Newt wasn’t where I left him. My boots crunched the gravel behind the post office, nothing but wind and the reek of rotting cardboard. I checked the dumpster first, then the shadows behind the HVAC.
I found him huddled under the lip of the loading dock, arms around his knees, face pinched in pain. There was fresh blood on his knuckles and more at the corner of his mouth, the scab torn open fresh. He was shaking, not from cold but from something deeper, a tremor wired into the bone.
I crouched beside him, blocking the view from the street. The angle made my knees burn, but I ignored it. He flinched at first, expecting a blow, then recognized me and sagged like a marionette with cut strings.
He said, “You should go,” voice no louder than a whisper.
“I don’t take orders from you,” I said. I kept my tone neutral, not gentle—gentle would scare him worse than anger.
His eyes darted everywhere but my face.
Up close, I could see the constellation of old bruises under the new, yellow and green mapped across his jaw.
I reached for him, slow. He didn’t fight when I lifted his chin with two fingers. His skin was hot, fevered. My thumb found the split at his lip and wiped away the blood, the motion automatic, too soft for what I wanted to be.
“Who did this?” I asked.
He shook his head, too quick. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” My voice was quiet, the kind of quiet you use when you’re about to snap someone’s neck.
His arms tightened around his ribs. “Please, Knox. Just—don’t.”
I let go, but didn’t back off. “You plan on sitting out here all day?”
He tried to laugh, coughed instead. “I got nowhere to go.”
I almost told him he could come with me.
Instead, I stood, cracked my back, and offered him a hand. It hung in the space between us, big and calloused and ugly. He stared at it a long time, like he expected it to vanish or change into something worse.
When he finally reached out, his fingers barely touched mine, a feather-light brush, but I closed around them and hauled him up in one clean pull. He was lighter than I’d expected, unsteady on his feet, and for a second he just leaned there, pressed against my chest, all bird-bone and tension.
I could smell the adrenaline coming off him, bitter and sharp.
“You hungry?” I asked. I didn’t care about the answer.
He shook his head, but I started walking anyway, hand on the back of his neck to steady him. His pulse hammered under my thumb. We made it three steps before Ransom materialized at the corner, cigarette hanging from his lip, eyes narrowed.
“You picking up strays now?” he said.
I didn’t let go of Newt. “He’s hurt.”
Ransom snorted. “They’re all hurt, one way or another. You planning to bring that drama home?”
“If it’s a problem, you can sleep at the shop,” I said.
Ransom grinned, wolfish. “I like your style, Sarge. Don’t let Ma see him first, she’ll have a heart attack.”
“I’ll handle Ma.”
Newt tried to pull away, but I squeezed tighter and felt the resistance melt out of him immediately. He was shivering again, so I shrugged out of my jacket and draped it over his shoulders. It dwarfed him. My hands looked obscene against the softness of his skin, but I didn’t let that stop me.
We reached the truck. I opened the passenger door and waited while he climbed in, moving slow, careful of his ribs. I saw the flash of more bruises when his shirt rode up, some old, some new.
My teeth clenched so hard I tasted metal.
When I got behind the wheel, he was staring straight ahead, jacket pulled tight around him like armor.
