I knew I'd fucked up; the medicinal syrup and pills had done nothing; and now Phil was sick and in debt to his pimp, who already took so much from him; and I probably really shouldn't be here after that jackass Dane had thrown me out, but I couldn't leave Phil here alone.

I sat down next to him on top of the blanket, to put that barrier between us. Our arms were nearly touching. The silence consumed us and all I could hear was blood rushing in my ears. I turned nervously to face him, and squeaked an awkward "hi," which he tried to return but ended up coughing instead. I reached out a shaking hand to rub his back until the hacking died down. I pulled back quickly, worrying I was overstepping again.

The night drew on in silence, but not altogether uncomfortably. There seemed to be nothing to say. I bit my lip, and noticed it was a little past midnight. At last I had to ask what I'd been wondering ever since he brought me here. "Why are you doing this?"

He turned to me, staring with tired bloodshot eyes that he was obviously struggling to keep open. "Why am I doing what?"

"Why did you take me in like this?" I reached under the pillow for his juice, unscrewed the cap and handed it to him. He took a few gulps and set it aside. "There's nothing to gain from having me here. If anything I'm a burden more than anything. I mean, I'm definitely very grateful, and it's a lot better than being on my own out on the street, but what are you gaining from this? Why are you taking care of me?"

He gave a weak smile and turned over to face me a little better. He swiped his hair out of his eyes and stared at me for another moment. I shifted awkwardly, uncertain. At length he croaked out a response.

"I'm doing it because I know what it's like to have nothing and no one, and to be afraid like you were, and I would never let someone go through that." He shifted, sitting up a little straighter. "When you helped me out –what, two years ago?— it was the first time since my parents left that someone had shown me so much compassion, and seemed to genuinely care. And the next day, you still did, and kept trying to help. And even two years later, when I'm sure you had lots and lots of patients to deal with before and after me, you remembered. You cared enough to remember me. And someone like that doesn't deserve to be left out in the cold with nothing and nobody and nowhere to go. I wasn't gonna let such a nice person go through that."

He sank down into the bed, eyes closed, and he didn't see me blushing so bright. So this was karma or something? I figured I could live with that.

I thought he was asleep now, so I moved down to lay next to him, facing and watching him sleep. But he smirked and his eyes fluttered back open, and now he could definitely see, even in the low light, how red my face was.

"I can trust you, right?" he asked quietly, obviously very tired. I had to think for a moment; whatever he wanted to tell me now, he might regret when he had a clearer head. I didn't want to say he could trust me with something he wasn't actually comfortable telling me. But I was genuinely curious, and curiosity got the better of my judgment. I figured what I could do was let him tell me, and then never let on that I knew unless he talked to me about it when he was feeling better.

"Yeah," I answered, uncertain even as I said it. "Yeah, you can trust me."

He nodded slowly, and it took him a long moment to start talking again. His words were starting to sleepily slur together. "I had a pretty good life when I was little. I lived in Brooklyn with my mom and dad, and we were pretty happy. I… I remember how I'd come home from school and my mom would be there, waiting for me with a little snack. I'd do my homework and help here with dinner, and my dad would get home at six and we'd all eat together. Well… that was how it went for a while. When I was, like, seven or something, my dad started coming home later and later. And then one night he just didn't come back at all. And the next day after school there was no snack, and my mom was just staring out the window. I wanted to ask her what was wrong but I figured it was grown-up stuff. I went and sat down in the living room to watch some cartoons, but a little while later she came in, pulling her coat on, and told me to go play in my room. I thought that she was going out to look for my dad."

He's interrupted by a harsh cough, and resumes hoarsely. "Well then she didn't come back, either. I went to school the next day, but I didn't get on the bus after, I stayed in the classroom. My teacher asked why I hadn't gone, if I was waiting to be picked up. So I told her that my mommy and daddy were both gone. She called the police right away, and they got searching, and meanwhile I stayed at my teacher's apartment because I had no other family to go to.

"Things with Ms. Tilley weren't that bad, and she started to be extra nice to me because I was apparently traumatized –that's what the school social worker said, but I don't think I was. I just wanted to go back to the way things were. I started to adjust to everything, but then the detective came to talk to me after school, and said that it had been a week with no sign of my parents at all –because they had very little to go on with their disappearances. So they were at a loss for what to do for the time being. Ms. Tilley couldn't take care of me anymore, and for the next few years I was bounced around from family to family, because I was a bit of a troublemaker knowing that no, things weren't going to be the same anymore, not ever again."

He coughed again and I reached out to ease him, but he assured me he was fine, and went on with the rest of the story. "I ended up in a group home and they hated me there –more so than with the other people I lived with. I was thirteen and hated everything in my life, and started skipping school, and threatening to run away for good. I snuck out of school the day that… he found me. And he asked me why I was feeling down, and like an idiot I told him everything like I'm telling you now. And he said he was sorry, and that a good kid like me didn't deserve that kind of life. He was… really sweet to me. We became sort of friends, and hung out after school because the people I lived with couldn't give less of a damn about where I was or who I hung out with, even if it was going to dinner with a thirty-year-old man." He laughs humorlessly. "I even straight told them what I was doing and they couldn't be bothered. I was thirteen and… dating a thirty-year-old. That's what it was, but damned if it didn't take me a real fucking long time to figure that one out."

He gulped hard and coughed soft. "I… I don't think you need many of the details of what happened after that. I was almost sixteen –oh, he took his time making sure I was hooked on him— when he convinced me to live with him, so I ran away from the group home. Nobody came looking for me, they didn't care enough to notice. And why should they?"

"Phil—"

"But that's not the point." He calmed himself down. "What happened from there is I guess pretty obvious, considering where I am now. The day we met, it was pretty early in on my whoring days. I don't think I actually make enough of the money for it to be called prostitution, no, I'm just a slut because my boyfriend made sure I was a slut before he got me opening my legs for any guy who threw a few dollars to him –to him, not me, I barely ever see any of it. And he justifies it by saying he keeps us fed and sheltered, so it's like our rent and food money that he's taking from us. But that fifteen dollars I had? I had to let ten guys fuck me for that money. Sex with ten ugly ass motherfuckers bought me two shitty things of medicine, a bottle of juice and two candy bars."

He wiped hard at his eyes. It took him a long time to calm down, breathing harsh and labored and trying not to cry too much. I had nothing to say, nothing I could say to console him. I was just stiff and silent, taking it all in.

Eventually he dropped down from boiling, laughing softly and weakly. "I'm sorry for dumping this all on you. I just needed to get it out."