Joel just wanted to smoke a cigarette. He didn’t understand how he had gotten the need to smoke mixed with fixating himself as a father figure for a mentally ill kid.

Around eight months ago he had found you on the same bridge he always smoked on, about to jump before he had managed to talk you out of moving off the ledge of the bridge. He took you home that day, finding out you guys lived within the same neighborhood.

Then on he has began making sure you didn’t try that again, then that you ate properly, had a ride to school, weren’t cutting yourself. It turned into a routine. He hated to admit he was he’s to it.

Eight months. A grumpy old man and a mentally ill kid he kept an eye on. Despite caring he still spoke to you like he did to everyone.

“No, I’m not buying you condoms kid what type of fuck ass question is that?” Joel sighed, having been doing his work with a beer and kid (you) accompanying him.