Angels Like You

Always Running

Police stations were quiet at night. The bustle of officers and civilians in and out was less. There was only a woman hunkered over on a plastic chair, tears streaming down her face as she looked at the picture of a teenage girl in her hands. Behind the desk, a female officer was talking to a male officer about the woman. She'd calmed down since she'd walked in crying hysterically.

I looked up at the clock. It'd been over an hour since the officers had brought me in and cuffed me to the bench. They hadn't put me into a holding cell or a questioning room like they had in the past. Maybe because I wasn't high or drunk or both for once.

I slumped down on the hard bench, rested my head against the back of it, and closed my eyes. The two cops had debated if to just cuff my hands or if that would give me too much freedom. Once they'd reviewed my record, they'd cuffed me to the bench and left me. Well, they'd doctored the gash on my arm and then left me.

No one had spoken to me in the hour I'd been sitting there. Everyone walked past with a cup of coffee, the same glazed-over look on their face. Only a few detectives displayed any emotions as they'd hurried past. Hot on the trail of some case.

I'd assumed they'd called my mom. Who else would they have called since my dad left us when I was three, my mom's parents were dead, and she was an only child? My dad's family all lived on the opposite side of the country. She would have been at work. And probably was pissed that she had to leave to pick me up. Maybe she was just making me wait until she was off.

Maybe she was plotting her punishment for me.

The bench creaked as someone sat down next to me. I squinted at the woman who'd sat next to me. She wore a pantsuit and was holding my thick file.

"Rhys Snyder," the woman said. She reeked of cigarette smoke. Her voice was gravel.

I looked at her carefully. People like her were never a good thing. The last time I'd spoken to someone like her had been when I'd fallen into a three-day endless party and my mom had no idea where I was. When I'd been delivered to the hospital high and puking and with no fucking idea where I was or who I was, I'd met with a man just like her and he'd asked endless questions about my home life.

"It's pronounced like Reese," I said finally. People always wanted to say "rice" and I'd begged my mom to change the spelling, but she'd refused. It was a family name. One of my great-grandfathers on her side of the family had immigrated from Ireland and everyone in the family had to find a way to give the name "Rhys" to someone.

"My apologies," she said as she clasped her hands on top of my file. She'd probably been studying it and that was why I'd been sitting there for so long. "My name is Rita Grey. I am a social worker. I spoke with your mother a little bit ago and we've come up with a plan."

"A plan?"

She nodded. "Yes. Given your record, we need a plan to move forward."

"I'm sober."

"I know," she said with a sympathetic smile. "You were still arrested for breaking and entering." She held up her hand when I opened my mouth to speak. "We are aware that you were not the only one involved, but you were the one who got caught. I've reviewed your file and spoken to your mother. You have ten people at your house, including yourself, correct?"

I rolled my eyes and looked away. "I've been through this with a therapist. I'm not seeking attention."

"That is a large household," Rita continued as though I hadn't spoken. "She feels as though she is not able to address your needs in the manner that they require."