"How long?" a woman asks.

"I only take male clients," Kurt replies, as if he tired of saying so.

"I wasn't asking how long a session is, honey," her voice is soft and motherly, reminding Kurt of his own mom. "How long have you been out here?"

He frowns. She can't be serious, can she? She's not actually concerned. She can't be.

"You don't have to tell me," she says when he doesn't answer. "But let me take you somewhere clean and warm. You've probably been staying in motels where the windows don't close and the doors don't lock, or God forbid an alleyway."

Kurt only looks at her like she's lost her mind. Who walks up to a kid on street and offers then a place to sleep? Didn't this lady know pretty much all these kids were thieves?

"You don't have to say yes," she smiles at him. "You don't have to say anything; you can just walk away and ignore me if you want."

"Um," he hesitates. "Why?"

"Most people don't wanna be on the streets do they?" she asks, and suddenly Kurt wishes he knew her name. "You're obviously not on the streets for drugs, because if you were at that point you accept only male clients."

"Kurt," he introduces himself, putting his hand out then quickly pulling it back before she can shake it and shoving it in his pocket.

"Debra Anderson," she gestures for him to follow her. "But call me Debbie if you like."

"Two years," Kurt answers her first question. "I've been out her for two years."

She opens a small truck, the model is some Chevy from the '60s, but it's been a while since Kurt's brushed up on car facts.

"'Bout time I found you then," Debbie tells him as they get in. "You can change the station if you want. My son likes Top 40s."

"This is fine," he feels shy, and curious. "How old is your son?"

"Just turned 15," she makes a turn and then stops at a red light.

Kurt nods.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "You're taking this better than some of the other kids."

"Other kids?" he asks, trying to deflect attention away from him.

"My husband and I run a home for kids on the streets," Debbie seems hesitant to say this, feeling like Kurt would want to leave. "Our youngest son was on the streets before we adopted him."

"Oh," is all Kurt can think to say, because he really doesn't know how to respond to that.