Free Shattered by Eric Walters Page A

hidden in the shadows and the steam that was rising out of the grate. There was an empty bottle on the ground beside them.
    â€œYou two doin’ fine tonight?” Mac asked.
    One of them mumbled out an answer. The other didn’t respond. His eyes were open but I wasn’t sure he was even aware of us standing over top of him.
    â€œYou two need a place to sleep tonight?” Mac asked. “The shelter still has space.”
    â€œNo shelter,” the man said. His words were slurred and thick. He was drunk or stoned or something. “We’re okay … leave us alone.”
    â€œSure, we don’t want to bother you, buddy. Here,” Mac said. He handed the man some cigarettes. “Thought you could use these.”
    â€œSure … thanks … you got a light?”
    â€œâ€™Course I do, buddy.”
    Mac pulled out a package of matches and the man, hands shaking, put the cigarette in his mouth. The match flared, throwing a little halo of light. As it came close to the cigarette—close to the man’s face—I could make out his features. His eyes were dull and lifeless. His skin looked discoloured, like it was yellow. Maybe that was just the light from the match. He puffed on the cigarette and the end sparked to life.
    â€œYou need a meal tomorrow, you come by The Club, okay, buddy?” Mac said.
    The man mumbled an answer I couldn’t understand.
    â€œSee you later.”
    We started off down the alley.
    â€œIf I find somebody passed out and it’s below freezing, I have to try and rouse’em. Can’t leave’em there to freeze to death.”
    â€œWhat if you can’t wake them or they wake up and tell you to leave them alone?” I asked.
    â€œEither way I do the same. I call the police and ask them to come and pick them up. Better to be in jail than in a coffin.”
    â€œHave you ever found anybody who was … was …” “Dead?”
    I nodded.
    He nodded back. “More than once. I’ve seen lots of things …” He shook his head slowly. “Maybe too many things.”
    We walked along in silence again. I felt uneasy, uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to know what he’d seen. A bigger part didn’t want to hear. I needed to change the subject.
    â€œYou were starting to tell me about Sarge.”
    â€œI don’t know a lot, but I’ll tell you what I know. He’s been on the streets—well, at least the streets around here—for about a year and a half. Before that I don’t know for sure.”
    â€œBut you said he was in the army … that’s why they called him Sarge.”
    â€œThat’s what I heard.”
    â€œBut you’ve never asked him?”
    â€œYou don’t ever ask anybody anything about his past.
    You wait and if somebody talks, you listen.”
    â€œSo you don’t really know about him.”
    â€œI know it makes sense. The way you described him handling himself in the park, the way he carries himself.”
    â€œI noticed that,” I said, cutting him off. “I just can’t imagine how a guy in the army ends up on the street.”
    â€œLots of people end up on the streets. Truck drivers, factory workers, businessmen, doctors.”
    â€œThere are doctors living on the streets?” That couldn’t be right.
    â€œThere’s everybody.”
    â€œBut why would a doctor end up on the streets?” “Lots of routes to the same place, though there usually are two things that fuel the trip. Mental illness or substance abuse, usually alcohol. You’ve seen both already.”
    â€œBut Sarge wasn’t drunk and he’s not crazy.”
    â€œI think they like the term ‘mentally ill’ better,” Mac said.
    â€œOkay, he doesn’t seem mentally ill and he wasn’t drunk.”
    â€œNot the two times you saw him,” Mac said.
    â€œThere must be other reasons that people are on the