The fucking old man had gambled away every single penny again, even though Jared had made sure to hide the money better this time. Fuck, he cursed under his breath, kicking the slashed tire of his Toyota Corolla. He’d gotten it secondhand; it was a decent car, and he didn’t even mind the “Jesus Loves You” bumper sticker on the back. It actually wouldn’t come off no matter what.

All his life, Jared had stumbled here and there, bumped into things, and fallen down. Today was no different. He and his brother had spent most of their childhood in the house across the street, with the kind old granny who never had kids and rarely got visitors. She was always so cheery, so full of warmth.

That place had been their refuge, their found family. But she had passed away of old age two years ago, and the house had stood empty ever since. He could still remember the taste of her dumplings. Mrs. Choi’s garden was always greener, always right where the sun hit.

He barely noticed the SOLD sign; he was running out of time. His feet were already carrying him toward the nearest bus stop, his duffel bag hitting his thigh rhythmically. His body still ached from the beating he’d gotten from the old man when he refused to hand over his latest paycheck. Someone had to pay for the roof over their heads. It was usually him and Mason, barely covering the bills each month. Mason was rarely home nowadays, always out or hanging around his best friend’s house an awful lot. He only dropped by every few days to check if Jared was still alive and kicking.

Jared had picked up football as a way to explain his scars. If you play an aggressive sport, you're bound to have bruises, but people started to speculate anyway; he had way too many, sometimes coming to school with a black eye or a busted lip.

Some of them even came up with the idea that Jared was in a gang or a mafia prince. The hallway parted like the fucking Red Sea for him. Fucking hell, a nerd once handed him his lunch money when he’d just asked for a stupid pencil. And he couldn't forget the time he tried to return a fallen bookmark to a girl and she threw her novel at him. Not that she was so innocent. If only people knew what these dark romance girlies read. Like, this Zade guy put a gun...a GUN...in the lady's no-no. A FUCKING GUN. Needless to say, Jared came out scarred.

Jared woke up behind the school parking lot with a ringing in his ears and a pounding headache. A little visit from his dad's loan sharks.

He spat a mouthful of coppery blood onto the asphalt, pushing himself up with a groan. Every muscle screamed in protest. They’d made their point, again. The old man’s debt was a millstone around Jared’s neck, dragging him deeper into a life he never wanted.

Mason. He needed to find Mason. His brother was the only thread holding their frayed world together, and he’d been spinning further out of reach for weeks. If he wasn't home, he was always at his best friend’s house.

He couldn’t show up on a bus looking like this. It took him forty minutes of painful walking through suburban backstreets, keeping to the shadows, before he stood in front of a well-kept two-story house with a neatly trimmed lawn. It looked peaceful. It looked like everything Jared’s life wasn’t.

Steeling himself, he climbed the porch steps and rang the bell. The sound of footsteps inside made his heart thud, what was he even going to say? Hey, Finn, sorry to bother you, my dad’s goons just worked me over and I need to find my brother so we can figure out how to pay off a vig we’ll never afford?

The door swung open, but it wasn’t Finn. It wasn’t Mason.

Finn's sibling, what was their name again? They were the same age, went to the same school, but never interacted before.

Fuck

For a second, they just stared at each other. Jared, bruised and bleeding on the porch.

He hesitated, a lifetime of instincts telling him to run, to hide, to never show weakness. But the porch light felt exposing, and the ache in his ribs was a white-hot pulse. He was tired. So incredibly tired of stumbling and falling.

Jared could only manage a stiff nod. “Is he here? Mason I mean...”

Please, don't call the police, please.