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We could’ve alerted the police, but it was better to remain invisible when it came to the authorities, so they would continue to look the other way while dealing with actual crime in the city. And there was plenty to keep them occupied. Tessa recently told me that the state was in the process of passing what was called the Homeless Bill of Rights. It would help people without a permanent place to live become a protected class. As it stood now, we weren’t harassed much on public property by the police or shop owners unless someone complained. No one mentioned anything about cruel, drunk men using a weapon in the form of a spray. We weren’t a disadvantaged group to them, just a pitiful nuisance and vulnerable enough to mess with because there would be few, if any, consequences.
Eventually, Darius returned to his box for some shut-eye, but I could tell that Joe would not be able to rest after what happened. I convinced him to move with me to another location on a side street that looked quiet and safe. He lay down on his ratty blanket, and I agreed to keep watch for a while, before finally succumbing to sleep myself.
4
FOSTER
I was in the university library, helping a student pull old journals for a research paper in her communications class. Times had certainly changed since I attended college. As a student, I practically lived in the library so I could access resources and find a quiet place to work.
But as the world modernized and more things became available online, we had to change with the times. Students still gathered here for quiet places to work, but the help they needed nowadays was at the touch of their fingertips. The librarians were still looked to for their wealth of knowledge, and each of us had an area of specialty. Mine was the arts, which meant I had access to plenty of historical references, and sometimes students wanted to look at actual books and journals, likely because they felt tangible.
“All set?” I asked her, and she absently nodded as she pulled her laptop closer.
I made my way toward the arts sections to reshelve a couple of books, and when I passed by the Ws in the rows of fiction, it reminded me of Lachlan. He hadn’t been there the past two mornings, and I wondered if something happened to him. Or had he decided to change locations? Would I ever see him again?
Now I regretted not taking Oscar for a longer walk during the sleet storm to see if Lachlan was okay, but on top of the miserable weather, I’d also been in the midst of a depressive episode. I had practically slept all day Friday after calling in sick. It happened once or twice a year, when the med I was on didn’t touch the core of the numbing feeling that came along with my worst days. It was essentially up to me to push through with the help of the methods I’d learned in therapy. But it was difficult and exhausting to get my body and mind to cooperate.
That said, I had no idea why I was so intrigued by Lachlan, but maybe I was only concerned for his well-being. Something about his deep, soulful eyes that were warm and expressive but also world-weary. I could only imagine and would’ve loved to ask more, but I’d been afraid he’d think I was prying.
Glancing at the shelf, I found Oscar Wilde and slid out one of the two copies of Lady Windermere’s Fan. I paged through it, suddenly realizing I was smiling. I brought it back to my desk, checked it out, and slipped it in my bag. For what reason, I wasn’t exactly sure. I just enjoyed the story Lachlan told about his mom.
I wondered why he’d never bought himself a copy or checked it out himself—before experiencing homelessness, of course—when a memory of my previous job at a public library in Chicago flooded my brain.
Shelterless men and women would come inside to get warm or read at one of the tables. I felt guilty now about listening to employees complaining about their stench or loitering, and that I did nothing to push back. Apparently, we were all ignorant and unsympathetic in certain scenarios in our lives. When you know better, you do better, as my mom would say. Maybe they just wanted a quiet, dry place for a few hours, or the escapism a book offered.
I glanced at the clock and saw it was coming up on noon.
“Be back in an hour,” I said to my coworker. She waved as she picked up the help-desk phone. I grabbed my coat and walked down a flight of stairs into the cool spring air.
Doug, my friend from college, had relocated to Cleveland five years ago—he was in the medical industry—and he’d been instrumental in convincing me to make a change. We worked close enough to make plans happen sometimes, so we’d agreed to have lunch today.
