Page 26 of Heimlock

At my mom’s, I rarely slept through the night — being also homeless demands constant alertness.

My mom never had enough food — on the bridges and streets of Gondora, there are actually more options to find food than expected.

But on nights like tonight, where the heavens have opened up and soaked everything in the sky … I wish my life had panned out differently.

What if I’d had a mother who hadn’t tolerated me being abused?

What if my father hadn’t died?

The thoughts are useless, but it keeps my mind busy.

Huddled under the awning of a closed shop, I tuck my knees into my chest. My blood runs too hot for the water to cause shivers, but it can’t stave off the dampness.

Next to me is my duffle bag, looking a little worse for wear. Multiple times, I’ve had to defend it from being stolen. One of the handles is taped together from a nasty moment of tug o’ war with a fellow Sprite a few weeks ago. I’ve been on the streets for six months, and though my belly is hollow and I need a real shower, I’ve never felt more free.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as darkness encroaches and the moons hide behind weeping clouds. Another stomach cramp spurs me into standing.

I steady myself against the wall, woozy. There’s a market a couple of blocks away; I’m sure I can scrounge something up, even if that means stealing.

I’m a thief now.

It’s a shameful piece of my identity, but I don’t hate myself for it. I’ve been a survivor my whole life — this is now another facet of that.

Slinging the duffle bag over my shoulder, I stomp through the puddles with my soaking wet shoes. The raindrops sizzle against my skin; an odd soundtrack to my movements. I feel like a campfire desperately trying to feed its flames in a storm.

Finally, the bright lights of the market draw closer. Happy families pass through automatic doors. I bet every single person in that market hasn’t missed a meal since yesterday. Maybe ever.

What’s that like?

Pausing at the delineation of where the light breaches the shadows, I observe. Waiting for the right opportunity.

A young Forest Sprite mother walks out, groceries in one hand and a toddler in the other. Projecting deep misery onto my expression, I approach her.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Do you have any corals you can spare? I’m really hungry.”

She looks at me with wide, tired eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Momma, why is she so wet?” The toddler gazes at me innocently, inspecting my soaked clothes.

The mother does the same with a frown. “You poor thing. Yes, here’s some.” She hands me five corals. Enough to buy a sandwich. That’s something.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Have a goddess-blessed night.”

“You, too.”

Corals in my clenched fist, I watch her walk away. The craziest thing about being a homeless kid is realizing how little people care about my age. It doesn’t make them pause to wonder what a teenager is doing on the streets. They either give a handout or they don’t. Never solutions.

It’s an anger not worth examining right now. Turning to the market, I search for another possible donor.

Instantly, I see a young girl, maybe about my age. Her skin is a dark golden brown, with black strands as wet as mine. She’s walking next to an older woman who’s probably her mother. The smile on the girl’s face tugs at my heart. She looks so carefree and beautiful. Happy.

They’re walking into the market, but right before she steps in, we lock eyes. A frown tugs at her mouth. She whispers something to the other woman. Both of them stop walking to stare at me. It’s more attention than I’m looking for.

I scurry back into the shadows, hoping they lose interest.

The duo disappears into the brightly lit market, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. Attention is unsafe. Attention could also mean rescue, but I’ve long abandoned the hope of being saved.

I wait for another single mother or maybe an old lady. Men are far less likely to give me anything other than a salacious word or proposition. I stopped asking them within the first week of this predicament.