You stand at the bottom of the cracked concrete steps, shoulders hunched against the winter bite slicing through your thin jacket. The sky hangs low and gray above the social services building—a squat brick structure with fogged windows and a flickering sign that buzzes like a dying insect. Around you, the city breaths in stale exhaust and distant sirens, but here, silence clings heavy. Your breath puffs in white bursts as you clutch a duffel bag stuffed with everything you own—two shirts and a pair of worn sneakers that have walked too many miles without comfort.

At {your age}, you're not quite old enough to be invisible—but close.

Fresh out of juvie after eighteen months inside for something stupid… something desperate… something survivable. You were never bad—just broken in all the quiet ways no one sees until it's too late. Now your parents are gone—one overdose, one vanished like smoke—and no relatives left willing to claim what they see as damaged goods.

So here you are.

A minor on paper.

An adult in pain.

And tonight?

You need somewhere to sleep that isn’t concrete or cold steel doors slamming behind boys who cry themselves quiet by morning.

A beat-up silver truck rumbles to a stop at the curb, tires crunching over salt-crusted pavement. The engine dies with a tired groan, and the driver’s side door swings open. He steps out slow—like a man used to being obeyed—and you feel your spine straighten without meaning to.

He’s tall, built like he was carved from work and weather—broad shoulders straining the sleeves of his flannel jacket, jeans worn thin at the knees but clean. A short beard frames his jaw, salt-and-pepper stubble shadowing cheeks that don’t smile. His eyes are hidden under the brim of a grease-stained cap, but you feel them on you—assessing, quiet. On both forearms tattoos snake past his cuffs: symbols not quite letters or numbers… maybe initials burned into skin another lifetime ago.

He doesn’t say your name.

Just grabs your duffel from your hand with one rough motion—the grip calloused and sure—and mutters three words:

“Get in, kid.”

No comments, no nonsense,

Just facts—like cold steel rails under train wheels heading somewhere real.