open for me, and I blink at him. This kid is on some next level weed if he's inviting a literal thief into his house right now.

Of all the times I've seen him, I never took him as the stoner type, but all that does is make me feel even dumber for being caught by him. Now my entire plan is ruined; I was supposed to get in, grab some tools to sell, and get out, just like I have for the past few weeks. Now I'm screwed for money. But I have to count my blessings, too, because of all the people I could have been caught by, Junior must be the most harmless one. I was terrified at first, but getting him to feel sorry for me was easy. All I had to do was bat my eyes and he melted like butter to the floor.

"Are you coming in?" he asks, and I study his face. I've met bad men. I know bad men. I know that dangerous glint they get in their eyes, that primal rage and thirst for prey.

Junior has none of that. His movements are hesitant and awkward, and it's not only because he's stoned. This guy is a dork. Still, his height of six-foot-something towers over my measly five-three, and I'm not in the business of entering strangers' houses. Even if they seem about as dangerous as a sloth.

"I'm good," I say. "I'll wait here."

"Okay, gimme a sec." He leaves the door open, and I cross my arms.

High or not, I admit, he's cuter up close than he is from outside a window. His skin is snowy-pale, and his blue eyes are framed by the inkiest eyelashes I've ever seen.

Pfft. Pretty boy.

Through the windows, dim lights reflect off the hardwood floors. It's so quaint and Christmassy in there, like a gingerbread house. The warmth seeps into the night while an icy gust blows through my flannel and stings my skin. I've been out here for way too long.

Oh, screw it.

Clenching my eyes shut, I hop inside, enveloped by the smell of potpourri and cinnamon. A relieving heat thaws my thighs beneath my jeans, and the noises of the house settle around me: the rumbling of a furnace, the ticking of a clock. Aside from that, dead silence.

I'm standing in the kitchen next to a coat rack littered with hoodies and jackets. This place reminds me of one of the showcase kitchens I've seen in the old magazines they keep at the shelter. A warm palette of colours, a granite island, stainless steel appliances...

So, this is where the Johnsons have their breakfasts and make their meals. I eye the cupboards, which must be stocked full of food. Maybe I have time to grab—

Junior's feet thump down the stairs. Moments later, he slides into the room, eyes wide when they see me. "Oh, hey, you came in."

"Like you said, it's freezing out there."

When he offers me a lump of navy blue, I unball it to find a jacket with a forty-seven on the arm, WEXLER on the back in thick white letters.

"Is this your name?" I ask. "Why would I want a coat with your name on it?"

His face flushes. "Sorry, I dunno. Let me grab another."

"No, it's fine." The insulation is velvety to the touch. I'll be ten times warmer out there in this. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

We fall quiet. A bowl of fruit on the counter stocked with oranges and bananas makes my stomach growl. Really, I would eat dog food at this point. I'm sure he would let me have something if I asked, but the question is stuck in my throat. I hate asking for things and I hate feeling like a charity case. I would rather just take it and slip away without a word, but he keeps watching me.

"Do you like hot chocolate?" Junior asks with glazed-over eyes.

I pause, thrown-off by the question. "I love hot chocolate."

"You want some? It'll only take a minute. You can come sit if you want."

He goes to the cupboard and removes two mugs. I should really get out of here, but after the night I've had, I can't say no to calories. Maybe the sugar will stifle my hunger.

I leave my boots by the door and help myself to one of the stools alongside the bar. A newspaper rests on the counter, open to a half-filled out crossword puzzle. It must be the dad's. He looks like such a well-adjusted guy, I'm shocked at how scratchy the handwriting is.

"Marshmallows?" Junior offers.

"Sure."

He has a nice voice. It's smooth, the type that probably sings well. I should stop calling him Junior—he has a name. Elliot. I guess that suits him, too.

Spinning on the stool, I grow more comfortable as each moment passes. I've gotten too used to apartments and abandoned buildings, so being in here is strangely nice.

A mug appears in front of me, steam lifting from it. Elliot leans across the counter and says, "So, are you like... homeless?"

It's irritating how he steps over his words, like he's scared of offending me or something. But as our eyes connect, my frustration dissipates like smoke, because his face is a mask of genuine, innocent curiosity.

A nice guy. I haven't met many in my life, but a sheltered boy like Elliot would be a good person. It's not a bad thing, obviously. But it's different.

"I'm not homeless homeless." I stir my drink with a spoon until the marshmallows make a gooey swirl. "I'm between places right now. I'm a street rat."

"Well, where do you stay?"

I glare at him. "Around."

"All right." He raises his hands. "I was just asking."

Our eyes remain locked. He looks so... uncorrupt. Borderline angelic. There might as well be a damn halo on his head.

"I do have a friend's place I sometimes stay at," I say, "but some nights he doesn't want me there, so I have to improvise."

"What's that mean?"

"You know, find somewhere else to go. A bed is a bed, right?"

He sips his hot chocolate. "Like where?"

Find somewhere else to go. Find other beds to sleep in. Come on, Junior, you should get it.

But I don't have the heart to say what I mean, so I tell him, "Abandoned buildings and stuff. I'm in the west end a lot. There are so many old houses over there, and some of them are pretty decent inside still."

"Yeah. Sorry, I'm not trying to be pushy. Just curious, that's all."

"It's okay."

"So what's your name?"

"Lucy." When he says nothing, I add, "And your name's Elliot."

"Yeah. Most people call me El."

"Hm." I spin in a full circle. "Maybe I'll call you Junior."

Taking a sip, my senses are shocked by the chocolate taste on my lips. I expected sweet, chalky water, but Elliot's hot chocolate is delicious. I try not to look excited about it.

The corners of his eyes crinkle when he grins. "I'd rather you didn't, but okay."

It doesn't matter what I call him. After this, it's bye-bye, Junior.

Silence shrouds us. The clock ticks, and Elliot zones out on something in his mug. What am I supposed to do now? Of all the awkward social situations I've been in, this is by far the strangest. Sitting here alone with this kid I tried to rob?

Then it hits me.

I was relying on finding something useful to sell tonight, but Elliot got in my way. This hot chocolate is nice and all, but it isn't going to feed me or help me make money. I could try to scout another family, see if I can break into their shed, but that sounds stupid. I'm obviously not as good of a stalker as I thought.

I have one real option here. I don't know if I can get away with it, but I have to try.

"Elliot?"

He looks at me, all dopey-eyed and vacant. Sure, I screwed up my original plan, but this opportunity is heavenly. "Yeah?"

"Can I use your bathroom?"

"Sure, it's down the hall."

The Wexlers, the good Samaritans they are, turn off the lights when they aren't using them. Each take I step down the dim hall is like entering a different dimension. This is perfect. Maybe I can get a hold of some of his mom's diamonds! I bite my knuckle and grin. I could afford my own apartment. I could get on my feet. This is perfect.

Elliot is so baked that he won't notice me creep up the stairs and into his parents' bedroom. It will be like taking candy from a stoned baby.

But as I turn a corner, I'm drawn to the family photos on the marigold walls. I stop at one of Elliot in a navy hockey jersey on an ice rink. His face is rosy, his dark hair all ruffled, and he must have been about eight years old. He holds up a gold medal with a proud, but goofy smile on his face.

I was wrong about him. He's good at sports.

In one photo, a younger version of the family stands on a sandy beach under a cerulean sky. The mom has a bright smile, and the dad's arm is secured around her shoulder. The older brother does bunny ears on the younger sister's head while Elliot stands off to the side and pouts like he dropped his ice cream.

They all look so peaceful. Familiar. Nice.

And I'm planning on stealing from them.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but it doesn't feel right. In fact, stealing from Angel Boy and his precious family feels so wrong to the point where I feel physically sick. I can't do this. Forget it, I'll find another way to make some cash. I always do.

So when I find the bathroom, I touch nothing. Not the crystal snowflake sculpture, or the fancy towel, or the mauve candle that's never been lit. I'm staring at myself in the mirror, washing my hands when my phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart leaps at the name on my screen: Brett Murphy. I pray he's offering to come pick me up and give me a place to stay for the night.

"Brett?" I answer.

"Hey, Luce," he whispers. "Listen, I'm just calling to warn you. You've got to stay out of my block for a while."

"What? Why? What's going—"

"It's Slater. He's back."

The world stands still. Slater.

His snake-like eyes surface from the darkest crevices of my mind.

His hands constrict my throat.

His hot, sour breath touches my lips.

Brett's voice pulls me from my trance. "Lucy?"

"Yeah." I gulp. "Yeah, I'm here. Does he know where I am?"

"No, you're safe. All your stuff's in my car. Find somewhere to go and I'll bring it to you soon, okay?"

"Okay."

"Take care, all right?"

The line goes dead. The walls of the bathroom collapse around me.

Slater's back.

If he finds me, I'm dead.

With shaky hands, I return to the kitchen. Elliot looks up from his phone.

"I have to go." My teeth chatter and my body trembles.

Elliot's eyebrows pinch. "You okay? I thought I heard you talking to someone."

"I'm fine." Wind rattles the window panes as the storm rages outside. I grab the jacket he gave me off the back of a chair and put it on, swallowed by the smell of clean laundry. Elliot follows me to the back door, and I cram my Timberlands on my feet. The same boots Slater once bought me. I would ditch them if I could afford it, but I have nothing else, so I'm forced to think of him every time I put them on.

"You can use the front if you want," Elliot says. "Don't have to sneak out back."

"My boots are already here."

"Okay."

With that, I step back into the cold. Snow sweeps over the backyard like sand over a desert.

"Thanks," I say. "For everything."

"Hey, Lucy, hold on." Elliot leans against the door, arms crossed over his royal blue hoodie.

"What?"

"Are you sure you're okay?"

My throat tightens. No, I'm not okay, but it's none of his business. "Yeah. Thanks."

With that, I walk around the side of the house. Back to square one: no place to go, no cash in my pocket, and my ex is back in town. When I get to the sidewalk, I trek down the hill and tighten Elliot's hood over my head. The lengths of my hair are quickly coated in snow.

Ambleside Crescent is built up a hill, and headlights flash from the end of the street. The tires of the Johnson/Wexlers' SUV crunch the snow as it turns into the quiet suburb.

I'm a statue as it passes. Christmas music chimes from the speakers, and inside, happy smiles light up the faces of each family member as they sing along. No one in the car noticies me, like I'm another snowman on one of these lawns, or a ghost who only the dead can see. The SUV pulls into the house at the top of the hill, where inside, Elliot is probably passed out.

The wind whistles. My bones are cold. Where do I go now? I have nowhere, so I walk. I'll find somewhere. I always do.

Minutes flicker into an hour. I'm so cold that I'm hot, and my nose and ears feel like they could chip right off. I'm out of the suburbs now, into an old part of downtown. Somehow, the full moon bleeding through the overcast sky makes me feel even colder, but I can make it. Just a little farther.

Through the haze of the storm, a brick house with boarded-up, graffiti-splattered windows stands before me. The lock is frozen shut but the door kicks open easily. Every homeless kid in this city knows this district is full of abandoned houses. I stop and listen. There are no voices, only the creaking of the house.

This never gets any easier. Cobwebs dangle across my skin as I crumple in the corner of the room. The storm battles the house, and I sink to the wooden floor beneath the window. I need that light from outside to feel safe, to feel closer to an imaginary home.

This place could be haunted. Or infested with spiders. But it has four walls and a roof, so I shuffle down and hug myself. Visions of Elliot's house idle in my mind. He was nice to me, but I guess I'll never see him again.

Strange how life works that way. Some people—good people—are only meant to cross my path once before continuing on their own as if I never existed. But other people, the bad ones, cling to my world like soul-sucking leeches. People like Slater. People like them.

I reach into my pocket for my heart-shaped box. It's the one thing that's always helped me through nights like this. I've only been homeless for a year, but it seems like a lifetime. I carved it when I was in the third grade, and it's one of the only keepsakes I have left from that life. When I find my pockets empty, panic surges through me. I pat myself down all over, but there's nothing.

A pressure weighs on my chest. I can't go back out there. Maybe tomorrow, I can retrace my steps... but the snow will have eaten it by then. Tears prick my eyes, but I won't cry, not here. I pull Elliot's jacket over my knees. The warmth immerses me before the cold strikes again, but the smell of his home remains. With his hood over my head, I sink deeper into the wall.

If I think hard enough, I'm back in that house, the taste of hot chocolate on my lips.