The afternoon sky has darkened to coal. Heavy clouds hang overhead as I finish work. I limp down the street from the sports store where I landed a part-time job, heading for my favorite donut place.

Resisting the urge to reach down and massage my aching leg, I walk faster. There it is. It’s a mom-and-pop shop. Mava’s Donuts. I enter and inhale the scent of sugar and fat. Cheap, greasy, delicious sweetness. Just what I need right now. Best drug against nerves.

My hands shake. I’ve turned my cell off after Blake’s last message, and I don’t know if I’ll be turning it on again anytime soon.

Blake. Major asshole. Ex-boyfriend.

Only he doesn’t seem to get the ‘ex’ part. I broke up with him right before the accident, seven months ago. Then life got sort of fuzzy, then sort of exhausting, and then Blake started sending me gifts and coming around to visit me. I thought we could be friends.

But then his hands began wandering, and I had to tell him—again—that we were not an item. And the worst part? He seemed to think I was joking.

God.

My jogging shoes squeak on the floor as I shift to my good leg and stretch the other. People turn to stare at me and I paste on a smile.

‘Where will you find better than me?’ Blake had sneered at me. ‘You’re not getting any younger, Evangeline.’

Yeah, I’m so old. All of nineteen.

‘Why can’t you think of your future? All you do is hang around homeless bums, and look where it got you.’

Where it got me? Well, screw you, Blake. I finished school, and I’m still recovering from the accident where I was run over by a motorcycle, breaking my leg and busting up my knee. I got a part-time job, and I’m going to figure out what I want to do with my life. What’s wrong with that?

Besides, I honestly fail to see the connection between helping someone survive the night and getting run over by someone who shouldn’t even be allowed to drive. But Blake has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to homeless people. He believes it’s their fault and their choice. He insists they have no roof over their heads because they’re lazy, stupid and careless.

Yeah, right. People are forced onto the street. They don’t fall out of the sky. It’s statistics. It’s life.

‘Who will save you next time, Evie? Who will bring you home if something else happens to you?’

Because, of course, he had to be the one to find me after the accident and call 9-1-1, turning into a hero in my family’s eyes.

And finally, when he saw I wasn’t moved, he said the scariest thing ever:

‘Christ, Evie. Who else do you think will want a cripple like you?’

Stabbing into the sorest part, the most insecure part of me.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and root in my bag for money as I approach the counter. Maybe nobody will ever want me. It’s not like boys are lining up to ask me out. I don’t have my brother Joel’s rock-star looks. I’m just the mousey little sister with the wide eyes and non-descript hair. Nor do I have his abilities. Hell, he’s got a sports scholarship running track and is doing great at college. I can’t even jog without someone running me over with a bike and spending months trying to walk straight again.

I take my donut and walk out into the cold, along the tables and benches they have for customers.

I need to get my life back. I need I find myself again. Blake is an ass, and I need him to leave me alone. So I’m ignoring his texts and calls, his taunts, and moving on.

Really moving on.

Across the street is a tattoo shop. Sometimes a tall, blond guy stands there, staring right at me. At least, in my direction. Sometimes I fantasize that it’s me he’s looking at, that he’s attracted to me. Even from across the street he looks handsome with his square jaw, the clean planes of his face and the wide set of his shoulders.

Yeah, Ev. Dream on. Why should he be looking at me of all women?

I glance up and freeze. He’s there, at his usual spot outside the tattoo shop, his back propped against the building, his hands shoved in his pockets. He’s dressed in faded jeans, black boots and a black jacket. His head is tipped back, his eyes closed, his short blond hair catching the faint sunlight.

With one last look at his long legs and broad chest, that bright halo of hair, I hurry away. God, what if he caught me looking?

Mortifying.

My leg twinges and I slow down. There’s a heaviness on the air. The fracture in my leg hurts, my knee above all. Although it’s almost healed, I’m a barometer, able to tell you when rain is coming. Who needs the weather forecast when I’m around?

I cross the avenue carefully. Not that I have a phobia of bikes now, but I sure as hell don’t want to get run over again. So okay, I may be a bit scared of them... with good reason.

As I reach the bus stop, I hear a distant shout behind me, but when I turn I don’t see anyone. Cars race by. Drivers honk and rev their engines. I must have imagined it.

Shrugging to myself, I board the bus and take a seat by the window. What do I want to do with my life? There's one thing I love doing: helping people. But I’m not supposed to care if the homeless people I see around me live or die. If they’re sick or hungry. That’s none of my business.

‘They don’t deserve your time or our parent’s hard-earned money,’ Joel tells me day in and day out. ‘They live in their own world. Lazy bums. Low-lives.’

He sounds so much like Blake it’s unbearable.

If I don’t go to college, if I keep my job at the sports store instead and rent a cheap apartment on the wrong side of the tracks, will I be a low-life in his eyes, too?

And hell, how can I jog—well, at this point, limp—through my neighborhood, in my shiny new jogging shoes and pants, wearing my new watch that does everything apart from making coffee, with my cell phone that can read my emails out loud in case I’m too bored to use my hands, in front of people who don’t have to eat?

So, yeah, I know we’re not millionaires, and I know I shouldn’t waste money on stupid stuff, and I’m aware that my parents worked hard to get where they are now and be able to afford two cars and all the nice things in life, but hey... Using my pocket money to buy food and sometimes medicine for people who need it isn’t big spending. Pocket money indeed... It’s not like I’m taking anything away from anyone.

Thing is, I used to have a purpose in my life before the accident. The hurt wasn’t just physical. I lost people. And it cost me. Joel rolls his eyes when I mention it, and Mom and Dad don’t get it.

I knew my people. Before the bike hit me and broke my leg, I did my rounds at least three times a week. Jogging was my excuse to check on everyone I knew was out there, taking shelter in store entrances and bus stops. I lost two older guys before the accident—Brent who was found dead one cool summer morning, and Jimmy, who was hooked on drugs and choked on his own vomit one night.

Then there was this young guy I ran across a few times. First, he’d been sitting with a few of my regulars outside Kohl’s department store in late summer. Then in the fall I found him curled up in a sleeping bag in a small alley off State Street. I recognized his torn blue jacket and his long ratty hair.

A few days later he was burning up with fever and coughing his lungs out. He could barely breathe. It looked like pneumonia. I called 9-1-1 and stayed to see that the ambulance arrived. His lips were blue, barely visible under his scraggly blond beard. As I held his too-thin hand and brushed stringy hair off his sunken face, I was scared they’d be too late.

I never found out what happened to him. I’d only stepped around the corner to check for the ambulance when the bike ran me over. It was a nasty fall. A compound fracture and a popped knee. I passed out from the pain. When I woke up, I was in hospital, and nobody knew anything about a sick young man.

That was seven months ago.

I’m afraid I lost him, too. That he died in that alley. In the end, I never even got his name, and now he’s most probably dead.

He was my responsibility. I found him and then I let him down. Nobody seems to know what happened to him. He’s gone.

I sigh, closing my eyes.

‘Cut the melodrama, Evie.’

That’s what Blake would have said. In fact, that’s what he always says. ‘That’s too deep, Evie. You’re overthinking this, Evie. Stop playing at being a hero. Leave people to their fate. What is it to you? What do you owe them?’

Screw you, Blake. It’s not about owing. It’s about giving. About righting an injustice. About caring, something you’ll never understand in your life.

Next day at work I’m rearranging the running shoes on their supports, after a family of five decided to examine them all and then conveniently forgot where they’d found each one, when I hear my name.

“Hey, Ev!” Cassie bounces in my direction, grinning widely. “Want to grab some coffee after work?”

“Sure.”

I like Cassie. With her doll face, blue eyes and long blond curls caught in a ponytail, she’s so cute I want to pinch her cheeks. She never fails to greet me and ask me how I am. Customers love her, and especially the kids. She’s a whirlwind of energy and joy.

“I know just the place,” she gushes, eyes bright. “They make the best coffee in town. You’ll see. And the cupcakes!”

Sounds good. But I don’t say yes immediately. I don’t want to go to another cafe. I realize with a jolt that I want to see that guy again, see if he’s there across the street today, too.

Crazy. “I don’t know...”

“Oh, we can go wherever you like,” Cassie says and waves a hand back and forth. “I don’t mind. Honest.”

I smile at her. I really want us to hang out together. I’ve never had any real friends—the bitches at my high school sucked at pretending they liked me—and the need to start over fills me to bursting.

“There’s this donut place,” I start and see her face split into another grin. “Close by. We can grab something and sit outside to eat it. They have benches and tables. I mean, it’s cold, but at least it’s dry today.”

“Sounds good to me,” she quips. She moves closer, helping me rearrange the shoes, and looks down at my leg when I limp to the next row. “I’ve been meaning to ask you... Did you sprain your ankle? Want me to have a look at it?”

“No, it’s fine.” I straighten a blue-and-silver running shoe. “It’s really fine.”

“You limp,” she points out, sounding concerned. “It’s been what, two weeks now since you started working here? If it’s a bad sprain, you should have it x-rayed to see if—”

“It’s not my ankle.” I wipe my hands down my jogging pants. “I broke my leg seven months ago. It’s almost healed now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay. It was an accident.” I remember the pain vividly. I remember the bike plowing into me, the moment of confusion and searing agony. Then I’d lost track of time, probably blacked out, until the flashing lights of the ambulance seared my eyes.

It’s not okay. It changed my life. Made me scared to go out of the house for months. Caused me to lose track of the people I was trying to help. And not to forget... ‘Who will want a cripple like you now?’

Jesus.

“Hey...” Cassie’s blue eyes are a bit wide, her mouth downturned. “I touched a sore topic, didn’t I? Put my foot in my mouth again? I do this a lot, poking my nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m sor—”

“Don’t be.” I reach out and squeeze her arm, giving her a quick smile. “Accidents happen. Life happens. Who knows? Maybe it was for the best.”

She doesn’t look reassured, and I think about my words as I get back to work. Truth is, I can’t see what’s good about breaking my leg and not moving out of the state, or about fighting with my parents. Well, apart from not having to be around Blake anymore.

But what is done is done.

Cassie isn’t as chatty as usual as we brace against the cold and walk to the donut shop. I think she feels she overstepped some boundary, so I try to distract her. I tell her about my family—the good parts, the parts where we went on vacation together to California when we were little and actually had fun, and about my brother Joel’s antics—and she starts to relax as we stand in line.

Unfortunately, now I’m the one tensing up. The memories bring a sting of pain to my chest. I used to like Joel back then. He was a menace, but he wasn’t trying to mold me into something I was not.

Those days are long past.

By the time we get our coffee and donuts, Cassie looks happier and is telling me about her dream to work with damaged pets. She wants to make a difference, and it reminds me again of my own puny attempts to right the world and of the people I lost. Those I wasn’t able to save.

“You okay?” Cassie frowns at me. She has powdered sugar on her top lip.

I smile and nod. “Yeah.”

“Love these donuts.” And as if to prove it, she stuffs her mouth with the rest, making me giggle. She jabs a finger at me. “You’re not eating.”

I hurry to rectify that mistake. After all, it buys me time to think—about the fight, the things my family keep pounding into me, my feeble attempts to help others.

Was it worth it? Does anything I do make a difference? I’ve never managed to save anyone. What if Dad is right? What if even Blake is right? I’m not Superman. Maybe buying a few homeless people lunch or giving them a blanket makes no difference in the end. Maybe it’s all for nothing.

“Hey.” Cassie nudges me with her elbow. “That guy’s staring at you. Do you know him?”

I look up, startled, half-eaten donut in my hand. Sure enough, he’s at his usual spot, his pale hair catching the light, and he seems to be staring our way.

“He’s not looking at me,” I say with conviction.

“Yes, he is. He’s been like that for a while.”

I swallow hard. “Maybe he’s looking at you.” Cassie is so pretty it’s no wonder. I bet even from a distance she has the guys falling like flies.

But this makes no sense. The guy was looking this way yesterday, too.

He’s still staring, his hands fisted at his sides. His whole being seems focused on us, and it makes me shiver. Then he spins on his heel and enters the tattoo shop, the door banging behind him. What the hell?

My mouth hangs slack. I turn to Cassie, and I find an amused expression on her face. “This has happened before, hasn’t it?” she mutters.

“What?”

“This guy. You were not surprised to see him.”

I stuff my face with the rest of my donut and chew as slowly as possible. I don’t know what to think. He may be crazy. He may be dangerous. Maybe I should stop coming here.

He may look an angel, but, as my experience with Blake has shown me, inside he may be rotten as hell.