That evening, I heard an unfamiliar male voice outside and went to a window to look downstairs. Damien was back, and he had a bicycle strapped down on top of his car. He got out and went around the other side to open the passenger door and help a fragile-looking, slender young man, probably no more than twenty years old or so, to stand up. In the fading light, I could see that he was bruised all over—at least, on the skin I could see.
I rushed outside and down the steps. “Hey, Damien. Can I help?” He gave me a grateful look.
“I would appreciate it. Why don’t you get Kenny here in the house to the back bedroom, while I grab some stuff from the car?”
“Sure thing.” Gently, I put an arm around the young man and helped him inside. He whimpered with every step, and I didn’t blame him. I guide
