The girl and the boy stopped in their tracks. It was midnight, or near enough, neither of them had expected to see anyone else. In the shadows of the trailers around them, they'd come looking for peace they weren't allowed in the daylight. The boy was walking a well-worn track. The girl was trying for somewhere new.

They hesitated. And then the girl stepped forward. A dim light from a nearby cracked window hit her face. One he didn't recognize. Messy, unkempt hair and eyes that were, in that dark place, sad but kind. It made the boy turn away.

"Hey," she said, slightly above a whisper. She didn't want to be caught out here any more than he did but it was loud enough to make him glance fearfully at the shadows he'd come from. The dark window where he knew a shattered bottle of brandy was still clutched in a sleeping man's hand. It was usually a deep sleep. But you never could tell. He turned back to look at her.

"You ain't from round here," he said, his voice heavy with distrust.

"No," she said. "I ain't. We just moved. You going up there?"

She pointed to the hill she'd been heading for. He nodded.

There was a moment of silence where all that could be heard was the rain on trailer roofs and the wind rattling a few loose pipes. Somewhere, far from them, was the familiar wail of a distant siren. Close. But never close enough.

"We can go up together if you like," she said with a shrug. "Ain't nobody gotta know."

He stepped forward into the light. A mop of hair, as unkempt as her own. He was small and scrawny for his age. Blue eyes that didn't trust anything he looked at. She felt him sizing her up, weighing his options.

"Alright," he said eventually. "But don't slow me down."

In the end, they kept pace with each other. They even raced to the top. She saw a piece of a fallen tree far from the nearest forest, she didn't know it but it was the boy who'd dragged it up here for a place to sit on nights like this. It had been meant just for him but it was big enough for two. She didn't ask for permission when she sat down and he didn't complain.

"Looks less shit from up here," she said as they both looked out over the trailer park, the rest of Atlanta glittering in the distance. From the top of the hill you couldn't hear the arguments, you couldn't smell the crack pipe smoke or liquor stained carpets and you couldn't hear any babies crying. It was just them and the rain and the rumble of two small and empty stomachs. She reached into a battered brown satchel that was draped over one shoulder and pulled out a pack of shop-bought sandwiches. She opened it and held one out to him, "You want one?"

His stomach growled so loudly it nearly drowned out his, "Yes."

She passed him one and kept the other for herself. The bread was soft, buttery. There was ham inside. Neither of them spoke again until they'd eaten.

"Where'd you get it?" he asked.

"Stole it," she said with a shrug. "Momma stopped for cigarettes at a gas station and they was just sitting there."

He nodded. He knew the gas station she meant. "They throw you in jail for that," he warned. "For stealing. Happened to my brother, Merle. He's had to go away for a while."

"Only happens if you get caught," she said. Then, because the worry was too big for her young head she said, "They really throw him in jail for stealing a sandwich?"

"Nah," he said. "He took the money from behind the counter. Used a fake gun so he didn't hurt anyone. But still. He's in juvie for a few years."

"Well there you go then," she said, although she felt relieved. "They don't care so much about a sandwich."

He didn't look like he fully believed her. But he nodded.

"Which one you living in?" he asked. She squinted down through the drizzle at the rain-soaked and shiny tops of each trailer, trying to work it out.

"That one," she said eventually. "Four in from the left fence."

"The Miller's old place," he said. "He's in jail now too. Real jail. Not just juvie."

"What'd he do?"

"Shot his wife."

"They have kids?"

"No."

"That's good."

"Yeah," he agreed.

She turned to him. "So which one is yours?"

"That one," he said and pointed to the one which, to him at least, looked the darkest. She followed where he was pointing and nodded.

"You at school round here?" she asked. "I'm supposed to start tomorrow."

"Yeah," he said, glumly. "But it's shit. I ain't going much."

"What grade you in?" she studied him with narrowed eyes, like she could guess his age in his small, thin face.

"Second," he said.

"Oh good," she brightened and stood up. "Well, you better come tomorrow so I have a friend."

She looked down at him, expectantly. He looked back up at her. He hadn't been planning on going. He never did, and if his daddy was hungover enough he could get away with skipping it. He considered telling her that when she got there, she wouldn't want to be his friend because nobody else there did. They all thought he was weak, they didn't like that he was unwashed and smelt bad most days, or that he stared hungrily at their packed lunches while eating nothing himself. He was small and easy to pick on.

But he didn't tell her any of that, she'd find out soon enough. He just said, "Maybe."

"Suit yourself," she shrugged. "I'm heading back now, before my momma gets home."

"Okay. Thanks for the sandwich."

"That's okay," she said. "See you around I guess."

She started to run back down the hill. He stood up. "Wait!" he called after her, finally not scared to raise his voice above a whisper. She stopped running and turned around. "What's your name?"

"Naomi," she yelled back. "What's yours?"

"Daryl."

"See you around, Daryl."

She raised a hand to her temple, gave him a salute like they were both little soldiers and ran the rest of the way back down the hill.

They were both at school the next day and at lunch time they sat together, eating nothing. Only this time, Dayrl didn't find it so bad because she made them play a game until they both forgot that they were hungry.

And the next night, they walked up to the top of the hill together again. He brought a dead squirrel that he'd managed to trap. She showed him how to build a fire and they cooked it and ate it and they weren't hungry any more.

"There," he said. "Now you don't need to steal no more."

He knew it was a slippery slope from stealing a sandwich to getting locked up.

And so a new routine was born. Some nights, she didn't come. Some nights, he wasn't there. Some nights he had fresh wounds on his back, some nights she had new cigarette burns on the inside of her thighs. But they didn't talk about any of that. They'd talk about everything else. And sometimes they didn't need to talk at all.