2. Wren
Chapter 2
Wren
I run, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. My sneakers slap against the pavement as I weave through the crowded city streets. Every face I pass is foreign, their eyes either indifferent or hostile. I can’t go home after what Gregory and Jerry tried to do.
Can’t think about it now, I tell myself. Survive first, think later.
I duck into an alley and press my back against the cold brick wall, trying to catch my breath. The city is alive around me, a chaotic symphony of car horns, laughter, and the hum of conversation. It’s overwhelming, nothing like the quiet, dysfunctional corners of my house .
Hunger gnaws at my stomach, a sharp reminder that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I scan the area, hoping for anything that might help—an unattended food cart, a sympathetic face, even a garbage can with something edible. I’ve never been this desperate, and the thought scares me.
I walk out of the alley and into a busy street market filled with the scents of fried food, spices, and fresh produce. The air is thick with the chatter of vendors and customers negotiating prices. My stomach twists with need, the smells taunting me with promises of what I can’t have.
A lady sells fruit nearby, her cart piled high with apples, oranges, and bananas. I approach cautiously, looking around to ensure no one’s watching too closely. The vendor turns her back, busy with another customer. I take a deep breath and reach out.
Just one apple to get by.
I snatch an apple from the cart and slip it under my jacket, moving away casually. Guilt and relief wash over me all at once. I know stealing is wrong, but what other choice do I have?
I find another alley and lean against a dumpster, taking a bite. The apple is crisp and sweet, and I’m overcome with gratitude for something so simple. I take another bite, savoring my first food in almost thirty-six hours. The juice dribbles down my chin, and I let out a small, involuntary sigh of contentment.
A sharp pang of sadness hits me as I finish the apple. How did it come to this? How did I end up stealing food to survive? I’m grubby and grimy, and I don’t know if it’s me or the dumpster that smells so bad. What I wouldn’t do for a hot shower and a soft bed. Small luxuries I’ve always taken for granted.
Despair washes over me. Would it matter if I died? No one is looking for me—well, no one who loves and cares about me. No one would miss me if I were no longer here. I’m not even sure Mom would miss me. I wonder if she’s okay or if Gregory followed through on his threats.
I dash away the tear trickling down my cheek. Mom chose Gregory over me ten years ago when she married him. She chose him over me the first time he struck me and every time after. And then she chose drugs over everything.
Sighing, I push the negative thoughts away. I need to focus on what to do next. I need a plan. I need help .
I wander the streets, trying to remain inconspicuous. The tall buildings and endless roads make me feel small and lost. I don’t know where to go or what to do. The faces around me blur together—business people in suits rushing by, tourists snapping photos, street vendors calling out their wares. It’s a world I’ve never been a part of, and now I’m thrown into its very heart with no compass, no anchor.
I spot a building with a worn-out sign: “St. Mary’s Homeless Shelter.” The place looks shabby, but a line of people is outside waiting to get in. It’s as good a place as any. Maybe I can get a bed for the night.
I join the back of the line, which comprises a mix of ages and appearances—men with weather-beaten faces, women with haunted eyes, children clutching their mothers’ hands. My heart aches for them and myself.
The guy in front of me turns. He’s older, maybe in his fifties, with a grizzled beard and tired eyes. He gives me a nod. “First time here?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“They got rules,” he says. “Curfew’s at ten. You miss it, you’re outta luck until mornin’. And don't take more than you need. They don’t like that.” His voice is gruff, but his eyes hold an understanding that makes me feel a little less alone.
“I understand. Thanks,” I say, grateful for the advice.
Once inside, I’m hit by the smell of unwashed bodies and musty air. Beds are lined up in rows, and people are already settling in for the night. The walls are covered in faded posters with messages of hope and resilience. I find an empty bunk and sit down, taking a moment to breathe. I’m safe, at least for now.
Later, a shelter volunteer stops before me. He’s tall and broad with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He hands me a clean blanket and a small packet of toiletries. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, this is enough. Thank you,” I reply, holding back tears. His kindness is like a balm, soothing the raw edges of my fear.
“What’s your name?” he asks gently.
“Wren.”
“Nice to meet you, Wren. I’m Sebastian, but most people call me Bass. I run this place. If you need anything, let me know,” he says before moving on to help someone else .
Throughout the night, murmurs and soft cries echo in the shelter. It's a stark reminder that everyone here has a story, a reason they ended up on the streets. I’m not alone, but it doesn’t make it easier. The whimpers and sighs blend into my dreams, where shadows chase me, and memories of Gregory’s betrayal and Jerry’s leering face haunt my sleep.
The next day, I venture out from the shelter to find food. The city feels different in the daylight—less menacing but no less daunting. I stick to the crowded areas, hoping the sheer number of people will keep me safe. I avoid the places where Jerry or Gregory might see me, trying to stay invisible. I’m not far away enough yet, and they could be out combing the streets for me now. It’s like a game of hide and seek, but the stakes are my life, my sanity.
My stomach growls, reminding me of my need to eat again. I pass by another market where vendors are busy with their morning routines. I spot a bakery with a tray of freshly baked bread cooling on a rack by the window. The smell is intoxicating, and my mouth waters.
I approach the bakery, pretending to browse the window display. When the baker turns his back, I quickly grab a loaf and stuff it into my jacket. My heart races as I walk away, half-expecting someone to shout after me. But no one does. I find a quiet corner and tear into the bread, the warmth and softness a comfort I didn’t realize I needed.
A group of kids around my age, also homeless, are hanging out near a fast-food restaurant. They make eye contact with me, and one of them, a girl with ragged clothes and a tough demeanor, approaches.
“New here?” she asks, her tone more curious than hostile.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just trying to survive.”
She nods. “Aren’t we all? Name’s Sam. We look out for each other. You in?”
I reply cautiously, “I guess it couldn’t hurt.” I need allies, and she seems like she knows what she’s doing. We sit together, sharing tips on where to find food and safe places to sleep.
Sam smiles. “Stick with us, and you’ll be okay.”
We spend the next few hours together, moving through the city as a group. There’s safety in numbers, and a tiny bit of the tension in my shoulders eases. We visit spots known for generous handouts—soup kitchens, churches, and a park where volunteers sometimes come to distribute food.
As the day turns into evening, I start to feel a sense of camaraderie with Sam and the others. The cohesion of the group provides me with a fragile shield against the chaos of the streets. With each interaction, I lower my guard slightly. Naively, I begin to believe that maybe I’ve found a small community to lean on.
However, my trust is shattered later that night. We’re holed up in an abandoned building, Sam and the others huddled around a small fire they somehow started in a metal can. The crackling flames light up their faces with an eerie glow. I’m sitting a little away from the main group, tightly gripping my backpack—the only possession I have left.
“Hey, Wren, we need to talk,” Sam says, her tone serious. She steps closer, and I notice a hardness in her eyes for the first time.
“What’s up?” I ask, a prickle of unease skimming down my spine.
“Look, we know you’ve been stealing food. We don’t tolerate freeloaders.” She glances at the others, and they nod in silent agreement.
“I-I shared everything I took,” I stammer, backing away slightly. “I’m not freeloading.”
Suddenly, one of the guys—tall with a cold sneer—lunges at me, grabbing my backpack and wrenching it from my grip. “Then you won’t mind sharing everything you’ve got.”
Panic surges through me. “Please, no. That’s all I have!” I cry, trying to snatch it back.
Another girl pushes me roughly, causing me to trip and fall hard on the dirty ground. My knee slams against the rough concrete, and pain shoots up my thigh. I taste blood and realize I’ve bitten my tongue in the fall.
Sam looks down at me, her expression devoid of her previous kindness. “It’s nothing personal. We don’t need dead weight.”
Her words are like a knife to my chest. I thought I’d found allies, maybe even friends.
They ransack my backpack, taking the little food and money I have, along with my cell phone. The battery is long dead, but they’ll undoubtedly be able to sell it for a bit of cash. I guess I could’ve done that, too, but I have pictures on there of Mom and me. Memories.
I struggle to my feet, tears stinging my eyes. “I thought we were looking out for each other,” I say, my voice trembling with betrayal and pain.
Sam shrugs. “Survival of the fittest, Wren. If you don’t know that by now, you soon will.”
They turn their backs on me, returning their attention to the fire.
As I bend to pick up my empty rucksack, I notice a small metallic object lying a few feet away. Grabbing it, I realize it’s the USB drive I shoved in there—was it only a few days ago? Seems like forever. It was just before I left the house that morning. I was scrambling to gather my textbooks, notes, and the USB drive I used to store my assignments. But when I searched my backpack, I couldn’t find my drive anywhere. Panic set in, knowing I couldn’t afford to lose more time on this assignment. I needed something to save my work, anything.
In desperation, I rifled through the drawers in the living room, hoping Gregory might have something lying around. My fingers moved quickly, rummaging through the mess of old batteries, crumpled receipts, and random junk. But nothing turned up. Frustrated, I slammed the last drawer shut and was about to give up when something caught my eye—a small metallic object lying on the floor by the edge of the couch.
It was a USB drive, half hidden under a pile of old magazines. I hesitated for a moment, wondering how it had ended up there. But with no time to spare, I quickly grabbed it and shoved it into my backpack, mentally reminding myself to check it later before using it.
But then Gregory and Jerry had happened. And everything had spiraled out of control.
Zipping the USB into a small pocket of the empty backpack, I take off. I’m limping from my fall, but I don’t stop until I’m far away from Sam and the others, the weight of another betrayal pressing on my heart.
Exhausted and disheartened, I wander aimlessly through the night, trying to find some semblance of safety. The thin light of dawn filtering through the dirty windows of shops and buildings is like a cruel joke—how can the world look so normal when mine has been turned upside down? All I ever wanted was for someone to look after me. Love me. Everyone who was supposed to take care of me left, either died like Dad or checked out like Mom.
Deciding to head to a quieter part of the city, I find a park with a small pond, the early morning light casting a serene glow on the water. Birds chirp happily, oblivious to the struggles unfolding in the lives of those around them. Sitting on a bench, I take a moment to rest and gather my thoughts.
After a while, an elderly man sits beside me to feed the ducks, his movements slow and deliberate. He glances at me, a knowing look in his eyes. “Rough time, huh?” he asks gently.
“Yeah,” I reply, not wanting to delve into details.
He nods, offering me a piece of bread he’s been using to feed the ducks.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the bread with gratitude. His kindness, like Ethan’s, is a reminder that there’s still good in the world, even in the darkest times.
We sit in silence for a while, watching the ducks gliding on the pond. It’s a peaceful moment, a fleeting respite from the chaos of the streets.
Eventually, the man gets up to leave. “Take care of yourself,” he says, pressing a ten-dollar note into my hand.
“Oh, I couldn’t—” I’m about to hand it back, then remember I can’t afford to refuse his kindness.
He smiles. “It’s not much, but it might help. Take care of yourself.”
Tears prick my eyes. “You too,” I whisper, watching him walk away.
As the day progresses, I continue my search for safe places to rest. I avoid the more dangerous areas, knowing the kinds of people who lurk on the streets after dark. The city is sprawling, and it’s easy to get lost, but I pay attention to landmarks and street signs, trying to form a mental map.
In the evening, I head back to the shelter, a little more confident in my ability to navigate this new life.
Bass greets me at the door, his expression concerned when he sees me limping. “Welcome back, Wren. Everything okay?”
“Thanks. Yeah,” I reply, keeping my head down so he won’t see the tears in my eyes.
Bass stops me as I walk past. “Come with me. Let’s get that knee looked at. ”
My eyes fly to his in surprise. “H-how did you know?”
He gives me a wry smile. “The blood and ripped jeans kind of give it away.”
I look down to see he’s right. It’s a testament to my fragile mental state that I didn’t even notice.
Bass leads me to a room at the back of the building. It’s warm and comfortable, with a chair in the corner, white cupboards along the back wall, and a treatment couch. Bass has me sit on the couch and pulls first aid supplies from one of the cupboards.
“Are you a doctor or something?”
Bass chuckles. “No. My skills only extend to simple first aid. May I?” he asks, pointing at my knee.
I nod and tug up the leg of my jeans. Bass pulls on some medical gloves and proceeds to clean the wound.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.
“I need to clean and dress it so you don’t get an infection.”
“No, I mean, why are you doing this?” I wave a hand to indicate the shelter as a whole.
Pain flashes momentarily in Bass’ eyes as they meet mine. “I lost my sister to addiction. She ended up on the streets, homeless.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “This is my way of making amends for not being there for her. For not—” His expression shutters, his mouth a tight line.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say.
Bass shrugs. “What’s done is done. We can’t change the past. We can only choose a better future.”
I settle into my bunk an hour later, a dressing on my knee and wearing a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt Bass rooted out from the lost property. They’re a little big but better than my torn, dirty clothing. I even managed a strip wash at the sink in the bathroom. It was amazing to cleanse the grime of the city from my body.
Lying in the dim light of the shelter, I reflect on the day. I survived. That’s all I can say about it. An elderly man’s simple act of kindness and Bass’ care gives me a renewed sense of hope, if only for a short while. Yet, the sting of Sam's betrayal is still fresh, a harsh reminder that trust is a fragile and dangerous thing .
I realize that this is only the beginning. More challenges ahead, more dangers to navigate. But for tonight, I’m safe.
I close my eyes, comforted by the knowledge that I’m not alone in this struggle. There’s a community here, a fragile but real sense of belonging. And as long as I have that, I have a fighting chance.