Chapter 6 Strays

The first time I see him, I think he's following me.

He's leaning against a brick wall near the corner store, hands in his pockets, eyes shaded by a baseball cap. I cross the street, duck into a laundromat, and wait. Ten minutes. Fifteen. When I come back out, he's gone.

Could've been nothing.

But my stomach doesn't buy it.

The second time, it's outside my building.

I've just emptied the last crumbs from a cereal box I found in the back of the cabinet-dry and stale, but food. The sun's going down, and I hear footsteps behind me. I spin fast, keys between my fingers like claws.

It's him. Same hoodie, same slouched posture.

But this time, he speaks.

"Don't freak out. I'm not here to rob you."

His voice is dry, even, like someone used to saying things that don't matter. I don't relax.

"Then what are you here to do?"

He shrugs. "Saw you a few times. Figured you were like me."

"Like you?"

"No parents. No backup. Just... working the cracks."

I narrow my eyes. "That supposed to be a compliment?"

He almost smiles. "Just a fact."

We sit outside on the steps, not close. Just enough space to run if one of us turns out wrong.

His name is Mason. He's been couch-surfing, squatting, sleeping in boiler rooms and unlocked storage units. Says he used to live in foster care, got tired of the system eating him up.

He talks slow, but his eyes move fast. Like he's calculating every word I say.

I don't tell him much. Just enough to hold the moment together.

"You got food?" he asks.

"Some."

"Heat?"

"Sometimes."

He nods. "Better than nothing."

It's stupid.

Letting someone in-literally and otherwise. I know the rules. I made the rules.

But I also know what it's like to shiver so hard your bones feel like glass. I know what it's like to talk to no one for days.

I don't trust him.

But I open the door.

Inside, Mason walks slow, like the floor might vanish. He keeps his hands out, visible.

Smart.

"I won't touch anything," he says. "Just warm up. You got ramen?"

"One pack."

"I'll split it."

I watch him carefully. His shoes are falling apart. He's got duct tape on one sole. His backpack's ripped at the seam.

A stray.

Just like me.

We eat quietly, sharing bites straight from the same cup. I think about germs, then remember hunger eats faster than fear.

When we're done, he doesn't thank me. Just leans back, sighs like someone remembering what warmth feels like.

"You ever sleep outside in the snow?" he asks.

"No."

"You will."

He says it like a promise, not a threat.

That night, I don't sleep well. Every creak in the building makes me wonder if he's still in the living room. If he's going to rob me. Or maybe just leave.

When I peek out at 3 a.m., I see him curled on the floor with his backpack under his head, still as stone.

Still breathing.

Rule #8: Strays recognize each other.

But that doesn't mean you let them close.

Because strays bite when they're cornered.