You call this fate?

Chapter 2

The hand on my arm fell. I turned.

There stood my assailant: a grubby little boy of no more than ten years of age. His bulky coat had a ripped sleeve and his blond hair hung stick straight and clumped around big, bottle-green eyes. His fixed gaze took me in from a step away, having stumbled and retreated after my initial reaction to his touch. Shaking, clutching his arms, he looked for all the world like a drowned squirrel.

"What're you doing, boy?" I asked. My voice was harsh; I was startled out of my wits, Goddamnit!

"D-do you 'av somethang' to eat, M-missy?"

I could do nothing but gape.

That was when I finally took the whole of him in. By God, he's thin. He was chattering with cold; not regular chattering either, like normal people in nippy weather, rather a violent bone-shaking tremble that made him shiver like a mirage in the desert. His lips and fingertips—the latter bare—were blue, and there was a hole in his right boot allowing a big quivering toe to peek out.

I stared for a heartbeat. Then, sinking to the ground in slow motion, I held up a hand. "Come here, will you?"

He stood rooted to the spot, hands stuffed in baggy, bulging pockets. I wondered if he carried his world in there. "A bite, Missy. Do you 'av it?"

"I-I don't, not right now."

His whole face crumbled, a collapsing building. He retreated a step further, not to turn away, but more to stop himself from falling over. His weakness showed clear now, the moon coming out from behind the cloud of his false bravado. It wasn't a pretty moon. It was raw and ugly. The dark circles under his eyes stood out.

"Hey," I coaxed, leaning forward to touch his shoulder. He leaped out of my reach, a colt ready to bolt. "What's your name, honey?" I asked.

He stayed stoic, refusing to answer. Then a whisper left his lips.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch that. What?"

He cleared his throat and tried again. "Jonah." It came out like a plea.

"Where are your parents, Jonah?" My knees were killing me. I also had to keep one hand close to the ground in preparation for when my psychosomatically-bum leg decided to give out, but I dared not move, dared not alarm him.

He waited another heavy moment, continuing to gawp with dinner-plate eyes. Then the matted head went side to side.

"Would you like to come with me?" A finger of cold air sneaked through my sleeve and brushed my skin.

He started to shake more violently. This time it wasn't the weather that made him do so. "You wan' ta take ma back to tha' foster home!" he accused, little kid's voice as sharp as ice splinters. The disappointment and betrayal in his tone were apparent. "I will na go!"

I rushed to reassure: "No, no that's not true. I just want to take you home. I'll give you something to eat, a hot bath..."

"I'm na a stray dog ya can take home. I don't do baths," he said.

He has a tongue on him, that's for sure. Then again, so did I. "How long have you been on your own, Jonah?"

"Three years, now," he declared, pride evident in the shadow of his fear. "And withou' anyone's help at tha'."

"And when was the last you ate?"

The momentary happy expression vanished and his stomach grumbled.

"It seems I have my answer. Come with me and I'll help you. You don't have to be scared, I promise."

He scowled through the indecision on his face. He wanted to accept my offer even though his mind told him not to. I let him debate in silence.