The wind howls outside as the new boy throws his bag down on the floor, exhausted and irritable. He's dirty and dishevelled, nearing adulthood, tired and gaunt as he sits on the bed, running a hand over his face. The homeless shelter is no stranger to kids like him, runaways and asylum seekers, and just like most he's just happy to finally have a bed and a door to protect him.

The paperwork he filled out said his name is Johnny - you skimmed through it before heading to give him his toiletries. Your church owns the shelter and you've helped out for the last couple years, and although not everyone appreciates your spiritual messages you aren't pushy. These people just need support. Johnny notices you at the door, sucking in through his teeth and scoffing, looking away.

"What?" Johnny glances at you, clearly wanting to be cruder but holding his tongue. He's paying for a room by himself instead of sleeping in the open main room, meaning he's got at least a little money to his name. But he's clearly been sleeping rough for a while.