When the lights had come on this morning, Lincoln had already been awake. His stuff had been all gathered up in a cardboard box with a lid, waiting.

When the C.O. had come to get him, he'd been ready, holding the box in both hands. It was Lou, who Lincoln generally thought was alright.

He'd done the release process before, but it had never seemed to take quite so long. He'd breathed through his nose and tried to remember all the things they'd said in anger management. Impatience, he'd figured, was not that far from anger, after all. And he was nearly exploding with it.

Lincoln watched as the guard looked through his meager belongings. "Don't get why you have to search it like that when it's on it's way out," he grumbled.

"Just making sure you've got what you came with," Lou replied, putting the Bible Lincoln had gotten from the detention center's priest into the box. "For inventory."

"Makin' sure I don't run off with someone else's shit?" Lincoln asked.

"Exactly," Lou replied. "You don't got much…but some of these boys come in with some expensive shit." He waggled his eyebrows.

"I know," Lincoln said. He'd heard all their bragging…and gotten in more than a few fights with those snot-nosed, suburban kids who didn't get how it worked, didn't understand that whether or not your folks had money didn't mean shit in here…unless you were sharing.

"Jeez, boy. It's cold out there, you know that?"

Lincoln nodded as Lou handed him his box. He set it down at his feet so he could adjust the lonely contents. "I saw out a window," he replied, remembering seeing snowflakes falling through the wired glass.

"Don't you have a sweater, boy?" the guard asked as he knelt to do that. "Or some real shoes?"

Lincoln shook his head. "This is it," he said, straightening and gesturing at the box of his belongings that sat at his feet.

"You're gonna freeze to death," Lou said, looking Lincoln over with sharp eyes. He shook his head. "I don't even have one to give you."

"I'll be fine," Lincoln said, shrugging. Lou had always been good to him.

"If you say so," the guard replied. "One more thing before you go." The guard handed him 150 dollars in cash.

Lincoln tucked the money in his pocket before asking, "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" Because free money was better than no money at all; hell, without it, Lincoln didn't even know if he could make it back to Chicago.

The guard coughed. "On your 18th birthday, when you age out of the foster care system, they give you a hundred. The fifty's from the detention center, 'cause that's what they send with the boys who age out. Hundred fifty bucks."

Lincoln snorted. "Yeah, that's gonna get me real far," he said sarcastically. Lou shrugged.

"Better than nothin', ain't it? Anyway, I didn't make the rules, kid," he said.

He held out his hand, and Lincoln shook it. "Good luck."

Lincoln nodded and hefted up his box of belongings. The heft was for show; really, the box was nearly weightless. He'd come in with the clothes on his back, and left with those same clothes, which still fit six months later, and a few small items he'd accumulated over his stay. "Thanks, boss," he said.

Walking out alone felt strange. Alone, no cuffs, no social worker, no car. And there was snow, everywhere. He shivered, wishing he had a sweatshirt or something. When he'd gotten arrested in June, it had been hot as hell. Now, that tee shirt, jeans, and flip flops were nothing against the cold. He hurried out to the bus shelter and set down his box on the bench, then pulled his wallet out of his pocket. To his surprise, there was a ten dollar bill already inside; he exchanged the $150 for the $10, pushed it deep inside his pocket again, and started to blow on his hands and rub his arms, desperately trying to keep something like warmth while waiting for the bus.

But freezing or not, he was free. It was a good feeling, to be free. He curled his toes, trying to keep them away from the packed snow at the entrance of the shelter. And things were gonna be different now.

For him, and for Michael. The first thing he was going to do was find Michael; his social worker wouldn't tell him anything about his brother. He'd been starved for information for months now. He'd wondered why; wouldn't she, or couldn't she? He'd heard of people getting lost in the foster care system before, and it terrified him to think they might not be able to find Michael. But no, that was ridiculous. Of course he'd find Michael; he always did. And he'd take care of him. He was 18 now; he'd done it for months before Mom died, and it had been alright. And he'd been younger then.

The bus pulled up, breaking his train of thoughts. He lifted up his box and got on hastily, glad to get out of the cold. The warmth from the bus' heating system enveloped him and he let out a little sigh of relief as some of the chill left his bones.

"Chicago?" he asked, even though he knew the bus would take him there. The driver nodded wearily, and Lincoln handed him a ten and landed gracelessly in the first seat, his legs sprawling to take up as much space as possible. Why not? The bus was empty.

He settled back, enjoying the upholstered comfort of the seat, and didn't look back at the detention center as the bus rolled away. That was the past. He was never going there again, or anywhere like it. It would be different now.

He saw snow start to fall against the window. Without the wire from inside the jail, it looked peaceful and soft.

"Happy Birthday," he said under his breath to himself.

But despite the jaded edge to those words, Lincoln smiled. He was free…it wasn't a bad start, all things considered