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He stands about five feet, slender. No ear studs or rings like the others. His hair is greasy; he looks dirty. He's maybe twelve or thirteen, but looks older in the black jacket and tight jeans. A cigarette is stuck behind an ear. The pack over his left shoulder probably contains all his earthly possessions. It is the hunger in his eyes that identifies him as one of the street kids who hustle the train stations and bus terminals at night, who roam the subways and back streets in packs for handouts, leasing their bodies for food and dope. |
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The man with the narrow face strikes up a conversation with the boy, who says his name is Brendon. It's a nice name, the man tells him. The boy offers a flat smile. He's still new to the scene. Nervous. Recent runaway. |
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A few people eye the tall man in black and the boy hunched together. They could be father and son, or social worker and client, or a lay priest and returnee. Or partners in commerce. It was not unusual for men to cruise the station for boys. |
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The man says something, the kid sniggers and mutters something back. The man nods and names a price. The boy agrees, makes a high sign to his mates to say he's off. |
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He struts his way through the small crowd of travelers toward the side-street exit. The man is a step behind him. He estimates the boy's body. Tight, athletic. Will do just fine. |
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They step outside the station. The night is loud and cool. Buses pull out in caravans from the bays. |
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They walk to the car. The boy removes the cigarette from his ear and lights up. The man waits until the boy finishes his butt before he unlocks |
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