I knew what that meant. They’d call my parents and tell them where I was. Then they’d put me in foster care or a group home until my parents came to get me. I begged the social worker not to, but she tried to tell me they would be involved and looking after me, even at home.
They didn’t understand what that meant. Private conversion therapy is still legal in West Virginia, and a parent has the right to send their child there if they think it’s for the best. CPS wouldn’t be able to stop that. There’s also plenty of ways these companies get around the wordsconversion therapy.
So, like I did when Garrett showed up, I ran.
And no one chased me.
There were plenty of people who helped me survive. Other homeless people who had been at it longer gave me the best pointers they could, the biggest one beingDon’t get arrested. If that happened, I’d be in the system and I’d never be able to get a job, and it would affect my ability to get housing. I didn’t tell them I was more worried about being sent home to my parents.
And here I am, waiting to be booked.
I’ll need to survive whatever conversion therapy throws at me and then lie for two more years. I can do that.
But the thought makes me sick—and this time it isn’t because I’m hungry.
Arrrrre you surrrre about thaaaaat?the strawberry Pop-Tarts in C4 ask me.
I turn away from them. Stare at the bulletin board on my left. It’s plastered with paper printouts from the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children. They’re all printed in color with the wordMISSINGat the top in dark red. Some of them aren’t kids anymore. Their posters say they went missing when they were preteens, but that was years ago.
One of the posters catches my attention.
Because it’s me.
I almost get up to take a closer look—completely forgetting I’m handcuffed to this chair—but my body won’t let me. Maybe it’s the starvation taking hold, but I’m stuck in place. My parents reported me missing. Maybe they feel bad or changed their minds. Maybe they really do want me.
And for a second, I imagine what it might be like to go home. To see my family again. If they are looking for me, maybe it meanstheydolove me. Maybe, in my absence, they got a look at life without me, and that glimpse was enough to make them see past their bullshit religious hang-ups and realize they actually love their only child.
But whatever teeny bit of hope I may have dissolves instantly when I see the name on the poster.
Nathaniel Beaumont.
It’s not me. It’s some other kid who has been missing for almost ten years.
Below his name it says:Nathaniel’s photo is shown age-progressed to age 16.
The picture of him was generated with a computer, but it looks like me. His brown hair is shorter because whoever the artist is—or maybe it’s AI at this point—made it look like his hair had been cut and styled instead of grown out like mine. And the smile is off. It’s the only thing that gives it away as a computer-generated image. Our noses are similar, though the bridge of mine is more prominent—something I hate about myself—and Nathaniel’s ears stick out a bit like mine, too. Another thing I hate.
More than anything else, though, it’s his eyes. They’re the same gray-blue shade as mine. My dad’s eyes, really.
Looking at the age-progressed picture gives me chills. It’s like an alternate-reality me. From another world where with different parents I still had to run away from home and—
No. He didn’t run away. According to the poster, he was six when he disappeared. Ten years missing in July.
Which means he had parents who wanted him. Lucky kid.
Is that sick? It’s definitely sick. But if I were him—meaning if my parents were like his—and they found Nathaniel today, there’s no way they’d care if he happened to be gay. His poor parents have probably spent every day for the last decade believing he was dead. Or maybe they spent those days hoping and praying he was alive and safe somewhere.
If they got the call that he’d been found, they would be so happy. They’d have their kid back. And Nate wouldn’t be scared and alone anymore. He’d be safe with people who loved him.
I wish I could have that. A place where I can feel safe and not worry about where I’m going to find my next meal or where I’m going to sleep. I’m so tired of running.
Almost ten years is a long time to be missing, though. He wouldn’t even be the same kid who disap—
A chill makes every hair on my body stand on end.
But before the thought seed can even root, I pluck it out. That would be too fucked up, even for me. I couldn’t steal some missing kid’s identity.
And there must be ways of verifying my story. DNA tests they’d give immediately to make sure I am who I say I am. Even though it’s been nine years and so many months, I still feel like his parents would know if I was really their son.
