I wake up screaming. I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming, but my throat is raw so I’m guessing it was a while. The sheets are damp with sweat and twisted around my legs. I know without even looking that I’ve dug my fingernails into my palms again and they’re bleeding. I can feel the sting and sticky dampness of the blood. I struggle to get air into my lungs and reach for the bedside lamp. I squint against the light and stare at my palms. There are little half-moon fingernail imprints across them both. Only a couple on each palm broke the skin though and they’re not too deep, but there is blood and it’s on the hotel sheets too.

Fuck. I am so sick of this.

The nightmare is the same as it’s been since I was eight. I’m trapped in that damn concrete room—the “time-out room” as the foster monsters used to call it—and it’s cold and for some reason it shrinks. And shrinks. And it makes me call out for help because I’m panicked and it won’t stop shrinking. And I’m crying and I’m terrified and then all the concrete—all the walls and the ceiling are pressing into every part of me, cold and hard, and I scream.

The thing that always makes me angry after the dreams is that I’m calling for help. I learned in the first couple of weeks of being at that foster home that there was no help. I always sat silently for the hours, sometimes all day, that I was in there. I didn’t cry and I didn’t call for help. But in my dream I do, and I even sometimes know I shouldn’t. But I can’t stop.

I sit up, untangle myself from the sheets and head to the bathroom. I leave the light off, but it’s not completely dark because the bedside light is filtering in through the open door. As I’m running my hands through the water to clean the small wounds, there’s a firm knock on my door. I yank off a bunch of toilet paper and press it into my left palm because it’s got the most cuts and then grab a towel and wipe my right hand on it. There’s another firm knock. I’m only wearing my underwear so I grab the complimentary bathrobe off the back of the door and throw it on.

I’m just about to open the door when it starts to open for me and one of the hotel’s security guards is standing there. He looks startled to see me. I’m annoyed to see him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Larue. We normally would never enter your room without permission. However, we called and you didn’t answer.”

“I was sleeping,” I reply tersely and shove the bloody toilet paper in the pocket of the robe before crossing my arms. “I sleep deeply.”

“Oh. Again, apologies, it’s just that we had a noise complaint,” he explains and starts to look a little uncomfortable and I know exactly why he’s here. Someone heard me screaming.

“The screaming?” I question and he nods. “Yeah, I fell asleep with the television on and I guess there was some cheesy horror movie on. It woke me up too.”

“Oh. Okay.” He glances toward the television, which is clearly off, but as far as he’s concerned it’s because I shut it off. “Again we’re sorry to bother you but when you didn’t answer the phone and someone reports screaming we have to—”

“Yeah. Sure. No problem,” I cut him off. “I’d like to go back to bed now.”

“Yes, sir. Have a good rest of your night.” He leaves, closing the door behind him. I throw the latch on the door so he can’t just walk in again if I fall back asleep and start screaming again. It’s doubtful that’ll happen anyway. I glance at the clock. It’s four in the morning. I got four hours sleep. Oh well. Better than nothing. I’m meeting Kristi for the keys to my new apartment at ten.

I shrug out of the robe, leaving it on the floor and throw on some sweats, a hoodie and my sneakers. Might as well go for a run. Staying in this tiny room isn’t going to stop the nightmares from coming again if I go back to sleep. I hadn’t had one in almost two weeks, but I know that incident in the closet with Brie triggered it. I really wasn’t trying to be an asshole about not helping her. I just can’t do confined spaces. That closet didn’t have concrete walls and wasn’t in a dank root cellar, but it was the same long, narrow shape and…I just couldn’t. I should have told her I was claustrophobic, but that woman is so damn judgmental.

I grab my iPod and headphones and leave the hotel. It’s colder than I anticipated. Locals probably wouldn’t find it cold at all, but I still have California blood from living in San Diego. I suck it up and start to jog. I head straight for the bridge so I can run to Manhattan. I can’t wait to live there. As much as I love my teammates—and I honestly do—I don’t think living near them is the best thing. Being a third wheel is fine in small doses, but now there’s no Jordan without Jessie, Devin without Callie, Luc without Rose. The girls are all fantastic, truly, but they don’t want me around all the time and I don’t want to be around all the time.

It’s not that it’s hard seeing them all in love and everything. It isn’t. I don’t miss what I’ve never had. But it’s a distinct reminder that my life—these friends I’ve considered family—are getting their own families and I’m not. I’m happy for them. I’m just not particularly looking forward to the next phase of my life.

I’m fucking thirty. And I’m feeling thirty. Late nights before a practice or a game affect me now. I’m sluggish and achy and foggy mentally. Also, I’m kind of over the puck bunny thing. I’d never admit that to the guys, because I have a reputation to uphold but yeah…not feeling it anymore.

I jog across the bridge and then slow to a walk. I don’t want to overexert myself because I have practice this afternoon. I’m run-walking for about an hour and stumble across a Dunkin’ Donuts. I head inside and order a coffee and a Boston Kreme donut. I sit at the small counter against the window and scarf down the donut, then order one more and take it with me, gulping down the last of my coffee and tossing it in the trash can as I exit.

The city is getting busier. Of course it wasn’t exactly empty when I started this run, even at four in the morning. With any luck, the city is lively enough to meet some new single friends. Maybe. Hopefully.

I decide I’m going to grab the subway home so I wander down the block in the general direction I think it might be. The music in my ears suddenly disappears. I pull my iPod from my pocket and see the battery is dead. Damn it. Well at least it didn’t crap out on my run. As I start to pull my earbuds out I hear a female voice—loud and firm. “Don’t!”

I stop and look around. There’s a woman walking about ten feet ahead of me, but she’s by herself. Across the street there’s a guy in a business suit and another one a few feet back in jeans. No other women though.

“Stop!”

Same voice, only this time it’s louder and filled with fear. And I can tell it’s coming from behind me. I start walking backward. One step. Two steps. On the third step I’m parallel with an alley. Halfway down it I see this big, hulking dude leaning over a very skinny, scraggly-haired woman. She’s pressed against the side of the building and he’s grabbed her by the arm of her ripped puffy coat. He’s speaking, but his voice is low and I can’t make out the words, only a rumbling sound.

I start to walk toward them. They don’t notice and when I’m about ten feet away I stand straight, pull my shoulders back and in my deepest voice I say, “Hey! You all right, lady?”

Her head snaps over and I realize she’s not a lady. She’s a kid with dirt-stained, coffee-colored skin and matted curly hair and light eyes. Is she even a teenager? I take a few steps closer and try to look calm and not shocked. The guy glares at me. He’s meaty but not muscled, which bodes well for me if I have to get physical. And he’s dirty, stains on his jacket and tears in his jeans; not the fashionable kind.

“She’s my kid. Mind your business,” he warns and yanks her away from the wall and turns her and himself away from me. He starts to drag-walk her down the alley. She looks back at me, eyes wide and filled with fear.

“Hey!” I take more steps toward them. “Kid! Is he your dad?”

“No!”

“Fucking bitch!” he barks, but doesn’t let her go and starts drag-walking her faster.

I pick up my pace too and clamp a hand on his shoulder. He spins to face me quickly, arms up. He doesn’t swing, he doesn’t seem to be holding a knife or a gun and more importantly, he lets her go.

I reach out and motion for her to get behind me. She does with quick, quiet steps. He turns his glare to her. “You fucking owe me, Mac!”

“I owe you nothing!” she yells back.

He bares his teeth, what’s left of them, and swears again taking a step toward us so I step toward him. “Fuck you…” he hisses at me. “I’m going to fucking find you and I’m going to make you pay.”

“What does she owe you?” I ask. But I’m really not sure I want the answer. She’s a street kid, clearly, so the answer could be anything from money to clothes to sexual acts. Oh please let it not be sexual acts.

“Not your fucking business.”

“I looted his Dumpster,” she blurts out.

Ah. Turf war. Okay. I sigh in relief because I can fix this. I reach into the pocket of my hoodie and pinch some, but not all of the bills I have in between my fingers and pull them out. A twenty and a five. “Twenty-five bucks to forget about whatever she took from your Dumpster.”

He rips the money out of my extended hand. “Tell her not to do it again.”

“She won’t. Right, Mac?” I glance over my shoulder. She’s not there. The entire alley behind me is empty. “What the fuck?”

I start to jog. When I get to the sidewalk I look right and then left. She’s across the street, half a block up. I sprint and catch up to her in no time. I even manage not to be hit by any cars when I jaywalk to get to her faster. “Mac!”

She doesn’t turn. Instead she starts walking faster and then she breaks into a run. I speed up. She’s fast, but she’s not a professional athlete with over a decade of endurance training. I reach her before she even gets half a block. She turns on me when I grab her arm and she’s ferocious, like a wild animal in a trap. It’s meant to be intimidating and to scare me and I’m thinking it works on a lot of people, but not me. I’ve been her. I know the tricks.

“I’ll scream. I’ll tell them you touched me,” she threatens.

“But then you won’t get the sixty bucks I want to give you,” I explain calmly, quietly, as I reach into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie with the other hand and pull out the bag with the now mostly crushed donut. “And this.”

Her eyes, which are a light green color, dart down to bag and then back to my face, harder than ever. “It’s probably laced with roofies.”

I laugh. This girl is tough. “They wouldn’t dissolve like they do in drinks. You’d see them. And I swear on my life I just bought it a second before I ran into you. It’s my favorite donut in the world and I’m giving it to you, so take it before I change my mind.”

She wrenches her arm free and for a split second I think she might bolt again, but instead she snatches the donut bag out of my hand. She pulls it out. Most of the chocolate frosting is gone, it must be stuck to the inside of the bag. I figure she’ll take a bite but she just holds it, still a skeptic. “You don’t look like a guy who eats donuts.”

I laugh. “I’m not supposed to. You’re saving me from myself.”

She still looks skeptical but she takes a giant bite anyway. “Thanks,” she manages through chewing. “It tastes much better than the stale ones they dump out back after close.”

Oh God, this kid is killing me. “How long have you been on the street?”

“Who said I was?” she challenges.

“Everything about you says you are,” I reply bluntly. “I know because I’ve been there.”

“Ha!” she blurts out without a drop of humor. “Bullshit.”

“Swear to God,” I promise and something in that hard as nails face softens. I decide to push a little more. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

She’s maybe five foot one or two. She’s got the frame of a twelve-year-old but that can happen even to an adult when you’re malnourished. However, her still chubby youthful cheeks tell me this isn’t just malnourishment. She’s a baby.

“I’m guessing twelve?”

“Fuck you! I’m sixteen.”

“No you’re not,” I counter. “You’re young enough that your potty mouth is extra offensive.”

She stops chewing at that. Frowns and swallows what’s in her mouth. “You’re not my boss.”

“Nope. Just stating facts.”

“Sorry.”

Okay. She’s not lost yet. My heart feels less heavy. I pull out the remaining cash in my hoodie pocket. I carry cash at all times, even running at the crack of ass, for this exact reason. I hold up the three twenties. “I’ll give you this no matter what, but I’d like an honest answer about your age.”

“What month is it?”

“October. The twenty-first.”

“I’ll be fifteen next month,” she admits. “But obviously I’m mature for my age. Now pay up.”

“Yeah. This life will do that.” I hand her the cash. She takes it quickly but with less of a swipe than the donut.

“I won’t use it for gross stuff like drugs or anything,” she promises.

I look around the street. “Where you living? You got a camp somewhere? With others?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. Not really. Sometimes this crazy lady Ethel lets me hang out with her under the bridge, when she’s not arguing with the voices in her head. She’s got a tarp and some blankets. But the cops like to raid camps and I don’t wanna get nabbed. I am not going back to the system.”

She’s not good at this. She shouldn’t be telling me any details. It makes me think she hasn’t actually been on the street very long. I nod. I know that visceral fear and hearing it in her words floods me with unwanted memories. “I know a place. It’s like a boardinghouse. Just for kids.”

“Good for you.”

“Mac, it’s different.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I researched it. I volunteer there,” I explain and a guy in a business suit marches by, giving us a curious but disgusted glance. Man, I fucking hate people sometimes.

“You researched it?” Her tone is dismissive. “Yeah, lots of crap looks good on paper. The whole system is great on paper. It’s a joke. I’m not going back to it.”

“This is private. Not state run,” I explain. “It’s good.”

“Have fun volunteering,” she says and turns to walk away again.

I fall in step beside her. “You should check it out. It’s in Brooklyn.”

“Uh-huh.” She is so not buying what I am selling.

“You can’t keep living like you’re living,” I tell her and I know it’s going to annoy her, to say the least.

She glares at me. “Fuck you. I can take care of myself.”

“I’ll get a pamphlet on the place and give it to you. So you can read about it,” I offer, refusing to back down. “I’ll meet you tomorrow with the info. Sound good?”

“Not interested,” she replies.

“Okay, how about I make it interesting. Meet me tomorrow. Say right over there,” I point to the corner across from us in front of a bakery. “At nine in the morning and I’ll give you another sixty if you come and read the pamphlet.”

“Are you for real?” she asks, coming to a stop.

“Real,” I promise. “So? Deal?”

She nods. “But I get the cash before you start yapping.”

I smile. “Okay.”

She looks stunned and still a little skeptical. “I won’t sleep with you like ever. No matter how much money you give me. If you try to make me I will bite your—”

“Whoa now!” I do not want to hear the end of that sentence. “I swear to God I don’t want anything sexual from you. Or anything at all. I’ve just been in your shoes.”

“I still don’t believe that by the way,” she replies firmly. “No one goes from this to that.”

She points at me, her tiny finger sweeping up and down and then it does a flamboyant circle. I smile again. She’s something else. “Do you need a place to stay tonight?”

“No,” she replies. “Look I will read whatever you want for money, but I ain’t your pet project. So don’t go all fucking social worker on me.”

“Okay. Fine. I won’t.” I raise my hands as if surrendering. “Tomorrow. In front of the bakery. Nine.”

She nods. “Don’t follow me.”

I nod and watch her walk away. She keeps glancing over her shoulder until she crosses the street and disappears around a corner. I pull out my phone and take a picture of the storefront so I remember the name of it and then pull up Google maps to figure out where the fuck I am and how to get home.

I walk toward the closest subway station. She’s exactly why I volunteer at charities that help kids. I don’t do it for praise. I do it because if people hadn’t done it for me, I wouldn’t be where I am. Mac is the first street kid I’ve engaged this much though. I’ve often given them money and food or stuff like toothbrushes and clothes, but I tend to keep the interactions impersonal because I can’t get attached to these kids and they can’t get attached to me. At any point I could be traded. The last thing either of us needs is to be ripped away from each other.

But there was no way I was going to leave Mac there in that alley with that guy. It might be my downfall, if I get too involved and somehow let her down, but I have to try and help her.