Them Bones

PROLOGUE

SHEL

Shel hadn’t seen the boy in months, and the weather was turning. She was worried.

She didn’t really know why she was so fussed. The boy seemed more than capable of taking care of himself, and she didn’t have anything to offer him beyond the occasional hot cup of coffee and breakfast sandwich. But she worried just the same.

It had been a cold fall. The leaves had dropped quickly, branches turning naked and brittle, and she knew he’d been sleeping outside a lot because she could smell it on him. He never smelled bad, nasty, like some of the other homeless folk who came in with change for a hot cup of something. He always just smelled of outside. Like winter. Even in July.

She couldn’t remember when he’d started showing up, exactly. It was as if she just walked into the kitchen one day and found him doing dishes and a sandwich fell into his mouth. She didn’t normally allow strangers back there – it had been just her and Ness and Brian for as long as any of them could remember, and none of them took easy to new folks. But the boy slid in there like he’d always been, no fuss, quietly washing or drying dishes. Brian didn’t say boo (and he always said something) so Shel had allowed it, time and time again, until they’d all gotten so used to him that now it was bothering her that he hadn’t been around.

There was something about that kid. He had a strange, quiet sort of presence. He was polite enough, but not a conversation-starter. Helpful but not eager. Never lingered when there was nothing to be done. She almost would have equated him to a ghost if he hadn’t had that indescribable thing about him that made him utterly unforgettable. It was like he generated his own climate – dark and unfamiliar – that had you watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering what he’d do next. He always looked like he was right on the verge of hanging himself or taking you to bed.

Not that Shel thought about him like that! She puffed on her smoke, crossed herself, and threw up a silent prayer, apologizing for the lie because… she did think about him like that, sometimes.

Shel threw up another apology for her weakness of the flesh. It really wasn’t like that – it wasn’t nasty, the way she thought about him. He was just so intriguing – mysterious, almost – that you couldn’t help it. Even Ness, as old as dirt, got that gleam in her eye, the unmistakable look of a woman appreciating a man. He wasn’t the kind you’d kick out of bed for eating crackers.

Shel never worked Tuesdays because of The Lord. The boy had once said he thought Sunday was the day for church, and she’d smacked him so hard in the back of the head she was sure he'd taken a temporary trip to heaven.

“You don’t get Sundays off in a diner,” Shel rasped, hanging halfway out the back door with a cigarette in her mouth. “So’s God and I got an understanding.”

Shel sometimes wondered if she’d have offered for him to stay with her if she had a proper place. But she didn’t have one, so it didn’t matter.

She rented a room from a cranky Ukrainian woman who liked to hit the ceiling with her broom in warning whenever anyone upstairs was “walking too loud”. There were no men allowed, and that suited Shel just fine (Lord knew she’d had enough babies) as she found that in her old age she had little patience for the stronger sex, anyway.

She heard the front door tinkle and steeled herself, hoping against all hope that it wasn't a family with kids.

Please Lord, let him be okay, she prayed.

As she stepped back into the diner, the soles of her white tennis sneakers sticking to the syrupy floor, she did a double-take; standing just inside, pink from the wind, was the boy, his arm around a girl.

“Hey kid!” she shouted, launching across the diner at a half-jog before she threw her arms around him. He looked taken aback but gave her a little squeeze. “Come, sit, sit!” she mothered, giving them a booth by the window.

As they peeled off their layers, she noted the colour of his cheeks. There was a spark in his eye that she had never seen before. Like he’d woken up.

Shel took in the girl and tried not to stare but it was tough – she was a looker, a pointy blonde little thing with sharp green eyes and pouty lips and a nose you’d want to tweak if the girl didn’t give the distinct impression that she’d bite you for it. She had that same magnetic quality about her, and the two of them together were hypnotizing. Several people at nearby tables watched them openly with interest.

The girl disappeared behind a menu, and Shel noticed the way the boy was staring at the back of the grimy plastic cover like he could see right through it. He looked hungry, and it wasn’t for food.

“What’ll it be kids,” she asked with a frown.

“Chocolate chip pancakes for me, please,” said the girl with a grin. “Extra chocolate chips.”

The boy grimaced and the girl stuck her tongue out at him.

“And what’ll you have, honey?”

He handed her back the menus. “Anything but pancakes.”

She tutted knowingly at him and trotted back to the kitchen, grasping her gold cross, thanking Him for letting her know that the boy was safe.

But as she glanced back at the table, their heads bowed together, she had a strange, sinking feeling that those two were never supposed to have met. That His divine plan had been knocked off-course, somehow, and now that it was Done it couldn’t be Undone.

She grasped her cross tighter. Our Lord doesn’t make mistakes, she told herself, but she felt the creeping shadow of doubt.

For the first time in thirty years, she closed the diner that Sunday.

She needed to go to church.

1997

SHANE

The light in the alley flickered, illuminating an alarming amount of gum stuck to the side of the trash bins, and what appeared to be a used condom stuck to Shane’s right shoe. 

He scowled and wiggled his foot (acutely aware of the small hole forming in his Converse over his big left toe) but it hung limply off the bottom of his sneaker, mocking him like everything else in his life.

Stepping on it with his left foot, he tried to move forward and repressed a gag; it must have been inside out because it stuck to his other shoe as well. 

It was unusually cold for a Tuesday in early October, and he was tucked between two dumpsters to break the icy wind tearing across the wheat field adjacent to the plaza he was standing in, ripping at his face like claws. He buried his hands farther into the front pocket of his hoodie. They were red and raw from the walk, and the only thing on his body that didn’t presently feel at risk of frostbite were his ears, courtesy of his loose grey wool beanie pulled low over his brow. 

He frantically searched the ground for a piece of cardboard or a loose flyer to pull off the condom, the acid in his stomach churning.

God, when is the last time I ate? 

That was why he was standing in the back of a shitty, rundown plaza at 4am in the freezing cold. A skinny, awkward kid named Dustin worked in the small plaza bakery on Tuesdays and Thursdays before school. When Dustin’s boss didn’t show up in the mornings (which was all of them, considering how frequently that guy liked to drink at the pool hall down the street) Dustin would bake extra loaves for Shane and hand them out the back door.

That past spring, before the mid-parking-lot snowbanks leftover from the plows had fully melted, Shane noticed a rusted out Intrepid with a flat tire parked in the plaza lot for several days while ambling back and forth between Fairy Lake Park and the new subdivision being built beside the Walmart, construction dormant for Easter. It had been raining for three days straight, and Cody’s mom – good Catholic that she was – had kicked him out for the long weekend because “family was coming”. The damp had seeped into his bones, his jaw stiff from seventy-two hours of teeth-chattering cold or possibly just from not speaking to another human being for too long. He waited until dark and jimmied the lock on the Intrepid, collapsing onto the seat, desperate for even an hour of something dry to lie down on that wasn’t sawdust-covered plywood or shrubbery drowning in geese shit. 

He’d woken up to the weak, milky light of a not-quite-spring dawn and some kind of commotion outside. The rain had frozen over the windows into a thin sheet of pure ice overnight and he couldn’t see anything. Fear pricked the back of his neck, thinking someone had called the cops, so he cracked open the door and peeked outside.

A group of three boys, all shockingly blonde, were towering over a short kid with glasses and a noticeably awful haircut, clearly hassling him. One of the boys had a baby face but the beefy body of a damned biker; he raised his ham-like fist and punched the kid in the face, sending him careening backwards against the brick wall. The Pork Rind laughed, blood spurting from Bad Haircut’s nose, while the slimmer boy whose face Shane couldn’t see entered the building. The other two remained outside, one glaring at the plaza entrance and the other leering down at the crumpled kid who was dribbling blood into both hands, eyes streaming tears but clearly trying not to whimper. 

Shane sighed, and pushed the door open all the way, swinging his legs out of the car. The boys stared at him blankly while he stretched, his shoulders cracking from the cramped seat. 

“Fuck off,” Pork Rind spat with a sneer. His voice was preternaturally high, like he’d been kicked in the balls too many times.

“You okay, kid?” Shane asked. The watery-eyed boy glanced nervously between him and Pork Rind, saying nothing. 

“He’s fine,” Pork Rind said. “Get lost.”

Shane sauntered towards them, brow furrowed. They must have been close to his age, a little older maybe, eighteen or nineteen… The boy on the ground couldn’t have been older than twelve. Just a kid. 

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to catch Bad Haircut’s eye, “why don’t we just head back inside?” 

“I won’t say it again, fuck off man.”

Pork Rind was glaring at him, but Shane just stared right back, his face neutral, body relaxed, weight rolling slowly into the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent. Pork Rind’s glower faded a little as he looked him up and down, probably taking note of Shane’s casual stance. He looked questioningly at his friend – brother, maybe? – for a brief second, and back to Shane, sizing him up. 

Shane waited patiently, unmoving, and could practically hear the gears turning in Pork Rind’s head, wondering why Shane was dripping with a complete and utter lack of fucks to give about the guy double his body mass with fists the size of Shane’s head, clearly capable of caving in his skull.

Shane focused on his breathing, kept it even and steady. 

Pork Rind took a tiny step back.

Maybe he’s not as dumb as I thought.

The door to their right swung open, and the lean boy – definitely the leader by the way the other two fell back – stepped out with two fistfuls of cash and a steaming cinnamon roll between his teeth. He took in the scene with an almost bored expression.

“Don’t see how you fit into my morning,” he said. 

“Who doesn’t want to wake up to this,” Shane shrugged, gesturing to himself. 

The kid on the ground stifled a snicker.

The Leader’s eyes narrowed and he stood up a little taller, but a car pulled in and they all watched it warily. The driver seemed to pay them no attention, just pulling in to turn around and back out onto the road, but the brothers spooked and The Leader muttered under his breath that it was time for them to go.

“See you next week, Dusty,” he sneered, and they scurried away.

Shane watched them leave before extending a hand to the kid, who wiped his bloody palm on his jeans before accepting it and scrambling up.

“You good?” 

The kid nodded, and Shane circled back to the car for his backpack, locking the door and shutting it behind him. His back ached, and he needed to piss, but he didn’t want to embarrass the boy by hanging around to witness his post-bully humiliation, so he started to walk across the plaza towards the sidewalk. 

“Wait,” the kid called out in a reedy voice. Shane stopped but didn’t turn to look at him. “Do you… want something to eat?” 

Shane’s stomach contracted. He’d been rationing a box of Ritz crackers from Cody’s cupboard for two days. 

“Yeah, man,” he said. “But are you going to get in trouble? Don’t you have a manager or something?”

The kid shrugged. “He’s not a morning person.”

Shane circled back towards him, following him into the dusty bakery where the boy slid a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls in his direction – one missing – and gestured for Shane to help himself. 

He didn’t pause to say thanks – just launched at it and stuffed his face, not even bothering to stifle his moan. If he was being honest, it could have been dog biscuits and he wouldn’t have cared.

“Um, I don’t have coffee or anything. But like, I have hot water?” 

“Thanks,” Shane said around the mouthful of food. He was eyeing the tray, wanting to take more, but didn’t want the kid to get in any more trouble than he already was.

The boy disappeared into a back room and returned holding a dixie cup of hot water. Shane wrapped his hands around it and bent his face over the steam, breathing it in. Then the kid reached for his backpack, and on reflex Shane’s arm shot out, catching him on the wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, voice dripping with menace that he hadn’t bothered to dredge up for the blonde terrorists. 

The kid swallowed and stepped back, holding out his hand, which had a fresh-looking loaf of bread in it wrapped in saran. 

Shane eyed him coolly, but the kid just placed it on the counter near his bag and then stepped away, still looking at the floor.

Up close, he appeared even scrawnier than he had in the parking lot. He had deep pitted spots sprawling across his cheeks, scars from chicken pox maybe, and beneath the awful haircut his head was an odd shape, almost like someone had hit him with a baseball bat in the womb and he’d come out with a slightly cylindrical indent over his left eyebrow. 

“You got a name?” he asked.

“Dustin,” the kid mumbled.

“I’m Shane.” He inched closer to the pastries and hunger won out over concern as he helped himself to another cinnamon roll. 

“Yeah,” Dustin said, still staring at the floor. It came out like thanks.

Shane cleared his throat, took the loaf of bread and stuffed it into his pack, and then rubbed the back of his head, his hat staticky against his short dark hair.

“Well… I’ll see ya…” 

As he reached for the door the kid made an odd squeak and Shane paused again.

“You want to come back on Thursday?” he breathed, so low Shane could barely hear him. The kid was circling his toe in some flour on the ground, creating a little spiral pattern. 

“I’m fine,” Shane said, stomach protesting loudly. “But… thanks.”

Dustin nodded, and then disappeared into the back room again. 

Shane didn’t even make it all the way around the back of the building before ripping open the saran wrap and tearing into the loaf. 

He had later returned to Cody’s to discover that one of Cody’s cousins had stayed behind after Easter. The shitty, lumpy pullout in the dank basement was now occupied. 

“Sorry, man,” Cody said with a sniff, powder rimming his cracked nostrils. 

Shane slept two more nights at Fairy Lake before finding himself standing back outside the bakery at 4:00am on Thursday morning. He was in desperate need of a shower, and clean clothes, but more than anything else, food. At 4:01am, the back door opened and Dustin stood there holding two loaves of bread.

Dustin didn’t react to Shane’s presence. No raised eyebrows, no blink, no greeting. It was like Shane was a piece of outdoor furniture that had been bolted to the ground, and Dustin was so used to seeing him that he wasn’t worth a second look. Dustin thrust out his hands without making eye contact, and before Shane could say a word, the door had swung shut in his face. 

For a while, Shane had worried about Dustin’s boss showing up, although he figured if he didn’t notice the kid being beaten and robbed it was unlikely the guy would notice a few missing loaves of bread. Shane’s heart sank with disappointment the week he’d showed up to a car in the parking lot right in front of the shop – but two loaves had been wrapped in saran and tucked into a grocery bag beside the dumpster. He almost wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the smell of the cinnamon roll, loose, perched on top. Shane could have kissed Dustin; he’d fallen asleep in the park with the last of his loaf on his chest and the fucking geese had stolen it. He hadn’t eaten in a day and a half.

For six months, Shane had shown up at the bakery. And for six months, Dustin hadn’t once poked his head out that door empty handed. The kid was more reliable for food than the damn soup kitchen, who wouldn’t feed him unless he prayed, and tried to force him to stay at their shelter with the weirdos who liked to jerk off at the foot of his bed while he was trying to sleep. 

But that morning the clock ticked on, and Dustin didn’t open the door. 

By the time 5:00 rolled around, Shane trudged around front to knock on the shop door. The lights were off, and it was clear nobody was inside. His stomach grumbled angrily as he sighed with disappointment – maybe the kid was sick, or something. 

He wracked his brain for options, not realizing how dependent he’d gotten on that bread to get him through the week. Sometimes the diner down the road would let him do dishes in exchange for a peameal sandwich, if he cooked it himself. But only when Shel was working, and Shel never worked Tuesdays. 

Sometimes Vince’s put a big basket of bruised produce with clearance stickers on their back loading dock instead of right into the dumpster, but you had to get there before dawn or it was all snapped up and it was at least a thirty minute walk. He always hated that, anyway – he found it hard to swallow food with a pink clearance sticker on it, knowing that people with money in their pocket refused to buy an apple because of a little bruise, or a banana because of a little brown. 

Must be fucking nice. 

He sighed and sat down on the curb, warring with himself for the eighty millionth time if he should just pull a little B&E and load up his pack. 

Cody had been good for chips, or crackers, for a while over the summer, feeling guilty that Shane couldn’t stay. But he disappeared a lot, and his mom rarely opened the door for him. Said Cody’s cousin was pregnant and they had enough mouths to feed. She let him shower sometimes, though.

And so that’s where Shane found himself, at 5:17am on an unseasonably cold Tuesday morning in October. Ass frozen to the curb, head in hands, trying to will himself to get up before the ladies that worked at the payday advance place showed up. He was so distracted by his rumbling stomach that he didn’t hear the quiet footsteps approaching behind him. 

“Hands on your head,” said a voice.

His heart exploded out of his chest, and his throat closed up.

Pure. Panic.

Fuck.

LANEY

Laney had taken a punch before. But holyshitballs did her face hurt. 

There was a ringing in her ears, and she was aware of frantic movement but could only see white spots. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, her cheekbone vibrating like a Hitachi at a porn convention, pain erupting behind her eye socket and splintering across her skull.

A voice came into focus, sort of, squeezing itself into her brain amongst the unwelcome fire drill going off full force in her head. 

Oryehokee?! 

She squeezed her eyes shut, not sure what the fuck that meant and wanting the noise to stop.

Okay?! More frantic, this time.

Please stop making noise…

“ARE YOU OKAY?!” the voice practically shouted.

“I WILL BE IF YOU STOP SUPER-SONIC INJECTING YOUR ANNOYING-ASS VOICE DIRECTLY INTO MY CONCUSSION COCKTAIL!” she shouted back. 

Silence.

Ah. Much better.

She felt a freezing cold hand on hers and winced, but it gripped her firmer, sliding her coat up her forearm, two fingers pressing into her wrist. 

“What are you doing,” she groaned.

“Taking your pulse.” 

“Why,” she huffed, snatching back her hand. “I’m not having a coronary, I just got clocked in the fucking eye.”

A pause. “It’s all I could think to do,” said the voice. 

“Not punching me would have been a better use of your limited mental capacity,” she grumbled, rubbing her eyes and wincing. 

The white spots were clearing and she got her first proper look at the boy squatting in front of her, eyes wide and frantic, lips pursed. Based on the earthquake in her head, she’d assumed she’d just been smacked by Stone Cold Steve Austin, or maybe The Incredible Hulk. But the terrified-looking teenager in front of her with the steel grey eyes and too-lean body didn’t fill the bill. 

“You pack a helluva punch for someone who really needs a fucking sandwich.” 

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s illegal to impersonate a cop?” 

He stood up, taller than she’d thought, and held out a hand. Or three. She wasn’t sure, so she picked the one in the middle. It closed firmly around her own, and he gently pulled her up.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that punching a cop probably isn’t a great idea?” she retorted.

His mouth twitched.

She glared. 

More silence. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand, which was red and chapped. 

“Why aren’t you wearing a coat,” she blurted. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”

His mouth twitched again but he didn’t answer, shoving his hands back into his hoodie. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked, fidgeting with the hole in his front pocket.

“I’m supposed to drop this off out back,” she said, gesturing to a reusable grocery bag that had toppled over. “But I thought it might be for you and I didn’t want you to leave without it.” 

“Why would you think it’s for me?”

She shrugged. “You see anyone else hanging around here at 5:00am?” 

Silence. Again. He’d certainly mastered the art of making air feel uncomfortable. She sighed. “My brother sent me.”

The boy blinked, an unreadable expression crossing his face. She bent over to pick up the bag but swooned a bit, feeling unbalanced, and he caught her elbow.

“You should sit back down,” he said, his hands firm. 

“You should keep your hands to yourself.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said sharply, not sounding sorry at all. “I didn’t – I just, reacted. I would never have…” he trailed off, fidgeting, and she realized he was sorry, just also really damn cold. 

Dustin had told her to be there at 4:00am but she just hadn’t been able to convince herself to haul her ass out of bed. She'd been shaken awake at 4:30, an uncharacteristically angry look on her brother's face, handing her a bag stuffed with shit from their kitchen as he practically hauled her out of bed. As best as he could, anyway, given his clunky cast. But looking at this boy trying not to shiver, she realized that he’d probably been waiting in the cold since the crack. 

If Dustin was being nice to him, there was a reason; Dusty didn’t put himself out there, didn’t reach out to people. He’d always been an awkward kid, too quiet, nerdy-looking enough for even the nerds to purse their lips at. He kept to himself, stayed under the radar, and tried not to get beat up too much.

“You’re Dustin’s sister?” he asked, his stomach gurgling loudly. 

“Dustin is my brother,” she corrected, and his pink face cracked into a wry smile that warmed her cold toes. 

“You should do that, more,” she said. 

“Do what.”

“Smile.”

“Who says I don’t.”

“I do. Your face muscles look angry about it.”

“I have an angry face?”

“Angry face muscles.”

“How can face muscles be angry.”

“Want a mirror?”

He blinked at her, his expression unreadable again, and she was struck with the strangest urge to punch him back. Instead, she said, “You have a condom on your shoe.”