“You picked the wrong night,” he repeats softly, “but maybe not the wrong people.”
His gaze remains on me, and there’s compassion in his eyes. He raises his eyebrows at me. Compassion is what’s needed here, not discipline. I nod and lower the bolt cutters.
“Let’s talk someplace warm.”
The kids exchange wary looks. Viking shepherds them toward the cellar door, and I follow them upstairs to the office.
8
VIKING
Imarch the two rain-soaked teens up the stairs and into the staff room. Sydney flicks on the lights as we go. She starts a pot of filter coffee, the machine drip-feeding slowly, then leans against the counter with her arms folded, watching the two boys.
The tall one is lean. Dark hair hangs into his eyes. His hoodie is far too big, and he pulls the cuffs down to cover his hands. He looks at the floor, at the table—everywhere but at me.
“Take a seat, boys.”
They drag out chairs with a scrape against the vinyl floor and sit, hunched over in the plastic chairs. I crouch so I’m at their eye level.
“My name’s Chris Erikson, but people call me Viking. What are your names?”
The smaller one flicks a glance at the older before whispering, “I’m Marcus. People call me Mouse.”
“I’m Rio,” the tall one adds.
“Rio and Marcus. How old are you?”
“I’m seventeen,” Rio says.
“I’ll be seventeen in two weeks,” Marcus murmurs.
He’s small for his age, and scrawny. The fact that he stresses he’s almost seventeen tells me he has something to prove.
“We only wanted two kegs to sell,” Rio blurts. “We sell them to people staying at the campground. There’s always someone looking for a party.”
“We need cash for sneakers,” Marcus adds. “The group home doesn’t cover extras.”
The words hit hard. I remember what it was like, me and Tank running around, stealing bikes and selling them so we could buy boots and a winter coat. You do what it takes to survive. I rub the scar on my temple. This could have been me and Tank a few years ago.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “I grew up in rotation, too.”
The boys lift their eyes, surprised.
“But stealing kegs will only lead to trouble. It won’t fix your worn-out shoes in the long run.”
Sydney draws a slow breath at my confession, and when I glance at her, there’s compassion in her gaze. I give her a small smile, then turn back to the boys.
Both our phones buzz suddenly, as does one buried deep in Rio’s hoody. I ignore mine while Sydney checks hers.
“The roads are open again,” she says. “The storm has been downgraded, and we’re back to a watch.”
Rio pulls out his phone, and it’s an old model with a cracked screen. He stares at the alert then puts his phone on the table.
“How did you get here?” I ask.
They glance at each other. “We drove.”
I raise a brow. “Whose car?”
