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"How old are you?" I demand.
"Nineteen." His voice cracks on the word.
"You need some food? Or water?" Jesus. Nineteen years old. I don’t even know that he looks that old. "Listen, dude. You got a gun or knife or some shit like that?"
His eyes widen. "No. Nothing like that."
I watch as he hoists his upper body fully off the floor, and, with some difficulty, he scoots back against the hall wall.
"This was a bad idea," he moans softly, holding his head. He folds his arms over his raised knees, then rests his cheek on one knee and folds both arms over his shaved head. "I'll get up."
But he starts breathing harder. I can tell there's something wrong with the kid.
"You have asthma?"
He shakes his head, and I notice that he's shaking again.
"Are you hungry?"
He shrugs, and it kills me, because when he does that, I can see how fucking bony his big shoulders look under the T-shirt.
"Yeah, okay. So I've got food. And I can bring you some. Okay? We've got these good croissants. You okay with dairy?"
The dude laughs, a dry huff of air, even as his eyes are looking dizzy and his lids are sagging.
"I don't care," he says, and he sounds...like a Texan?
"You from Texas, dude?" I ask him as Miss Baby starts to cry. I have to turn my back to him to walk into the kitchen, where I grab the box of croissants and set one in the microwave atop a napkin. I do just ten seconds, because I just want to get some food into this guy's mouth.
"Food is coming," I tell him as it warms. "Did you say yes or no on Texas?" I peek out into the hall, just making sure the guy is where I left him—and he hasn't moved an inch. He looks fucking drained.
"No," he says. He holds his head again, and Eden’s cries get shriller, and I take the croissant out of the microwave with a hand that shakes a little—empath that I fucking am—and take it to him.
"Here…try this." He takes it from me, and I head back toward the kitchen, some ten feet down the hall from where he’s sitting. "Okay, Miss Baby, you're next." I spot a glass that someone left out on the counter, and I realize, "I'm lying."
I grab a clean glass from the cabinet, fill it up with water, and take that back to the guy in the hall.
Then I focus on the bottle. When I've got the thing in Eden's mouth, we move back out into the narrow hallway, where I find the guy leaning his head against the wall. His eyes are shut. I realize he's holding the croissant. Only one bite is gone.
I look around, and when it seems like nothing sketchy’s going to happen, I shut the garage/hall door, lock it, and ease myself down so I can sit beside him, cross-legged, balancing the baby on my scarred elbow.
He lifts his eyelids, giving me a glazed look.
"Listen, man. You need to tell me what's up. You don't look so hot, and I'm gonna be worried unless you tell me how to help."
He casts his eyes to the croissant. He stares at the wall behind me as he takes a bite, chews and swallows, and then drains the glass dry.
He blinks, and I notice that he's got long lashes. "See?" he says. "All better." He gives me a little smirk, and it's so fucking teenager. His face is smooth, and holding Eden, I see why they call it baby face. No sagging and no wrinkles. Guy doesn't even have a set of smile lines. I can tell he's just a kid. It makes my chest hurt seeing how fucked up he seems. Everybody should take care of kids.
"Not a big fan of the bread?" I ask him.
His lips twitch a little. "Not a fan of food." He looks down at his lap—I think it's just to get his eyes away from mine—and his eyelids drop shut. It seems automatic, like he can’t even help it.
"I'll be leaving," he says softly. But he doesn't. He shifts so he lies on his side on the cold floor, his cheek on his bicep, and I'm pretty sure he passes out.
He’s wearing Levi’s—dirty and worn-looking—and what I decide, after a few seconds of looking, is an undershirt and not a T-shirt. Shoes are black boots. They look even more ragged out than his clothes. I shake his shoulder, and I’m not surprised he doesn’t move. I shake it again, and he cracks an eye open.
“Sorry,” he moans. He pushes up on one arm, looking around the hall like he’s not sure where he is.
“You’re in Luke McDowell’s house.” His eyes come to mine, and they look blank. “You remember getting here?”
I can tell he doesn’t, because he won’t say yes, and his face looks like he might cry.
