Ethan had heard versions of that sentence since he was thirteen. He'd learned to keep his eyes down when Russell drank, to leave receipts on the counter, and to avoid making plans that required Russell's approval. His mother, Ellen Walker, had died after a long illness, and the house they'd once shared had been sold to cover debts. Her marriage to Russell had made him the available adult when the caseworker came, and Ethan had mistaken availability for love. He was old enough now to recognize the difference, but recognition didn't produce a place to live.
“Give me a month,” he said. “I'll save for a deposit and leave.”
“Your month's over. It ended when that payment did.”
Russell dragged Ethan's backpack from the hallway closet and dropped it near the back door. There were clothes in it, a little framed photograph of Ellen, an inexpensive socket set, and the folder of school certificates Ethan kept protected in plastic sleeves. Russell had already stripped the sheets from Ethan's bed. Through the kitchen doorway, Ethan could see the bare mattress and the drawers standing open. The decision had been made long before the conversation began.
“You were never worth what they paid me for you,” Russell said.
There were things Ethan might have answered. He could have mentioned the groceries he'd bought, the heating bill he'd helped pay, the years he'd spent taking care of a man who had never wanted to take care of him. Instead he picked up the backpack and held the photograph against his chest for one moment, pressing the frame into his sweatshirt so Russell wouldn't see his hands shake. Then he walked out of the house and into a cold afternoon that would become rain by nightfall.
On the first day he tried to sleep at a budget motel, spending more than half the fifty dollars he'd saved in secret. On the second day he visited two repair shops, a tire store, and a warehouse advertising open positions. Every manager wanted a permanent address, a reliable phone number, or experience he couldn't prove because Russell kept his old pay statements and Ethan no longer had access to the house. He applied anyway, using the email address he had on his old phone. By dusk, he had eleven dollars left and a blister on his heel.
A church volunteer gave him directions to a shelter, but there were no available beds that night. A man at a diner listened to his request for floor space and shook his head before Ethan finished. At a truck stop, one driver offered him a ride to another state; Ethan thanked him but refused because he didn't know the man and had nowhere to go at the other end. Twice he stood outside buildings for several minutes before he could convince himself to knock. Each closed door made the next one harder.