Mickey was 15 when his father caught him having sex. It wouldn't have been a problem... if it had been with a girl... Unfortunately, that hadn't been the case.

That had only been Mickey's second time having sex with a guy. It had been one of his brother's friends. They'd gotten drunk and stoned and one thing had led to another... He'd thought he was careful, but without a lock on his door, the chair he'd used to prop it shut hadn't done shit when his dad had suddenly pushed the door open to go use the bathroom. The legs of the cheap chair had just folded in on themselves.

Terry had been furious. He'd charged at Mickey, beating him senseless. The other guy had fled—ran away the moment he saw a clear path to the bedroom door. Terry had attacked Mickey with such ferocity, pounding his son's head endlessly with his fists, screaming that no son of his was going to be a God-damned AIDS monkey. He'd only stopped when Mickey had lost consciousness. Mickey had later learned from his younger sister Mandy that their dad had left him in his room, bloody and unconscious, and that she had called the ambulance when he'd finally left the house to get more beer an hour later.

But it hadn't ended with that beating. Terry had ridiculed and abused Mickey ever since. It was like he'd purposely told the whole town about his queer son, and had made sure they knew that it was okay with Terry to beat him up at will. Mickey had gone from a feared member of the community to absolute scum. There was nobody to protect him. His brothers had quickly joined in on the abuse. He'd endured it for a year until he'd decided to run away.

With no real means of income, Mickey'd had to steal and pawn shit in order to survive. Nobody would give him a job, and none of his supposed "friends" wanted anything more to do with him since finding out he was a faggot. He'd found an abandoned building and had made himself a shelter on one of the top floors. The ceiling was falling apart. He'd fashioned a little roof using tarps so that he'd be shielded from the rain and had found an old mattress on the street. He would probably have frozen to death by the time winter rolled around, but he hadn't gotten the chance to find out—it wasn't long before he'd been arrested and sent to Juvie for shoplifting.

Juvie had been heaven for Mickey. He'd had warm meals, a bed to sleep in, a roof over his head, his choice of sexual partners... but the best part of Juvie had to be the metal bars. To everyone else, bars meant they were trapped. The cells were a constant reminder of their captivity. To Mickey, however, the bars meant safety. Terry couldn't hurt him while he was locked up.

He'd originally been sentenced to six months, but Mickey had gotten into enough fights and caused enough problems to extend his stay in Juvie more than few times. His eighteenth birthday was fast approaching, and thanks to a visit from his state-appointed attorney, he knew he had to cut that shit out and behave before his release. He didn't want to end up being transferred to prison, afterall.

When Mickey was released, more than a year and a half after running away, nobody had been there to pick him up—not even Mandy. No one had visited him in the whole time he'd been there. He wondered if the state had even sent word to his family about his detention or the fact that he was now being released. He assumed that was something they normally did, but he wouldn't put it past the lovely judicial system of the state of Illinois to let him slip through the cracks. In any case, he was thankful to not see his dad or his brothers hanging around waiting for him.

Mickey made his way over to his little hideaway in the abandoned building, thankful that it was still intact and unoccupied. He silently thanked whatever higher power there was that some other bum hadn't commandeered it. There was no way Mickey was going home. He'd stay here until he could afford something else.

Mickey had to find a legitimate job before his meeting with his parole officer in a few days. He knew that if he didn't find something on his own, he'd get saddled with working at the meat packing plant and would probably lose a limb within the week. Mickey began his search, going to every construction company and site he could think of. He'd had a lot of time to work out while in Juvie, so he was in pretty good shape. He knew he could handle a physically demanding job... but nobody was willing to hire a seventeen-year-old with a record.

Mickey was starting to give up. He'd been looking for work for two full days already. He supposed he could settle and get a job at a McDonald's or something... at least he'd get some free food in addition to the pathetic wages. On the third day after his release, Mickey had to kill some time before meeting his parole officer. He was smoking a cigarette while walking in the park near her office. It was only the beginning of June, but it was already fucking hot as hell.

Mickey was looking around for a water fountain when he saw a small help wanted sign in the park office's window. Mickey wasn't too optimistic, but he felt like he had to give it a try anyway. He walked over to the small building, which was more like a portable wooden trailer, and knocked on the door. An old man in a dirty maintenance uniform answered. He must have been at least seventy—Mickey didn't know why the guy hadn't retired yet.

"Hi. I saw the sign on the sill. You still hirin'?"

The old man looked Mickey up and down before answering him. "Maybe... I need some help with the upkeep. The guy who used to work here found a better job this summer... but it's a lot of work. You'd be out in the sun all day..." When he spoke, the man took his sweet-ass time, as if he had no other care in the world. His slow drawl was already frustrating Mickey, who could never keep still for too long.

"I can handle it," Mickey said. Did this guy think Mickey was some kind of pussy? He could handle hard work.

"Hmm..." the guy hummed, giving Mickey another appraising stare. "How old are you? This is a public park, you know... it's run by the city. Gotta be eighteen..."

Mickey's shoulders fell. He didn't know why he was so disappointed. He hadn't really expected it to work out anyway. "I'm seventeen. Birthday's not for another two weeks..."

He had turned and started walking back towards the fountain, but something made him turn back around. "Can't you make an exception?" Mickey asked. "Please?" he added, voice strained. He couldn't figure out why he said it. Milkoviches didn't beg for anything... but then again, Mickey hadn't felt like a Milkovich for almost three years now.

He looked up at the old man, who was staring hard into Mickey's eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, the man sighed. "Well, maybe I can work something out. I can't put you on the payroll until you're eighteen, but if you start working now, I can add the hours you work during the first two weeks to your future time cards. Would that work?"

Mickey didn't understand why the guy was being so nice to him, but this was the first opportunity he'd had in a long fucking time, and there was no way he was going to pass it up. It had to be better than working in fast food, right? "Yeah, that'd be fine," Mickey said.

"I'm Sal," the guy said, opening the office door wider and urging Mickey in. He filled out some forms and Sal explained what he'd be doing as part of his job. (He'd be responsible for mowing the grass, cleaning the playground, maintaining the baseball field, emptying the garbage cans, etc.) It was a lot of work, but Mickey wasn't worried. At least he'd have steady income until the middle of autumn. Sal handed him the previous employee's uniform and told him to be back the next morning at 7am. They shook hands before Mickey left.

Mickey got to his meeting with the parole officer half an hour early; he just hadn't been able to waste any more time wandering around in the park. She seemed impressed with his timing, telling him that most of the time, kids were late, if they even bothered showing up at all. Mickey just shrugged. He told her about the job he had just scored, and she said it would be fine as long as he got her a letter that clearly stated when he would be starting his employment.

Now all Mickey had to do was figure out how to survive without any income for the next two weeks...