youâre seventeen. If anyone asks you for your ID, say you donât have one. They wonât challenge you. Runaways donât carry a driverâs license. I made the phone call, Carl. Theyâre expecting him.â
KCâs devastated by the news. His new friend has betrayed him.
âIâve got it under control, Carl,â she says. âYou donât need to stick around. Ricky, youâre going to the juvenile shelter for the night. Theyâll hook you up with Social Services tomorrow. Wait until then to tell them youâre not a minor. Now be honest with me. Are you clean? Theyâre going to drug test you in the morning,â she says briskly.
âI think youâre jumping to conclusions. Iâll stay with him until the taxi arrives.â Carl says as she signs off on the cab voucher.
KCâs sure that Carl would offer him a place to stay if only he would ask. But he doesnât, fearful of hearing the word no.
âHey, cheer up. Theyâll help you get back home if thatâs where you want to go,â Carl says when theyâre alone.
âIâve got my own money. I donât need their help. You donât have to wait. Iâm not a baby,â KC says.
âNo, youâre certainly not a baby, handsome,â Carl says kindly as the cab arrives. âPromise me youâre gonna take care of yourself.â
He offers a farewell handshake, and KC throws his arms around his broad back, hugging him tightly.
âYou come see me if your ever get back to Eugene so I know youâre doing okay. Youâre a good boy, Ricky. I know it. You remind me of my son.â
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The ride to the shelter seems to take forever.
âWhere are we?â KC asks the driver when they stop at a traffic light.
âBlair Boulevard. You donât want me to let you out in this neighborhood, believe me.â
Thereâs a bar on the corner with a rainbow flag draped above the entrance. The neon beer signsâBud Lite, Coorsâall prominently feature the universal symbol of pride, proof of the breweriesâ commitment to the beer-drinking gay community. The place is called Luckyâs. Easy enough to remember. He could tell the driver to drop him here, but tonight an uncomfortable mattress and smelly blankets feels like a better option than standing around, waiting for some horny guy to offer him a place to sleep.
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Either breakfast at the shelter is better than KC expected or heâs so starved that heâs grateful for a plate of powdered scrambled eggs and a piece of dry toast. The intake counselor says heâs concerned about the bite on KCâs cheek. He thinks it looks like itâs getting infected, KC lies and says he had a tetanus shot at the hospital. He refuses to answer any more questions and insists that the duffel and money theyâd confiscated for safekeeping last night be returned to him. The counselor warns him he canât return tonight if he refuses to pee in a cup. Itâs eight oâclock in the morning when he walks out the front door. He hopes the gloom is only lingering fog and not the promise of a wet, drizzly day. It seems like forever since he awoke in a Seattle hotel room yesterday morning. He feels like his head is clear for the first time since the Odyssey. Thereâs something he owes the Freemans for all they have done for him. They deserve a response to the last text heâd received from the Coach before losing his phone.
Y OUR AGENT IS HAVING TROUBLE WITH THE
R ANGERS . N EED TO SPEAK TO YOU . W E NEED TO CONVINCE
THEM IT â S NOT TRUE .
He canât stay silent and allow Coach Freeman, a devout Christian man, to break the Ninth Commandment by bearing false witness for him. Heâd opened his Bible this morning as he shoveled eggs off a paper plate and the words from John 8:32 almost leaped off the page, And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. He takes it as a