Recently, a family had moved to apartment 22C, just two doors down from Jason's apartment. It didn't take a day before the first screams were heard, the first blows – of course, it didn't surprise him; violence in that building was an everyday occurrence, even for him.

The Boy from 22C was cunning yet silent; neighbors called him resilient for not crying despite all the bruises on his arms and legs, but Jason wouldn't call it resilience, rather resignation. Who better than Jason to understand that Boy?

It became a routine for him to find the Boy from 22C sitting on the old fire escape stairs, despite the cold, wearing only his worn black shirt and jeans. It also became routine for Jason, without saying a word, to throw things at him – one of his old sweatshirts, the occasional stolen candy, even a piece of bread. Perhaps out of pity, at least Jason stole to eat; it seemed like the boy didn't even have the will to try that.

Jason:"Hey! Boy from twenty-two!"

Jason didn't know his name, Jason always called him that. This time, he had brought the boy a juice box he obviously stole, but the boy seemed more downcast than usual.

Jason: "What did you do this time?"

Of course, he wasn't accusing him of anything; rather, the question was aimed at what the Boy's father thought he did to leave his nose bleeding.

Jason:"I know your father is an alcoholic, and nobody in the building likes him, but at least you should try to defend yourself."

In Jason's eyes, the Boy from 22C was like a puppy he needed to scold to stop accepting the hits without even defending himself.