For God, who even allows me to speak. 

The old wooden rocking chair squeaked as it steadily rocked.

"So, Oliver. You're running away?" It was said as a statement rather than a question.

The boy's cobalt blue eyes flicked up to the sound of the old voice and he answered almost immediately.

"Yep."

"I don't suppose you know exactly where you're going..." the rocking paused "...do you?"

The boy didn't hesitate with his answer "I know where I'm going."

The chair resumed its croaky swing, and no one spoke as a strong fall wind billowed against the house and through the golden wispy blades of grass in the front yard. The grass bowed under the weight of the wind, then gently rose again as it passed.

"What about your family?" the old woman's voice continued.

"Family?" the reply resembled a scoff, like the word itself was an absurd one.

"Yes! Your mother, father, brothers, and sisters."

"I don't have a family," he replied coolly before he sipped his lemonade "don't need one."

"Well, everyone has a family. How else would you be born?"

"I know that. It's just. My family left me I guess, thus, I don't have a family."

The chair stopped its rock for a while. "So you have no one to take care of you?"

The boy almost laughed "No! Why would I? I can take care of myself."

"Well now, I suppose you can, but what about when you were young?"

His reply took longer than before and he hesitated "I don't know...I didn't have anybody." he thought for a moment "Just my councilor I guess — oh — and my social worker. But he's a pain in the neck and he only helps me because he won't get paid if he doesn't."

This time it was the old voice that laughed "Now how do you know that's true?"

Oliver shrugged "I don't know. He's just so cold. And anyone as cold as him has to have money to work with troubled kids of all things."

"There are plenty of jobs that pay good money. Even more money than this social worker of yours makes." She adjusted her blanket.

"So I'm sure money isn't his only motivation for working with troubled kids, as you said. He picked the job, didn't he? Why would he pick a job he knew he'd hate?"

"I don't know. To make people miserable?"

"Wait, a second..." she smiled "...are you the only one who feels this way about him?"

"What?" he asked, a little disheveled "No, everyone does. They're just too afraid to say so themselves."

She rocked the chair again, but slower this time. "What's your social worker's name?"

"Patrick Eyesore."

She snapped her head to him and threw him a look of disbelief, but she couldn't stop the smile that crept its way along her face "Oh, don't go on fooling with an old person, boy. It's not good for us. What's his name, honestly."

Oliver grinned, but he answered honestly the second time. "Patrick McGomery." He reached down to scratch at a mosquito bite.

"Hm. Sounds like a decent fellow." she said to herself "Is it him you're running away from?"

He looked at her with surprise but he quickly tried to cover it with a small frown "No." he lifted his chin haughtily "I'm running from the cops."

"Ahh, so you're a fugitive? Under what charges?" she replied with a grin.

"Existing." he murmured "And probably because I borrowed these — "he lifted a small bag of MnM's from the pocket on his sweatshirt " — from a gas station."

They both remained silent again, content with watching the grass sway and the plump, peachy tinted clouds as they inched across the sky.

"How long do you plan on running Oliver?" the interrogation continued, but again, the sentence was spoken like a statement rather than a question.

Mesmerized by the scenery before him, the boy took his time in answering. "As long as my legs will take me," he replied absently.

"Suppose your legs grow tired and wish to settle for once."

"Then I'll low crawl."

"Suppose your legs then."

Oliver flicked his gaze back to her as he smiled a little "That's not going to happen."

"No," she raised her brows, "But everyone has to face something, eventually. Either while you're young, or while you're old." she breathed in a labored breath "And sometimes, people work hard for the rest of their lives for nothing, only to be faced with the thing they were trying to get away from in the first place."

The boy found himself considering what she said.

"Is that really what you want? To run for the rest of your life?"

His face blanked like she'd punched him in the jaw, and bitterness crept into his voice as he replied, "There's nothing else for me to do. I can't go back to juvie. And nobody wants a convicted foster kid. Nobody wants a foster kid period."

"Well, you can't be sure of that, can you? There are millions of people in the world."

"I can be sure — no — I am sure," frustration entwined with his voice "How many times do you let a person smack you before you decide to smack them back, Miss Wilma?"

She didn't answer. She only watched him with a deep sadness in her eyes.

"I'll only take one smack, then after that, I fight. So that's what I'm doing." He sat up in his seat "I'm not letting anyone reject me anymore. Call it rebellion or whatever you want, but I hate sitting in dumb offices with dumb people who want a new perfect foster kid just to boost their dumb paycheck. Then as soon as they see what a bad boy I am, it's back to the waiting list that I've been sitting in for fifteen stupid years!" he reached down to grab his backpack.

"I have to go," he blurted.

She rested her head on the back of her chair "I understand. People will fail you sooner or later, but God will never fail. Let me tell you something; Jesus loves you. He really really loves you."

"Even if the entire human race hates you, you can know that the Creator of everything loves you." she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed with effort, then she held out her pale, shaky hand.

"Take my hand will you."

He looked over at her with curiosity for a moment, then his eyes widened a little at the sight of her. Her complexion was paler than before, and why hadn't he noticed the large drops of perspiration on her forehead? Or the way her thin, veiny limbs trembled? He instantly grabbed her hand, abandoning his backpack on the floor.

She smiled weakly "Don't go on worrying about me, I'll be alright-"

Suddenly the shrill of a police cruiser siren sounded far off in the distance, and Oliver perked up like a deer. Instinctively, his hand reached down for his backpack again, and he jumped out of his seat, not realizing his hand still held hers.

"They're on my track!" he whispered in disbelief to himself.

She winced then sucked in another labored breath in pain "Make a decision...don't worry about me. B-but whatever you decide to don't spend your days running..." her aged body stiffened then fell slack against the rocking chair as her own heart failed her.

Oliver's attention was divided between the taunting siren and the limp, icy hand encased by his own. His brain told him to run. But perhaps God told him to stay. He watched the empty street for a few seconds, feeling its call, then looked back at the old woman's gray wrinkly body sagged against the chair.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and in his mind, he screamed at the two options.

But Oliver knew what he wanted to do.

And when the flashing red and blue lights zeroed in on him, he held Miss Wilma's hand tight and didn't let go.