Because several of you asked for his story :)
Patrick was mentioned in Glad Rewards and we saw him in Rainy 7
"Patrick!"
He merely curled tighter, ignoring his growling stomach. His hiding plac`e lay only a few feet from the porch, but he knew better than to answer that. Father could not see him here.
"Patrick, get out here! The dogs need food!"
No. Let the mangy mutts go hungry for once. Dog bites hurt. Careful shifting only slightly eased the throbbing in his swollen arm.
"Patrick!" The angry call cut off with a growl. "He's not answering, Barbara, and I don't have time to search for the whelp. We'll have to feed today."
His mum's irritated grumble declared her not far from his bush, purse undoubtedly in hand. The sound might have made him answer. They always made him feed—though whether laziness or something else Patrick had never deciphered—and she had caught him ignoring Father once before. He had no wish to earn himself another punishment.
Except the free kids running the streets last week had clearly talked about not having parents, and they lived much better than he did. He remained still, waiting. If the adults went down to the pens, he could leave. They could feed the mutts. They could deal with the bites. They could learn Patrick's honesty the hard way, and he would disappear. Anywhere was better than here.
Footsteps jumped off the porch as she muttered something else, then a minute's rustling signaled several items hitting the ground before two pairs of feet hurried toward the pens. He gave them just enough time to get out of earshot before he lunged from his hiding place.
Jackpot. Mum had left her purse not ten feet away. His small hand easily claimed the bulging wallet inside, and he sprinted in the other direction. He should have at least an hour for them to both feed the mutts and bandage the resulting bites.
Not that they expected the dogs to bite. Every time Patrick asked for help, they told him to quit harassing the animals, apparently too dumb to realize that the dogs did not limit their training to the ring. Every dog in those pens had been taught to attack almost from birth, after all, and Patrick had been bait for far too many of those "training" sessions for the animals to like him. According to the library, dog fighting was illegal. If only he had a way to turn them in.
He could not, though, no matter how much he wanted to. Such an action would do nothing but send him somewhere worse. The library had also described just what happened to orphaned and abandoned children. The factories sounded just as bad as the pens. Better to run.
Until frantic barking carried from that hidden yard. Instinct made him freeze barely halfway down the block. The noise immediately turned aggressive, deafening, and the rest of the pack quickly joined. That sounded like—
"Close the gate! Close the gate, you—"
Father's order degraded into the meaningless cursing and insults that he usually directed at Patrick, not at Mum. Father liked Mum. Why would he call her that?
Several dogs barked at once, then a woman's scream lifted above the growls and snarls that Patrick knew well. Those same sounds always carried from the ring when Father invited so many strangers to watch the dogs fight. Patrick doubted the grown-ups would escape that any time soon.
Good. Let them spend the next several days hurting and trying to prevent that nasty yellow slime from building in the bites. He had better things to do.
Like get far, far away. He easily dodged the trash the neighbor piled on the corner and resumed his sprint. For all that Patrick usually fed the mutts, the animals would see him as a target. Until the police arrived to round up the animals, he needed to get out of range.
Left at the next corner, then right. Left into a narrow alley. Duck and dodge through the crowds on the busy street. Ignoring the shakiness declaring he needed to eat, several minutes' run took him blocks away from that run-down shack and the blood-covered yard behind it. The buildings grew nicer, the streets became wider and cleaner, and the people looked slightly less broken. He hurried up one street and down the next until a street vendor caught his eye—and his nose. That one smelled amazing.
His stomach growled in response. He could pause for a moment, he decided, and the vendor willingly sold him the best meat pie he had ever tasted. That was much better than dog scraps.
Now what?
Away. Just away. The Yard would probably take a while to arrive, which meant several dogs would have escaped their pens. They ran faster than he could.
Left at the grocer. Right behind the tooth doctor. Backtrack when an alley stopped at a high wall. Two adults immediately jostled his arm, and he held it close as he chose another alley. He needed to find a way to clean the bites. That one felt wrong.
It looked wrong, too. He must have done a poor job of cleaning it over the last couple of days. Puffy skin leaked that nasty yellowish liquid that never meant anything good. Maybe he could use his coins for a doctor?
No. A doctor would ask for too much money, and he wanted to be able to buy food again. He would just have to clean it himself.
Right at the next intersection. Dodge a racing cab. Hop the low wall at the end of the street. Confident steps carried him southward, toward the park. He would never be able to work a pump one handed, but Regent's had the canal and at least one fountain. He could try to wash the bite there.
Three more cabs bounced down the cobblestones as if trying to run him down, but only a few minutes sufficed to see him to the grassy, open space. A sigh of relief escaped. He could hide better in the brush, and the dogs were more likely to stay in the city proper. He would be safe here, at least for a while. Now to see about cleaning his arm.
Choose the path toward the bridge. Avoid the parents taking their young servants for a walk. Bypass the trail that went to the canal. He could come back if needed, but the fountain would be cleaner—not to mention colder—than that brackish water. A jogging gait took him straight through the open space to reach the fountain next to the botanical gardens. The few adults around paid no attention even when he shoved his hot arm beneath the stream. That felt amazing.
Though scrubbing it did not. One fingernail picked off the scab before he started working the yellow slime out of his skin. Each squeeze produced salty tears and another drop of yellow, but, finally, red blood came out instead. That meant it was clean, based on the last time this had happened. The swelling might even go down soon.
Unlikely. The last yellow bite had stayed large for several days. It had hurt a lot, too, though not as bad as this one did. He would probably have to clean more yellow out of it in a couple of hours. Mum had said something about that years ago, before he was old enough to have to earn his keep.
Mum. Father. The dogs. The thought sent him further into the park. Mum would have gotten the worst of the dogs' escape, but since Father liked her, he would have jumped in to help and made himself a target. The hours since Patrick had run would not keep either adults or dogs from following him. He needed to keep moving.
Jog across the grass. Hop a bush for the fun of it. Find himself on the ground after failing to land on his feet. That small meat pie had not helped his fuzzy headedness as well as he had thought it would, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. A hollow beneath a bush made a good place to sit for a while.
A comfortable place to sit for a while. Maybe he could hide here. That would be better than having to move constantly. The trees provided plenty of cover, and by the scent drifting on the breeze, a street vendor had set up just outside the park grounds. This might make a good home for a few days.
Unless it had already been taken.
"Hey!" A boy about his age peeked around the next tree. "Are you lost?"
He shook his head, quickly pulling himself to his feet. The free kids had probably divided the city just as much as the grown-ups did, and he knew better than to settle in their area. Perhaps the other side of the park would be unclaimed.
"Wait!" Rapid footsteps hurried up behind him. "You don't have to leave."
A hand reached out to grab his arm. He dodged and waved a farewell before hurrying away from the boy. His arm already hurt. The free kid did not need to touch it.
Though Patrick did need to sit down. He had a few minutes before he had to go back to the fountain, and his throbbing arm did not like his rapid pace. He slowed to a walk, eventually settling in the middle of a large bush. The grown-ups would never think to look here.
"Hello?"
That other boy might, however. Slow footsteps snapped twigs in a clear indication that the boy had followed him, though Patrick had no idea why. He had not meant to interrupt whatever the other boy had been doing. Could he still be in the free kid's area?
Unlikely. No one needed that much room, especially in the park. Patrick simply curled smaller and stayed quiet. Maybe the boy would go away.
Or not. "Hello?" Another twig snapped. "My name's Timothy. I haven't seen you around here before. Are you lost? I can help."
No. He knew exactly where he was, and he had no wish to go back to where he had been. He tossed a rock toward another bush, trying to make Timothy think he had hidden over there.
The ploy failed. "Are you on your own? A bunch of us street kids live together in a courtyard. You could join us."
He hesitated. Live with the free kids? Why would they want him there?
Oh. A servant. Of course. That was why adults fed children, after all. Why would the free kids treat a runaway any differently? He backed deeper into his bush. He would rather feed himself than "work" for someone else. Work hurt.
"Your arm looked a bit swollen," Timothy tried again. "Are you hurt? I know a doctor who would help."
And charge a bunch of money to do so, Patrick finished. He could take care of it himself. He always had before.
"I won't hurt you." Unhurried steps still brought him ever closer. "I swear. And neither would Doctor Watson. There are about fifty of us in the courtyard right now. We have food, clothes, honest work, and the occasional toy."
Food. If they had food, he could use his money to pay the doctor. A grown-up would be able to clean his arm better than he could in a fountain. Did he want to risk it?
No. Just because they had food did not mean he would want to live there. Better to be alone than work for someone even his own age.
The footsteps paused, then Timothy's shadow calmly knelt. One leaf nudged out of the way to let him see Patrick's hole. "Can I come in?"
He would rather not, but he said nothing as Timothy gradually pushed a couple of branches aside to sit a few feet away. The oversized bush provided plenty of room for them both to hide.
"What's your name?"
He made no answer. Timothy might be able to use his name to find his parents. He wanted to stay free.
"You ran away from home, didn't you?" How did he know that? "I won't send you back. I promise. You're safe."
He still made no reply. Father had taught him that promises were important, but both adults had always promised bad things—like more time with the dogs or more chores. Did a good promise carry the same weight?
Probably not. Mum had promised once to make a cake on his birthday, but she had left early that morning and stayed away all day. He had lost even his right to table scraps by mentioning it the next afternoon.
"I mean it," Timothy insisted at his silence. "I won't send you back. I just want to help. Are you hungry? I found some bread earlier."
A grubby hand offered a quarter loaf of slightly burnt bread. Confusion filtered through Patrick. Why would Timothy give him food before he worked?
"Take it." A gentle toss landed the bread in his lap, the other boy obviously able to hear his growling stomach. "We have more at home, and I bet Mrs. Hudson would let us buy a sugar biscuit later. She made some yesterday."
He cautiously picked up the loaf, watching Timothy all the while. Even slightly burnt, the bread tasted almost as good as that meat pie had earlier. When one bite did not make Timothy take it back, he quickly finished the piece.
"Thank you."
The murmur brought a wide smile. "So you can talk. Good. Will you tell me your name?"
He shook his head. Bread aside, his name would give Timothy too much information.
"Why not?"
Though the other boy would obviously keep trying. He might as well tell the truth. "Don't wanna go back."
"But I just said I wouldn't do that." Timothy moved slightly closer, caught himself, and resumed his spot just inside the bush. "You can live with us."
No. "I'm nobody's servant. I'll feed myself."
"What—" Bewilderment flipped to surprise. "They worked you like a servant just to let you eat?!" Patrick edged away, wondering what about that had made Timothy so angry. The other boy's tone changed at Patrick's fear. "Sorry. I just can't believe—we don't do that. I swear. Everyone in our courtyard is a friend or sibling. A bunch of the older kids have apprenticeships or other paying jobs, but we don't work for each other. We help each other. There's a difference."
Patrick made no reply. They…helped each other? Like Mum helped Father? Did that mean they liked each other, too?
"You don't have to live alone in a park," Timothy tried again. "Doctor Watson lives only a couple of blocks from here. He never charges any of us for doctoring, and I bet Mrs. Hudson will have better food than a quarter loaf of day-old bread. Once you're feeling better, we'll introduce you to the courtyard."
Doctoring…and food?
No. If something sounded too good to be true, it probably was. Like a birthday cake had been that year. He had to be missing something.
"What do you want?"
"Your name," Timothy fired back, a smile correlating the jesting tone. "There's no catch. We help each other. Everyone helps find food. Everyone helps earn money. Everyone rotates sleeping on the cots if they want. Everyone gets along, at minimum. It's what a home is supposed to be."
Not possible. Everyone wanted something. Grown-ups wanted someone to serve them. The dogs had wanted to bite. He wanted freedom. Timothy had to want more than his name.
Except…everyone else had always been unafraid to say what they wanted. Could he be serious?
"That cut on your arm looks painful," Timothy added. "Doctor Watson's really good. He could clean it and treat it easy, and he would refuse the coins you have in your pocket. He's never taken money from any of us. It's alright. I promise. You're safe."
Surprise pushed its way forward. Timothy…might be serious, and a doctor probably should look at the bite on his arm. The other ones had certainly never started streaking like that.
"Sure?"
A nod quickly answered him. "Yes, I'm sure."
He hesitated for another moment. If Timothy was telling the truth, this sounded perfect. If he was not…
He could always run away again. The thought made his decision.
"Patrick."
A wide grin stretched Timothy's face. "Glad to meet you, Patrick. Come on. Mrs. Hudson should start cooking soon."
Timothy backed out of the bush, and Patrick slowly followed, relieved when the other boy did not try to touch him even now. He was much too warm to want anyone touching him.
Nor did he want to walk very much. "How far is it?"
"Maybe five minutes," was the reply. "The sooner we get there, the sooner you can eat. You don't look so good."
He did not feel so good, either, now that he was standing again, but more food would probably help that. He walked silently beside Timothy. It might be nice to live in a place where everyone helped.
Hope you enjoyed!