The next morning over bowls of cereal in cold
milk, Ange asked, “So where you from, chico?” When Tyler
shrugged and shoveled a spoonful of corn flakes into his mouth,
Ange persisted. “You don’t know? Or don’t want to say?”
From where he sat across from Ange, Tyler
stared into his bowl and refused to look up. Embarrassed about last
night, Ange suspected, but he didn’t mention it. Anything he said
would just bother Tyler further, and the kid was already skittish
enough. He reminded Ange of a broken doll, the pieces glued
together again but the damage still visible. Everything about the
kid made Ange ache. He wanted to fix what he could and that
surprised him, but more than that, he found himself wanting to make
sure nothing ever hurt the boy again and that…that terrified
him. Wh
