Trevon didn’t know how long he’d been walking. The whole day was like Swiss cheese with big holes in it.
He remembered Muscley One and Raw One throwing him out of the truck.
He remembered his shoulder hitting the ground hard and the sound of the truck driving away.
He remembered when he clawed the garbage bag off his head it was that bluish light of early morning and he was in a alley behind a Dumpster and his eyeglasses were bent at the arm really bad.
He remembered stumbling out of the alley holding his shoulder and thinking, Ow, ow.
He remembered there wasn’t a street but a big empty parking lot that glittered with broken glass, and the only person in sight was a hobo with a long scraggly beard who smiled a toothless smile at him and said, “Right on, man. I been there.”
He remembered thinking to find a street sign, because he knew every street in all of Los Angeles and could list them in order and that made him special.
He remembered finding a street sign, and now the arm part had snapped off his eyeglasses at the hinge and so he had to hold them in place so they didn’t get tilty when he read the sign.
He remembered realizing that he was near downtown and that if he walked long enough, he could find a bus stop.
He remembered finding a bus stop and waiting forever and finally getting on a bus and making a connection and then another to get home.
He remembered trying to keep the Scaredy Bugs down, but then on the third bus they filled him up, starting with his feet and then his legs and then his stomach and then—Oh God, oh God .
And now he was walking again because the bus driver had throwed him off the bus, but it was so far to walk still since he had to cross South Central Avenue and Griffith Avenue and Stanford Avenue and South San Pedro Street and Trinity Street and—
All of a sudden it was dark and cold and he was sitting beneath a freeway underpass and some guys were huddled around a fire in a trash can warming their hands and he wanted to warm his hands so bad, too, but they looked like Bad Influences and Mama told him to steer clear of Bad Influences, because who you surround yourself with makes up part of who you are, and so he kept walking even though his feet were so sore.
Mama.
He had the little towel he’d used to wipe off his pukey mouth still crammed in his pocket, and he thought he should probably throw it out, but it was like Blankie when he was a kid and it was all he had in the world now and what if he puked and needed it again?
A guy was selling flowers by the on-ramp and Trevon walked by and the guy said, “Fuck you, ése . I got this corner,” and Trevon said, “Excuse me, sir. I’m sorry,” and had to take the long way to get across the 110, holding his shoulder even though it didn’t help stop the pain any.
He could see the moon overhead like a eye staring down at him, and he felt as alone as anyone had ever been in the world, because they were all dead, Uncle Joe-Joe and Gran’mama and Leo and everyone except Kiara, ’cuz she was gone in Guatemala helping folks and out of touch and he had no one to call in the whole entire universe.
He stopped at the side of the road, and cars were whizzing by, and he stared up at the Moon Eye and the Moon Eye stared back at him and the Scaredy Bugs went crazy in his chest and he thought his heart was gonna stop and he couldn’t breathe and he knew he was gonna die and he thought maybe that was okay ’cuz it would be better than living now.
The sidewalk zoomed up and hit his cheek, and then he curled up on his side and drew his knees up to his chest with no one but Moon Eye even noticing him and the Scaredy Bugs danced in front of his eyes and he was trying to find air to breathe, and then he heard a screech of brake pads and footsteps coming up, and then a hand rested on his shoulder and a voice said, “Hola. Hello? Hello, my friend? My friend, are you okay?”
And Trevon said, “Uh-uh.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Trevon could hear the cars whizzing by still and felt the cold of the nighttime pavement against his cheek, and he fought the Scaredy Bugs as hard as he could, because we don’t cry and we don’t feel sorry for ourself, and the man kept his hand on his shoulder, and that helped because it was another person touching him but not in a Stranger Danger way, and right now that meant he wasn’t so alone.
Trevon sat up.
“That’s right, amigo . Just take a deep breath. And then another.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now he could see the man’s face, crinkled and kind, and the dark hair with some white mixed in like Uncle Joe-Joe’s.
Trevon said, “What’s your name? ’Cuz I’m not allowed to talk to strangers, but if I know your name then you’re not a stranger.”
The man made a smile, but it wasn’t a happy smile, just the shape of one. “Benito Orellana.” The smile shape faded. “What happened to you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Joven , what happened to you?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Joven —”
“Go away!”
Mr. Orellana drew back, and then Trevon felt guilty ’cuz it wasn’t respectful to raise your voice at nobody, and so he said, “I’m sorry.”
Mr. Orellana said, “That’s okay.”
Trevon cleared his throat. “They said I can’t tell anyone .”
Mr. Orellana sat down on the pavement next to Trevon. He stayed like that for a full minute and then another. His car was double-parked at the curb, and another car honked as it passed, all rude-like.
At a hundred and thirty-seven seconds, Mr. Orellana said, “You know my name, so that means we’re not strangers, right?”
“Right.”
“We’re sort of friends, even.”
Trevon gave a reluctant nod. His shoulder hurt and his cheek hurt and his heart hurt.
“I was in big trouble once,” Mr. Orellana said. “With my son. And I needed a friend. A friend I could trust.”
“They said I can’t talk to anyone.”
“Who did?”
“Bad Men.” Trevon bit his lip ’cuz it was wobbling and he wasn’t gonna cry or feel sorry for himself ’cuz that would be disrespecting Mama’s memory.
Mama.
Trevon said, “They hurt my family, and I can’t tell anyone or they’ll make it my fault.”
Mr. Orellana made a noise in his chest like the Bad Men had done it to him instead of to Trevon.
“See?” Trevon said. “You can’t help me. No one can help me. Ever again.”
Mr. Orellana got up and dusted off his pants. He crouched over Trevon and rested both hands on his shuddering shoulders.
He said, “Can you remember a phone number?”