Before Ethan went to the cot, he stood awkwardly beside the doorway. “I can pay you,” he said. “Not much now. I can work. I know how to clean things and carry boxes. I've changed oil before.”
“I didn't ask for a résumé.”
“I know. I just don't want you thinking I'm expecting something for nothing.”
Jack examined the boy's face. “Sleep first. Talk tomorrow.”
The storage room had a high window, a stack of tires, and an old metal cot Jack had bought at an auction years earlier. Ethan laid his backpack beside the bed like it contained treasure, although it held only a change of socks, a photograph, and a worn sweatshirt. He pulled the blanket to his chin and listened to the rain tapping the roof. On the other side of the wall, Jack moved around the shop, locking drawers and switching off lights. Those ordinary sounds made Ethan's chest ache more than the cold had.
He had spent three nights listening for footsteps that might mean danger. Tonight the footsteps belonged to a man who had given him dinner. Ethan stared at the dim window and waited for himself to feel safe enough to sleep. He didn't know what safety was supposed to feel like after so long without it. Eventually the sound of a garage door being checked and locked faded into silence, and exhaustion carried him away.
Three days earlier, on his twentieth birthday, Ethan had stood in the kitchen of Russell Pike's house with a paper plate holding a slice of supermarket cake. He hadn't bought it himself. His mother used to celebrate birthdays, even during years when money was scarce, and he'd found himself staring at the bakery case as if choosing a cake might summon her back. He bought the cheapest slice and planned to eat it after work. Russell noticed the little plastic box before Ethan got the chance.
“Birthday?” Russell asked, glancing at the date on the calendar.
“Yeah.”
“Then you're twenty.”
Ethan nodded. Russell set down his coffee, opened a kitchen drawer, and pulled out an envelope. There was no card inside, only a printout from the state benefits office. He tapped the page twice with a thick finger. “This says the extended support payment ends this month,” he said. “You know what that means?”
Ethan knew. He had known since the letter arrived, because Russell had read it aloud with a satisfaction that made the words impossible to forget. A survivor benefit and an extended placement stipend had helped cover Ethan's care after his mother died. Russell had been his legal guardian, and for seven years he had treated that money as personal income while explaining that food and shelter entitled him to every cent. Ethan worked evenings in a grocery stockroom while finishing a technical program, but Russell demanded most of those wages as rent. The birthday meant the checks were ending.
“I've been looking for another shift,” Ethan said.
“You don't understand. I'm done carrying you.”
“I pay what you ask.”
Russell laughed once. “You pay because I let you stay. Don't confuse the two.”