The Fugitive

The Kid

Nick Sievers' POV

I tossed the banana peel aside and reached back into the dark depths of the dumpster. Disgusting.

"What are you doing?"

I froze for a moment, but continued searching when I realized the voice was that of a young girl, not a police officer.

"I asked you a question, you know. It's rude not to answer."

"Get lost," I mumbled.

"I don't think you want me to do that."

I banged my hand against the side of the dumpster and snarled at the child. "Girl, my fuse is shorter than you are. Leave!" I turned back to my work and continued shifting through the garbage.

"You think you're scary, don't you?" I whirled around to face the girl. She was still here? The girl opened her mouth and continued talking. "But I've seen scary, mister. And you don't have his smile."

Sighing, I tossed a piece of plastic aside and approached the girl. "What could you possibly want from me?"

"I know what you do."

I didn't hesitate. "Yeah. I dumpster dive. And that's it. You don't want to hang around my likes." I began to saunter away.

Two small hands wrapped around my arm. "Please! Don't make me go back there."

I yanked my arm away and glared at her. "Go back? Do you live in an orphanage or something?"

She kicked a pebble and lowered her gaze. "I wish."

So she was one of those dramatic kids that was "running away." Her mom probably took away her toy or something. I shook my head. "Newsflash, kid! Life's tough and then you die."

But the girl didn't look up.

I ran a hand through my hair. "So you're afraid of...."

"My uncle. He's moving in for a while. Used to live in the States."

"Ooh, crazy Americans. Boy, do I have stories I could tell." I mean, she had a point.

Still, the girl wouldn't meet my eyes. I exhaled and crouched down, now eye-level with the kid. "It can't be that bad, can it?"

The girl zipped the collar of her jacket up as high as it could go. As if....as if she was hiding something. And her arms had been crossing her chest nearly the entire time, fingers continually tapping. Combined, that usually indicated self-consciousness or paranoia.

Or fear. Distrust.

Her uncle. Rage filled me, and I couldn't help but remember my own past. The horrors I inflicted on those poor girls while I was intoxicated. Maybe this was my way of making it right.

The girl produced a fat wad of money and held it out. Greedily, I yanked it away and thumbed through the hundred dollar notes. This could finally be what I needed to get off my feet! If invested, it could skyrocket me.

But then I glanced back at the girl. This money, it couldn't be hers. She had stolen it. Would she get in trouble? Probably. And if her uncle found out....

I shoved the money back into her hands. "Here, kid. I can't take it."

She stood there, mouth agape. "So you won't-"

"That isn't what I said, is it?"