I stared at him. British Columbia? Was he serious? We were sitting on the railroad tracks, and like Gordie in that old movie, "Stand By Me" I was feeling the rail with my hand for vibrations.

"What?" I said, wanting to make him repeat it. He was nervous, jittery, jumpy. More now than I'd seen him this week. And I pretty much knew why. Things sucked for him at home. But this wasn't a plan.

"I've got the money," he said, fanning the roll of bills, and I saw some twenties and some hundreds. I didn't know how much he had there, but whatever it was, it wouldn't be enough.

"You can't run away. You'll end up on the streets," I said, and I was almost sorry for causing that crestfallen look. Craig had this way of making you want to protect him, to agree with him. I blinked, almost amazed by the fact that I was with someone more fucked up than me.

"Then come with me," he said, trying so hard to believe that this could work, "we'll look out for each other,"

I shook my head and looked off into the distance, the uniform light blue sky. A couple of times when I'd moved toward him he had jerked away, just slightly, but I saw it. It was the quick reflex of people who get hit. I'd seen it before when I lived in the trailer park at Wasaga Beach, and I'd seen certain homeless dogs act that same way.

This wasn't usual for me. Usually the stupid crack pot idea was mine and someone had to talk sense into me. Sometimes it was Tracker, looking at me over his blond beard, squinting at me with his small blue eyes. Sometimes it was Emma, tossing her hair and saying my name that way that she had, "Sean," Sometimes it was a teacher, usually Mr. Simpson, and he'd try to let me know that he knew why I thought what I was saying made sense, and then he told me why it didn't. I was the fucked up one in need of guidance. How did it come about that this rich, smart kid needed my help?

"Craig, listen, it won't work. You think you have a ton of money, but money goes fast, man. One night in a hotel, a couple of meals, and you're done. Then what? Begging on the streets? And I don't know if you know but it gets cold pretty fast at night, even in British Columbia. What are you going to do? And your dad, man, he'll find you. He's rich and shit and cops…cops listen to rich people, to doctors. It isn't like your dad's some out of work drunk hitting you all the time. It's what people expect, you know? So he'd just get you back and then what would happen?"

Shit, I was not good at this. What was I telling him to do? I knew he couldn't run away like that, it would never work, but I guessed he couldn't really stay where he was. I'd seen that bruise on him, that dark purple bruise on both sides of his rib cage. Maybe his dad was crazy. Rich and crazy, that was the worst.

Craig was not looking at me. His head was turned, and his eyes were all the way to the side, and still I could see the tears in them.

"So what am I gonna do?" he said, holding the money close to his chest. I shook my head, the hell if I knew. Who did he have to run to? I'd had Tracker. At 14 you had to have someone to go to.

"What about, uh, your mom's husband, there, what's his name…"

"Joey?"

"Yeah, Joey,"

The sadness that filled his face, Jesus. I felt too warm under the sun, and the glare off the railroad tracks was giving me a headache.

"No. Joey doesn't want to have anything to do with me, plus he keeps calling my dad and getting me…getting me into trouble. Joey's not an option,"

I swallowed, blinked, tried to think. Joey wasn't an option. It seemed like his only option.

"Why? Are you sure? I mean, he was married to your mom, and now your dad's, like, beating you. He'd want you to stay with him?" Craig scowled, not wanting to talk about being hit or beat, I could tell. But that was what we were talking about. He was running away, wanting to run away to the other side of the country because of that.

"No. He's all pissed at me because I was gonna take Angie with me,"

"Angie, your little sister, the girl Emma babysits?" I said, incredulous. That kid was like only five or something.

"Yeah," he said, kind of defiantly. I pressed my lips together. He was getting to be more fucked up by the minute.

"Craig," I said, looking at him, trying to get him to look at me, "you were going to take a five year old with you to British Columbia, with just that one wad of money and nothing else? Are you crazy?"

Quiet. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe I didn't understand. I knew what it was like to be neglected, to watch your parents drink all their money away, to feel hungry. I knew what it was like to live in a trailer that was too cold, that had fleas and mice, that had dirt for a yard and plastic shit everywhere. He was coddled, well taken care of, he lived in a nice house. I knew. I'd seen that house, it was like a goddamn mansion. But I guess I didn't really know what it was like for him, being beaten, probably insulted and what not, too. It must be bad, if he was acting this crazy.