Things had narrowed down to a point. Craig could see the faces of the kids in the firelight, the shadows and light flickering and changing. It was cold. Not winter cold but September night cold and he knew he should be in a warm living room watching some dumb reality show. He knew where he should be.
The fires in the cans kept him warm and it made this Toronto street look like England. Like London. He wished it was, wished he was in any other city in any other time.
He put his hands out, palms outward, to feel the warmth from the fires. He was watchful. The other kids around these fires seemed to have been out here for days, for weeks, their faces smudged, the line of dirt visible under their nails. They'd come near him and he'd flinch away.
The roll of money in his pocket felt like salvation. He'd take a bus to British Columbia, to the United States of America, to anywhere. He couldn't go home again. It was too late. He wished he'd taken a jacket. The long sleeved shirt was thin and wasn't warm enough despite the fire. He stayed in the circle of its warmth.
What was his father doing? Talking on the phone to the cops, sending out search parties? Or was he just waiting for him to come home on his own, like he always had before?
He could feel the eyes of the kids around these fires, he could feel their eyes turning to him and he looked down, looked away. Hugged himself and shivered because he knew he would be leaving the warmth of these fires soon.
The cemetery was ahead, he could see the headstones even in the dim light. If his mother was alive things would be so much better. Even after all these years he couldn't believe she was gone. He kneeled down, reached his hand out toward her name etched in the stone.
"Craig," He hadn't heard the footsteps approaching him. He'd been oblivious, wrapped up in the name on the headstone, wrapped up in his memories of his mother's face and her voice and the way her hand had felt on his forehead when he was little.
He looked up at his father standing there, standing over him, and he didn't say anything. He stared in disbelief. Felt fear fill his veins like cold water. He stood up and was ready to run. His father grabbed the back of his shirt as he turned and yanked him back. Craig closed his eyes, anticipating. But he wasn't hit, just held onto, and when he opened his eyes he could see his father's fancy car in the distance.
"Let me go," he said through clenched teeth, staring at his mother's name on the stone. Maybe she was watching all of this.
"Craig, let's go home," his father said, holding onto both of his arms as Craig twisted in his grasp, trying to get away.
"No, leave me alone! Let me go!" It was no use. He couldn't get away. He wasn't strong enough. Despite twisting and kicking in his father's grasp, he couldn't get away.
"I know you're angry with me, and maybe I deserve it, but Craig, I'm not perfect-"
He had stopped struggling but Albert still held both of his arms in his firm grasp. Not perfect, Craig thought, and almost laughed.
"Let's just go home, you can cool down-" Albert said, starting to walk toward the car, pulling Craig along with him.
"No. I don't want to go home. Nothing's going to change-" As he said that Albert's grip on his arms tightened painfully and Craig winced, but he didn't care. He was beyond caring. Nothing would change. Ever.
"Things will change," Albert said, and his grip loosened again as they reached the car.
"Get in," he told Craig, opening the door and blocking him from taking off. He looked beyond him at the rows of perfect tombstones, at the dim light glinting off the polished surfaces. He didn't want to get in the car. Albert pushed him into the front seat, swung the door shut. The car had locks that the driver controlled, so Craig couldn't unlock the door. He slumped against the door, feeling the cool glass against his cheek. He could see his father's hands on the steering wheel. He could feel the fear that centered in his chest, making it hard to breathe.