Chapter 1
St. Catherine's Youth Club. Bolted to a chain-link fence that hemmed in the corner lot, the battered metal sign was pocked from thrown stones and riddled with what might've been bullet holes. Tall weeds strangled the grass inside the fence and broke up asphalt that had once covered a large parking lot. As Alex Hitchner eased his car around the curb, he frowned past the fence at the squat, brick building hunched at the far end of the lot. A clothing warehouse back in the day, the building with its discolored façade and crumbling edgework now housed a live-in shelter for runaway teens. Near the double entrance doors, a group of boys played a heated game of keep-away on a makeshift basketball court. Glancing at the envelope in his passenger side seat, Alex checked the directions he'd received from Father Taylor one last time. Fourth and Main, they read. This must be the place.
He avoided the empty spots near the building's doors, unwilling to park too close to the kids and their dribbling basketball. As he got out, he slammed the car door behind him, then tugged on the handle to make sure it was locked. Hot stares burned into him, baleful eyes assessing him, his clothing, his car. Judging him.
You're here as a volunteer, Alex reminded himself. To help these boys. Nevertheless he avoided meeting those hungry eyes and he kept one hand on his wallet as he trotted up the few steps to the shelter. A small voice inside him prayed his hubcaps were still on his car when he came back.
Inside the shelter, a few teenagers sat around the wide-screen TV in one corner, playing video games. A group of girls congregated by the large open windows, giggling over pictures in a teen magazine, and some older boys worked behind tables laden with soup and bread and food, set up for lunch. The place was filled with kids--older than Alex had imagined, to be sure, but none looked old enough to be in charge, and no one wore the Roman collar Alex had expected this Father Taylor to wear. For a moment he just stood in the doorway, looking like another one of the lost kids in off the streets for a hot meal and a place to sleep.
Then a guy broke away from a game of table tennis, already smiling as he walked toward Alex. With his dark, spiked hair and trim goatee, he was definitely older than the rest of the kids, and as he approached, Alex noticed diamond studs in each ear. "Alex Hitchner?" the man asked, extending his hand.
Alex shook it quickly. "Father Taylor?" he ventured, taking in the dingy t-shirt and baggy jeans. You've got to be kidding.
But the man laughed. "Just call me Nate," he said. "All the kids do. Or Father Nate if you insist on the title. I see you found us all right?"
Alex nodded, more at ease with the thought of this man as Nate than Father. "Your letter said you had someone you wanted me to meet."
It had been weeks since Alex had signed up for the Outreach Youth program at St. Catherine's. The whole thing started as his roommate's idea, but Dave lost interest when he hadn't gotten an immediate call back and to be honest, Alex hadn't expected to hear anything either. Then he received Father Nate's letter. His first thought was to throw it away, or call the shelter and say he was no longer interested.
But the more he thought about the program, the more he talked himself into it. He had a few months before classes started again at the community college where he studied music, and his job at the radio station was flexible enough that he could afford to spend some time helping out the shelter. "It's like a big brother program, right?" he asked as he followed Father Nate down a narrow hall. The walls were yellow cinder blocks painted with bright grass and a picket fence in the hopes of livening them up. "I'm not sure I understand what it's all about."
"There's not much to it, really," the priest said with a shrug. At the end of the hall, he stopped and opened a door to reveal a tiny office overflowing with two chairs, a cluttered desk, and too many filing cabinets.
Taking a seat behind the desk, he motioned Alex to sit down. "We take the survey you filled out and match you up with a youth we think you'll have a lot in common with," he explained. "In your case we picked someone roughly your own age. These kids need someone strong in their lives, Alex. Someone to show them that there's a life beyond the streets. They come from broken homes--runaways mostly, but some have been tossed out by their parents. Most of them have been in gangs, into drugs and prostitution and things you and I don't like to think about. Things we like to pretend don't exist except on TV and in the movies."
From the papers on his desk, he extracted a thin folder and handed it to Alex. "His name is Jamie. It's all in there--everything we know about him. Take a look. If you think it'll be too much, just tell me and I'll understand. You can leave without ever seeing him. But if you think it might be worth it to take the time and be a friend ... well, he's in a room down the hall, waiting."
"It's that easy?" Alex opened the folder and found a picture of a sullen kid staring back at him, a shock of orange-red curls hugging the kid's scalp tightly. A spray of freckles tanned his nose and cheeks, his mouth was curved into a full-lipped pout, and his eyes...
Jesus. Alex caught his breath. He had never seen eyes as blue or as deep before, not in a photograph, not ever. There was no way he could close this folder and walk out now. Those eyes would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. "He's my age?" he asked softly.
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