds his palms up flat and takes a slow step closer to Knox. "I see that look in your eye. You're hungry. You're hurting. Let's just say I've stolen a few things in my life." The compassion in Foster's voice tugs at my heart.
Knox shuffles his feet in the dirt. "Over here." He waves his hand for us to follow him off the side of the path down into some bushes.
I'm slipping down the slope when Foster reaches back to help me. We end up in a clear area under some sycamore trees. A huge pile of driftwood is stacked in the middle.
"Need an ax to cut the wood." Knox's shoulders hunch forward as he points at the wood.
"What're you making?" I ask him.
Knox grabs his hair and pulls, the ax still in his hand. "I don't know." As he raises his arms, bright red slashes on his forearms become exposed. He quickly lowers his hands and tugs at his shirt, but it's too late. We've already seen them.
Foster looks at me. We both know what's up. He's homeless and he's going to make shelter out of driftwood. He's been abused. He's a mess.
"Let's sit and have a chat," Foster holds up his flat palm and nods for Knox to put the ax in it.
Knox hesitates like he's going to fight it, but then probably remembers Foster's strength and he gives it up.
The three of us take seats on the wood.
"How old are you?" Foster asks him as he turns the ax over in his hands.
"Sixteen." Knox looks away as he talks.
"You living alone out here?" I keep my voice soft and patient.
"No. Got a sister. Some friends." He's still having trouble making eye contact with Foster.
Foster's back straightens at the mention of his sister. "How old's your sister?" Foster's having trouble hiding the concern in his tone.
"Thirteen." Knox picks up some dirt and throws it.
Foster's gaze lands on mine and I know what he's thinking again. These kids are way too young to be out here in the woods alone.
"Gonna tell you something, Knox. I grew up in Foster care. Was skinny. Got beat up a lot."
Knox looks at Foster's huge shoulders and his eyes grow wide. It's hard to imagine Foster as a skinny teenager, but I remember when Donnie pushed him in the pool. He climbed out all wet, looking like skin and bones.
"Where are your parents?"
Knox makes a pattern in the dirt with his sneakers. "She's dead."
Hmm. He only mentioned his mom. "And your dad?"
His head pops up and fire fills his eyes. "He doesn't come around anymore."
Foster folds his hands in front of him and arches his head down to grab Knox's attention. "Your dad put those marks on your back?" He speaks very quietly because Knox is clearly spooked.
"He's not my dad. He's a monster. He's a fucking monster and I wish he wasn't my dad. I wish… Gah!" Knox stands and walks away from us. We give him a minute to come back.
When he sits down, Foster says, "It's not your fault your dad's an asshole."
Knox glares back at him, defeated. "It's my fault I couldn't protect Sutton from him."
A huge lump forms in my throat. "It's not your fault," I whisper, trying to hold back the surge of pain I feel for his sister.
Knox bites his lower lip and wraps his arms around himself. He digs his nails in and pulls down over the fabric of his shirt. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to track him down and kill him."
It's risky, but I reach out and touch his shoulder. He just looks like he needs someone to touch him to ground him. He glances at my fingers, but doesn't flinch away. "You can't kill him. You'll end up in jail."
