Free Shattered by Eric Walters

when you called. If you can give me directions I can—”
    â€œI don’t want a ride yet. It’ll be a couple more hours, maybe three. I have more work to do.”
    â€œYou can call when you’re ready. I’m just here. I’ll come for you.”
    â€œThanks, Berta.” I could always count on her .
    â€œYou be careful, carino mio .”
    â€œI will. Goodbye. I’ll call later.” I put the phone down.
    Carino mio … that was Spanish for “my dearest.” That’s what she called me all the time when I was little. Now she only said that to me when there was nobody around to hear. It still made me smile.
    â€œIt’s all set,” I said as I rejoined Mac.
    He already had his jacket on and had a red backpack over his shoulder. I grabbed my coat off the peg behind the door.
    â€œLet’s get rolling,” Mac said.
    We left through the back door. It was chilly, especially after the misty, steamy warmth of the kitchen. The air smelled fresh—well, at least as fresh as air could be in theback alley in a big city. It was certainly better than the odours inside—that strange mixture of cooking and cleaning, sweat and grime, clothes that had been lived in, slept in and soiled.
    Mac put a big padlock on the door and snapped it shut. He started walking but rather than heading up the alley toward the street, he followed the alley in the other direction … away from the street lights.
    â€œCold tonight,” Mac said and he gave a little shiver. It was chilly.
    â€œIt’s supposed to go down almost to freezing tonight,” Mac said. “I always need to know what the temperature is going to be. A few degrees can mean the difference between life and death.”
    â€œHow?” I asked.
    â€œPeople who fall asleep outside can freeze to death.” “Do people really freeze to death in this city?” I asked skeptically.
    â€œEvery year one or two people. This year six.” “Come on … really?”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œIt’s just that I’ve never heard anything about it.” “Homeless people dying don’t make the front page of the paper or the lead story on the evening news. It’s always buried in the back … the way they lead their lives. You remember saying you didn’t believe how many homeless there are in the city?”
    â€œYeah,” I said, feeling defensive.
    â€œYou’re not seeing’em because you’re not looking for’em. You have to spend time in the places you’re not supposed to go … places you’d be smart to stay awayfrom … places like the one we’re going to go tonight.” We walked along in silence for a while.
    â€œSo tell me,” Mac said, “how do you know Sarge?”
    â€œI met him last night when I came down to do my volunteer hours,” I said. “Met him in one of those places I’m probably not supposed to go. I was cutting across Selby Park and—”
    â€œSelby Park! That wasn’t very bright. It’s not safe for you to be in there!”
    â€œI didn’t know that then. I know it now.”
    â€œDid something happen?” Mac asked.
    I was tempted to leave some parts out—the parts that made me look stupid or weak—but if I’d done that there wouldn’t have been any story to tell. I told him the whole thing.
    â€œNone of what you said surprises me,” Mac said. “Especially the part about Sarge. If you’ve been around as long as I have, you get a pretty good handle on who can take care of themselves. Besides, he’s a pretty big guy.”
    â€œYou were going to tell me about him,” I said.
    â€œI’ll tell you what I know and some of what I think I know and—Hey, how you doing?” Mac yelled out.
    Two men were sitting on a heating grate behind a building. We were almost right on top of them but I hadn’t seen them. They were