Here goes the second chapter. I changed my pen name, by-the-by, in case you didn't figure that out on your own. So now I'm the-person-formerly-known-as-K.A.T.E.-now-known-as-shinytinfoil, k? I don't do numbers, so it might change again if they add one.
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The boy could not have been more than sixteen, awkward in a body that was more skin and bone than actual muscle, with hair that had been shaved down to the roots, but his voice was a smooth, rich baritone, completely at odds with the rest of his dirt-covered appearance.
If the social worker had looked closer, she would have seen that, despite the dirt, his clothes were of good-quality, as was the backpack he had slung over one shoulder, but this particular worker had been working for nine straight hours and was ready to go home and watch CSI: Miami. "Name?" she questioned flatly.
"Theodore Jeffries." The boy kept his eyes on the floor, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
"Place of origin?"
"Ewing, New Jersey."
"Did you run away from home?"
"My parents kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I kept digging holes."
"That's why the cops picked you up, correct?"
"Yeah. I didn't know you couldn't dig in Fairmont. They should put up signs."
"Hm, well." The worker signed the bottom of the form and handed it to him without looking up. "Take this form to the Youth Center down the street. You'll stay there until we can contact your parents or set you up in foster care."
If she had looked up, she would have noticed that there was something wrong with the hands that took the form, something abnormal, but the boy hid them behind his back before she looked. "Yes, ma'am. I'll go now." He turned and trotted out, and the social worker didn't spare him another thought. If he went to the center, he went, but they both knew he probably wouldn't even be in the city come tomorrow.
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Review.
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The boy could not have been more than sixteen, awkward in a body that was more skin and bone than actual muscle, with hair that had been shaved down to the roots, but his voice was a smooth, rich baritone, completely at odds with the rest of his dirt-covered appearance.
If the social worker had looked closer, she would have seen that, despite the dirt, his clothes were of good-quality, as was the backpack he had slung over one shoulder, but this particular worker had been working for nine straight hours and was ready to go home and watch CSI: Miami. "Name?" she questioned flatly.
"Theodore Jeffries." The boy kept his eyes on the floor, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
"Place of origin?"
"Ewing, New Jersey."
"Did you run away from home?"
"My parents kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I kept digging holes."
"That's why the cops picked you up, correct?"
"Yeah. I didn't know you couldn't dig in Fairmont. They should put up signs."
"Hm, well." The worker signed the bottom of the form and handed it to him without looking up. "Take this form to the Youth Center down the street. You'll stay there until we can contact your parents or set you up in foster care."
If she had looked up, she would have noticed that there was something wrong with the hands that took the form, something abnormal, but the boy hid them behind his back before she looked. "Yes, ma'am. I'll go now." He turned and trotted out, and the social worker didn't spare him another thought. If he went to the center, he went, but they both knew he probably wouldn't even be in the city come tomorrow.
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Review.