When Red's truck came to a sudden halt, in his peripheral, he can easily make out Beverly's small frame stretching, and yawning. "We're here."

He made his way out of the truck, and rounded himself over to Beverly, who was still stretching. Red pulled the door ajar, and grabbed Beverly's bag.

Beverly allowed Red to take his bag, only muttering a small, thank you, before sliding out of the passenger seat, taking in all of Red's home—from the outside. It seemed . . . small, but definitely big enough for one person.

Red pushed Beverly up the stairs of his porch, "I'll show to where you'll be staying."

The inside seemed just as cozy as the outside. The houses small mannerisms, allowing Beverly to feel at home. But Red didn't let him linger for long, only pulling him through the hallway, and to a small, cooped bedroom.

"This is—your room. Mine is down the hall, second door to your right. I'll have dinner ready by seven, and if you need anything—I'll be in the living room." Without another word, Red was gone, leaving Beverly alone with his thoughts, once again.

Beverly sat down on the bedspread, feeling the linen along his fingertips.

The man—whose name he hadn't even learned, had taken him in without another thought. But, if things suddenly went south, Beverly had brought a knife with him, that was carried at all times in his pocket.

But maybe if the man was a good guy—Beverly wouldn't have to use it on him.

Red slumped down on the sofa, breathing out a heavy sigh. After visiting with his sister, in New York, the last thing he expected was to bring a younger boy home.

He could only imagine what Monica would say. Don't lead him on.