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When I return to my apartment, and slide into my bed, I'm restless. I've never fought with Mark before. Ever. We've never had anything to fight about before. Ever. And the thought that he's mad at me, for doing the right thing, makes me angry.

I flip onto my left side and stare out the window facing the courtyard. The night's sky is an orange color from the illumination of the city. I can't see a single star or planet. I used to love to distract myself during a restless night by counting the stars. I never made it very high—only into the hundreds—but it used to calm me. I can't count stars in New York and counting sheep has never worked for me. I am left to stew in my own anger with no hope of distracting myself.

If I want to be honest with myself, I'd admit that Mark is right. But I've never seen Mark's point of view as correct before and I certainly don't want to start now.

With the clock poised on 11:23 P.M., and sleep at least three hundred miles away, I climb from my bed, gather a few of my more imposing textbooks from last semester and find my way into the living room. With my haste to find my bed before, I left the living room light on. I sink down onto the couch, open my advanced chemistry book, and begin to read chapters we didn't get a chance to study. Dr. Phelps, my chemistry professor, mentioned that while we didn't finish the book, we'd be expected to know everything for any later classes. I never actually thought I'd read the rest of the book, but now I have all the time in the world.

The hours slip by quickly. It's refreshing to know I learned most of this in high school, on an elementary level, but at least it's familiar. I read through the burning tired in my eyes and through the anger of my fight with Mark. I read through my father's disappointment and agreeing to allow a teenager to share my apartment and the uncertainty of it all. I read until I think I might actually explode. But I also learn. I re-learn the periodic table and I learn about chemical bonds and energy. I study the chemical laws and become well-versed in ions and salts and acidity and basicity.

By 3:41 A.M., I am sufficiently tired and ready to sleep.

Meredith's door opens. Meredith's door.

She steps into the light still dressed in my clothes. She looks shockingly small. For a minute, she simply stands there and stares at me while I stare at her. And then she notices the books in my lap and the pen in my hand. Suddenly, I don't feel so tired.

"You're up," she says and if it were anyone else, I would quip obviously.

"Yeah, couldn't sleep. What are you doing up?"

Meredith stands awkwardly by her door; she doesn't advance toward me or shy away. Her hair is a hot mess of curls from falling asleep when it was still wet, but she seems less sallow. Even six hours of sleep has done wonders on her demeanor. I only wish she'd sit. Even after hours of sleep, she still looks like death walking.

"I think I'm used to fitful sleep. I can't stay in bed any longer." She finally moves into the room and sits back in the arm chair she had habited before. "Have you slept at all?" I shake my head. "You're not freaking out because I'm here, are you?"

I recuperate briefly, "Oh, no, no. I've just had a really long day."

She motions to the books, "You said you're in school. When does your semester end?"

"It actually did, last week. I'm just getting ahead."

Meredith smiles and bites her bottom lip. It seems like she's trying to keep a bout of laughter in. I simply focus on her lip trapped between her teeth. "You're an overachiever type, aren't you?" I put down my pen, thinking of my role as a student. "You just finish the semester and only a few days later you have a book cracked open." She smiles wide, "Kind of nerdy, huh?"

I have never been called nerdy. But with Meredith's amused smile and will to keep her laughter at bay, I find the comment kind of endearing. "I'm trying to distract myself from my bad day. It helps."

"Why was your day so bad?"

I consider my afternoon looking for her and my father showing up and my fight with Mark. The latter latter is by far the worst. But to unload any of my problems on Meredith would be too much. There's too much back story to consider and too much that I don't want to admit to.

But Meredith sits patiently and with her full attention on me. I shrug absent-mindedly and regard her, "I've been looking for you," I admit, not feeling at all embarrassed. Meredith's eyes widen, but she says nothing. I push my textbook aside, feeling energized but bored of studying. "It's a difficult position I'm in, obviously. I want to help people of all walks of life and the first chance I'm given, I make you leave. It made me…uncomfortable to know you were out there all on your own. So I looked for you everywhere. I was determined to help wherever I could."

"What if you can't help me?" she asks.

I glance toward the bathroom and Meredith's temporary room. I might not be able to save her from the reason she's running, but I can help her. And I have. "You have a roof over your head and food in your stomach. As far as I'm concerned, I am helping."

"But everything else… You can't save from that."

I shrug absent-mindedly. "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Meredith smiles and looks down at her feet. Her hair tumbles down along her shoulders and skirts the tops of her bent knees. Her skin looks pinker than yesterday and the cuts she's sporting seem to be healing nicely.

"I did go to Washington Square Park when I left here last week." She peaks up at me. Her eyes are tired and full of experiences I can't understand. Outside cars honk and people shout, but inside the room is perfectly quiet save for our breath. "I thought you might follow me, so I pretended I was meeting a friend. I guess I kind of hoped you would follow me. It's a big city, you know, and a familiar face is nice to have." She rests her chin on her knees. "The park was boring and full of weirdoes, so I left. I walked downtown. I wanted to see the World Trade Center site. But after that, there's was nothing more I wanted to do. It was dark and the city gets really strange at night. I was fine that first night—no one bothered me.

"The second day I went to Central Park. My feet are pretty tough, but they hurt so badly from all the walking the day before. I lay in the park for hours with my shoes off, just enjoying the sun. I fell asleep and when I woke up it was dark and cool." She shivers. "I didn't notice they were following me until I reached the lake. I only passed one other person and he had been so far back, I knew I was on my own. So I just kept walking. There were three of them—all in their 20s, I guess—and two of them were really big. They started cat-calling me when I began to run. And they chased me."

Meredith looks up and meets my eyes. I want to comfort her, but I'm not sure how the story ends yet and I don't know how to make it better. "I made it to Seventh Avenue and they stayed behind. But it was exactly like the night you saved me. I was stuck, alone, with no hope. But you weren't there to help and that's when I realized I wasn't going to make it out of here alive."

She pauses for a long, long moment. And then her eyes snap up to meet mine. "I won't stay long, I promise. I just need a week to recuperate. I need a week to figure everything out and then I'll go. You'll never have to see me again."

"Where will you go?"

Meredith seems taken aback. After everything she told me, I have nothing else to say. I don't know what to say because everything I am thinking makes me hate New York and all the men in it. "South, I think. People there seem…" she shrugs, "…more welcoming, I guess."

I take a cleansing breath to keep from freaking out. I don't want to scare Meredith, especially when everything that almost happened to her wasn't her fault. "You can stay here as long as you like. A week, a month, a year…it doesn't matter to me. I want you here."

"I won't be here that—"

"Even if you leave after three days, that's fine. But as long as you're in New York, you're free to stay here with me."

Meredith's gaze softens and for the first time since stepping through my door, she seems to relax. "Thank you, Derek, for everything. I never thought this city would be so difficult. If I had known, I would have bypassed it. I just hadn't been to the city since I was little, and I wanted to experience it without my parents."

Parents.

She presses her lips together. "Please don't ask me about them."

I want to. I really, really want to, but the panic in her eyes makes me stop. I nod. "Okay, I won't."

Meredith nods to the clock on my kitchen wall. "I should try and get more sleep." She stands and offers me a soft smile. "Thanks for listening."

"You can tell me anything, Meredith."

"See you in the morning," she waves and slides back into her room, shutting the door behind her.

I sit for a long time on the couch, but eventually trying to figure out Meredith exhausts me and I head to my room. My bed is welcoming and I'm thankful that my job doesn't start until noon, so at least I can get a few hours of sleep.

I don't sleep late, but when I wake I hear movement in the apartment. It takes me a minute, but I remember Meredith is staying with me and is probably making breakfast or settling her things. It's odd to live alone for years and have someone staying in your apartment full-time—even if it is temporary. I'm used to girls taking showers and making breakfast after a tryst, but this feels very different. It feels like I'm being invaded. I push the thought aside and climb from bed, not bothering to straighten up. I throw on a pair of jeans from the day before and run my fingers through my hair. I have to shower.

Meredith is in the kitchen wearing a clean pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. It seems kind of unusual that she'd wear something that could get so dirty, but white looks nice on her. The color compliments her light, freckled skin, and it makes her blond hair look much blonder. But with her short-sleeved shirt, I can see more evidence of abuse. She has bruises along her upper arms and I can see three distinct finger marks. My stomach turns over.

"How did you get those?" I ask.

Meredith startles and holds out two pieces of toast she'd been buttering. "I found the bread in the fridge. I figured you wouldn't mind." She sets the toast down and brushes the crumbs from her hands and onto the floor. "Shit. I'm sorry. Do you have a broom?"

I shake my head, still focused on her damaged upper arms. "No, not the bread. Your arms."

She glances down at her skin and immediately turns bright red. "Oh." She tugs on both sleeves, but it doesn't help. Meredith runs her fingers over the marks and shrugs. "It's nothing."

"When did it happen? Was it with that guy in the alleyway?"

I'm immediately thrust back into that night less than a week ago, when I heard Meredith scream for help. It seems like months ago that I rescued her. I can't shake the feeling of panic from the memory or the look in her eyes right before she vomited on the sidewalk before passing out. I shiver and try to think of something better, but her bruises are still glaring.

"Some of them," she nods.

I walk towards her like you would a frightened animal. I tentatively reach forward, meeting her eyes before I touch her skin. She doesn't shy away as I touch the offensive marks. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips. I stroke the biggest bruise—the one right over her bicep on her left arm and she winces a little. It's bright purple and very new. "This isn't from then."

She shakes her head. "It's feeling better though."

"Meredith," I admonish.

"Not everyone is so nice."

I sigh and close my eyes, dropping my hand from her skin. "I'm so sorry you've been through so much since you got here."

Meredith touches where my fingers had been. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine now."

My anger doesn't relent. I can feel it bubbling beneath my skin. To think that Kathleen, Nancy, Sophie, and Amelia walk these streets—where danger can be so apparent—makes my head spin. Maybe Meredith has just seen the bad luck of the draw, but I've never seen such blatant unrest in New York ever before. Or maybe it's because I'm a guy, and the abuse is never directed at me. Whatever the reason, I feel a world-of-better knowing that Meredith is safe.

I sigh and refocus my emotions.

"What time do you have work?" Meredith asks, effectively distracting me.

I smile and shake my head. It's like she knows me already. "Noon. I'll have to leave here by eleven-thirty."

I glance at the clock: 10:42.

"And I have to shower."

Meredith presents me with one of the pieces of toast. "I made breakfast."

I take the proffered breakfast. "Thanks." I take a bite. "What will you do all day?"

She shrugs and nibbles a small bite of crust. "I think I'll stay here all day, if you don't mind. I'm not really interested in being outside and exploring."

"Of course you can stay here. You don't need to ask. My cable isn't working right now, but I have a DVD player and a lot of movies. And there are books, if you wanted to read. I would give you my computer to pass the time, but I don't have the cord right now." Mark has it, which means I'll have to get in contact with him.

"I should be fine with books."

"Yeah? Okay, well, I have a bunch in my room, on the bookshelf. Take whatever you want."

She smiles, "Alright, I will."

"I should shower," I finish my toast and throw the napkin away. As I lean past Meredith, I catch a whiff of my soap on her skin. It's strange smelling it on her, but it seems fitting. "Do you need the bathroom?"

"No, I'm good. I think I'll wash some of my clothes, if that's okay."

"Meredith, you can use anything you want here. You don't need to ask."

She smiles shyly. "That's going to take a lot of getting used to."

"Well, you have as much time as you need to acclimate," I smirk. "I'll see you in a bit."

As I shower, my thoughts spill through my ears and become lost in the fog. I know I'm crazy. You'd have to be crazy to take on a teenage runaway and promise protection from the big, bad world, but maybe my insanity is what will help Meredith make it through this city and this stage in her life. And this is a stage. Her reasons for running must be valid, but eventually, her reasons won't be reasons anymore. One day, all this will pass and she will just be a woman, who has a dark past, but is at least alive to make it better. And if I can provide even a little security for her future, I'll do it.

But of course, thinking of Meredith's past makes me curious. What could be so bad as to make a teenage girl run from home? And how long has she been running? Even if someone isn't chasing her, are her parents looking for her? Are her friends? If I ran away, my parents, siblings, friends, and neighbors would probably be looking for me. Our neighborhood would be blanketed with missing signs and my parents would probably interview on the evening news. I can't help but think that any family would do the same for their missing child.

Of course, Meredith's reasons for running could stem from her parents inability to know their own daughter, or maybe even care for her. Or her parents could be dead and she's avoiding foster care. Or she could be a pampered brat who was anger about not getting the car she wanted for her birthday. Truth is, I don't know Meredith and I know nothing about her background. And until she's ready to tell me—or leaves town, whichever comes first—I'm in the dark.

Dr. Weaver understands about my absences last week—probably because my father made a call. It doesn't bother me, because he accepts my apology and sets me to work. I'm thankful for my job and try not to complain, but it's hard to focus on anything when I can't be up-to-date on Meredith. She doesn't have a cell phone and I don't have a house phone. I know she's fine, probably curled up with a book right now, but it doesn't change the fact that I wish I didn't have to be working.

Around three, I take a bathroom break and I quickly text Mark. I need my computer charger. He has every right to disagree with my choices, but it seems silly to cut me off completely. He texts me back almost immediately. I'll drop it off after work. Are u still babysitting?

It's none of your business.

Dick

I ignore Mark's last text and slide my phone away. I have two hours of work left and a stranger waiting for me in my house.

Meredith sits up as soon as I enter the apartment and offers me a sheepish smile. "I was napping," she blushes.

I shut the door behind me and pull off my waterlogged shoes. No one said it would rain today. "You've missed out on a lot of sleep I'd imagine. Napping is good for you." I walk into the kitchen and grab a beer and notice none are missing. At least I'm not dealing with an under-aged drinking fine on top of the other possible fines on my name. "How was your day?"

Meredith sets a battered book onto the coffee table face down. "Good. It was quiet. Except someone rang your doorbell around five. I didn't answer it."

"Good, don't. I think it was my friend Mark. He was returning my computer cord."

"Oh, sorry I didn't let him up. He didn't say anything, just rang the buzzer."

I take a long swig of my beer. "You shouldn't apologize. Even if Mark rings again and asks to come up—or anyone else: my parents, my sisters—just don't answer. They'll go away." I can only imagine how angry my sisters would be—especially Kathleen and Nancy—if they learned about Meredith.

"I'm guessing none of them know about me?"

I sit down in the chair across from her with a sigh. "I'm not keeping you from them, but I haven't really talked to my family since I met you."

"Will you tell them?" her voice is small.

I can't tell if it's hurt or fear in her eyes. I decide to be honest. "No, I don't want to tell them." She looks away and fiddles with a bracelet I hadn't noticed before. It's small and thin, with two little charms dangling from her wrist. I can't tell what they are. "Do you want me to tell them?"

"No," she says quickly and forcefully. "Please don't."

I sigh with relief, "Good. We're on the same page, then. Are you hungry?"

"Starved," she nods, and I actually believe she might be starved and not just using a dramatic phrase.

"Want to go out for dinner? The rain's seemed to stop and I know a really good place to get a burger."

Meredith looks apprehensive, but then she nods and smiles. "I just need to get changed."

I pull my phone from my pocket and smirk at her. "Take your time."

Meredith slides from the couch and crosses the room. As she reaches her door, she turns slightly and meets my eyes. She smiles, ducks her head, and closes her bedroom door behind her. She's at ease in my apartment and it seems like her confidence is returning to her step.

We sit across each other at Ditch Plains, my favorite laidback fare in the area, and Meredith mulls over the menu. Her lips seem to be permanently attached to a straw leading into her glass of Coke, but her eyes dart left and right. I've already decided, but I like simply watching her decide. It's in these moments, when she's relaxed, that I notice how young she really is. I realize she's been through more than I could ever understand, and she's been beaten and broken by more than one person.

Meredith sets her menu down and drops the straw. She's already drank half her Coke. "I think I want the lobster roll. I haven't had lobster since…" she pauses and I don't know if it's because she doesn't actually remember or if she's trying to hide another secrets about herself. "At least three years," she finishes, which gives away nothing.

"The lobster roll is good. Just as good as anything you'd get in Maine."

"I was hoping so," she smiles at me.

Our waitress arrives and takes our orders, but then we're left alone once again. I realize I really have nothing to discuss with Meredith, because most everything is banned. I try anyway. "Would you tell me about your friends?"

She seems to consider this, but after a second, Meredith nods. "I have two best friends, Izzie and Cristina." She smiles. Her eyes hold something nostalgic and I wonder if she's imagining slumber parties, mall trips, and gossiping over lattes at Starbucks. But then I wonder if Meredith really is the type of girl to gossip, or enjoy a day at the mall, or slumber with her friends. "We've been friends since third grade. Cristina and I were neighbors when we were really little, but she moved across town. Izzie was in my classes and the three of us just clicked." She shrugs. "Cristina and Izzie bicker endlessly. I have to mediate all the time."

"Why do they fight?"

Meredith swirls her straw around her glass. "I don't know if they would be friends if it wasn't for me. They're really, really different and I guess I'm an even mix of both of them."

"How so?" I push her to say more, because with each detail, I feel like I might—one day—grow to know her.

"Well, Izzie is the cheerleader type, without being an actual cheerleader. She's blond and peppy and everyone loves her. She's fiercely loyal and driven. Her mom is kind of a letdown—spending her money on phone psychics and marrying a new man every two years—so she wants to become more. Cristina, on the other hand, has a lot in life. Her mom remarried after her dad died and they're really well-off. Cristina is very competitive. She plays women's rugby and gets the best grades. She's a great friend. She can be a bit mean to people she doesn't know and she's really sarcastic, but she's my rock."

I try to pull out details of both her friends that form the mix of Meredith. She's not a cheerleader type—peppy and excited—so I can only assume it's her loyalty and drive. As for Cristina's traits, I can't see Meredith being mean, but maybe she's competitive and well-off? Or maybe she's sarcastic.

What I do know of Meredith is that she's a reckless person. And recklessness on top of drive and competition might be a volatile mix.

"Do you think they're looking for you?"

Meredith looks away—out the window—and her eyes blink in slow succession. She wets her lips and blows a soft breath against the pane of glass. "No." She says simply, with complete conviction.

"How do you know?"

She glances at me. She's sad. "I asked them not to."

I lean forward in my bench and fold my arms across the table. "They know you were planning on running?"

For a moment, I think I've pushed too far—I've asked too much of her. But Meredith nods. "Yeah, I told them."

"Did they know you were planning on heading to New York?"

"No," she shakes her head and pushes a wayward curl from her eyes. "I didn't even know where I was going when I left. I just told them I was leaving and when I turned eighteen, I'd call them."

"When do you turn eighteen?"

Meredith smiles slightly, as if she's experiences her own joke. "In the early fall," she says, giving no further details. She has to protect herself, of course.

"What made you come to New York, then?"

"I was picked up along the way by a really nice older woman. She said she was headed to Long Island, but would make a stop in New York if that's where I wanted to go. It sounded like a better plan then any, so I said yes. She dropped me off at Times Square, gave me her phone number in case I ran into trouble, and left."

"You're lucky she wasn't a murderer," I joke, but there's a tone in my voice that is deeply sincere.

Meredith picks up on my tone. "I'm a good judge of character," she says defensively. "I knew a seventy-year-old grandma wasn't going to hack me up and throw me into a ditch."

"You don't know that."

"So, are you saying you're going to hack me up? I decided to trust you, but maybe that was a mistake."

"Meredith, I wasn't talking about me."

"No, but if you make a blanketed statement like that, you have to consider your situation as well. You're a twenty-one-year-old male who has offered assistance to a female teen runaway and has asked nothing in return. You don't strike me as a Mother Theresa type, so I probably should assume you have an ulterior motive. The old lady, on the other hand, had a rosary hanging over her mirror and had a Virgin Mary pin on her shirt. She was much more credible than you are."

"It could have all been a ploy. Maybe she drives around wherever she picked up you, and plays the 'I'm a sweet old lady' card. She offers you food and tells you to nap, and before long, you're chained up in her basement waiting to die."

Meredith sits and stares at me for a minute. I see the corner of her mouth downturn and her eyes blaze with…anger, hurt, dismay? But after a second, her mouth turns up and she's smirking at me. I watch as her entire face brightens. What an odd reaction. "You're really twisted, you know that, right?"

I find myself smiling and nod, "I watch too many horror movies."

"And apparently I don't watch enough." She shakes her head and a wave of the scent of my shampoo brushes across my face. "I don't know why I trusted that old lady—or you for that matter. I guess I'm just hoping there still are good people out there."

I smile across the table. Meredith may be reckless, but she's also smart. And funny. And clever. "Maybe I'll give you a reason to learn to trust people."

A cool, slow smile falls upon her lips and she nods. "I'd like that."

After dinner, we walk the long way along the Hudson and back down Christopher Street to my apartment. I point out the nearly completed World Trade Center One in the distance and the Statue of Liberty. I tell an antidote about my trip to Ellis Island at age seven—when I tried to jump into the churning water of the Hudson—and I point out the Jersey City skyline. We walk along the boardwalk near Pier 44 and loop down the jetty reaching its fingers to Hoboken. Meredith seems relaxed and is attentive to my every word and story. I'm trying to show her a less scary side of New York. I'm trying to make her not hate this place.

Just as we reach Hudson and Christopher, my phone rings. My dad. I smile apologetically to Meredith and take the call. "Hey dad."

"Derek, how are you? How was your day?"

In dad-code, that means: did you actually go to work today?

"My day was good, dad. Dr. Weaver seemed happy to see me return."

Meredith glances at me, but then focuses on her feet again.

"Good, good. I'm glad you were able to make it to work!"

In dad-code: I'm glad my son isn't a total screw up.

"So, what's up? I just saw you." In son-code: I have a life, let me live it. And stop bothering me.

"Your mother and I are coming into the city on Friday for an event at the Lincoln Center. It doesn't start until eight, and she thought it'd be a good idea to meet up with you and grab some dinner. What do you say?"

I glance at Meredith, still totally focused on her feet—probably trying to give me some semblance of privacy, but all I can think of are the hours I'll be leaving her alone in the apartment. It seems unfair to her. Plus, my apartment has the tell-tale signs of another person staying there, and with my mom's inquisitive nature and ability to seek out the truth, I'd never make it out alive. "Yeah, Dad, I don't know. I have plans."

"With Mark? Derek, your mother doesn't visit a lot. It would be nice if you could make yourself available."

"No, not with Mark."

"Do you have a date?"

To me, his voice is amplified and I really hope Meredith can't hear him. She looks down the street, but I can see the hint of a smile in her green-grey eyes. "No Dad. But I can't make it Friday. How about next week?" Maybe Meredith will be gone by then and I won't have to pretend any longer.

"I'll talk to your mother. Try to change your plans Derek. We'd like to see you."

"Yeah, I'll work on it. Look, I gotta go."

"You've been on the phone for two seconds."

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I'll call you tomorrow. Bye." I hang up before he can say another word. "Sorry," I stash my phone in my pocket, now on silence.

Meredith smiles, "It's fine. It sounds like you have a really good relationship with your parents."

I've always considered my parent sort of overbearing, but maybe that's why all the Shepherd children are succeeding so admirably. Our parents push us to be better; to have more than they did; to become more. And maybe their kind of overbearing is warranted if the end result is a success. And maybe that's what makes them good parents. I nod, realizing my parents are doing exactly what they should be. "Yeah, I do."

"That must be really nice." Her voice is positive, but I can hear an undertone of regret and jealousy.

"Meredith," I begin, but she shakes her head and glances at me.

"Please don't," she asks. "It's fine. Everything's fine."

I stop and regard her. She's wrapped her arms around herself like she's cold or trying to protect herself from someone or something. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are downturned. "Did your parents hurt you?"

Meredith glances up at me and I can see a thousand unshed tears behind her eyes. "No," she says clearly. "No one hurt me."

But I don't know if I believe her.

"Can we just go home?" she asks and we both startle at her casual use of 'home.'

I don't say anything, though, and I nod in agreement. Meredith starts out before me, walking faster than before, and I'm left in the dust of uncertainty about her past, about her parents, and about my feelings for her calling my apartment home.