Noah's illusions began to shatter.

He'd been convinced his erratic behavior was linked to home. Once he'd left, once the link had been severed, he thought his instabilities would dissipate like smoke. And the early weeks on the streets had proved him right. The constant tension of movement, the vigilance required to sleep for a few hours and not get attacked, the simple lies he forced himself to tell did nothing to spike anxiety. He relished this brand of freedom.

Conversations were no more than a brief exchange of words or short sentences here and there. Talking at home used to end up with him cowering in the corner of a room, hands over his head, while he struggled to shut out the thoughts tormenting him. Living on his own had not sent him into those horrid fits either. He was fine.

The day had been going well too. He kept a conversation. His emotions were under control. Then snap. The fear mastered him; it rolled over, wicking out his composure.

No longer at home, and still he broke. It was him. The broken thing was him.

The guests were covered in splendor. Diamonds, satins, leather and lace. And tattoos with the letters L and O. Which meant the possiblity of a new formula was high. The possibility of more pain, higher.

Sitting on the top stair of the building Noah claimed to be his place of residency, he began to hum against the wave of shame, of bitter disappointment. He conjured up his favorite songs. He played the Beatles' "Get Back" album to perfection. Noah had memorized the words, the base, the strum of the guitar. He played it on repeat without the use of a phone and earphones. He hummed the lyrics yet didn't hear his voice. He heard the legendary band, loud in his head and louder than the ugly truth he didn't wish to admit.

He thought about Malik too, wondering if he had left or if he loitered outside the building. "Get back" ended. He played "Hey Jude" next. It would buy him more time to calm down.

When the song got to the end, the 'Na na na nananana' part, Noah descended the stairs. He lowered his eyes, passing a middle-aged man in a somber tracksuit—a tenant, perhaps.

He passed the building's threshold to be greeted by a gush of cooling wind. The wind lashed at his bare skin, sending goosebumps from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. It took Noah a moment to realize he hadn't changed out of his shorts.

He leaned against the brick panel separating the building he had taken refuge in and set his backpack on the sidewalk. He hobbled, taking off his shoes, shivering when his sock-clad feet touched the freezing sidewalk. The thoughts become robotic. Wear pants—one leg, then the next. Do not think of the debris and soil clinging to your thighs.

A shop's sign flickered across the street, boasting a 24/hr breakfast. Noah thought of scrambled eggs, toast, and fluffy pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup, the type of food that would comfort from inside out. Maybe he could wash it down with a strawberry milkshake if the diner was warm enough.

Noah shook his head. He could just go dumpster diving. He had money, and his petty needs were calling out. The money he had now could buy him a bed for a few winter nights. He needed to focus on the essentials. Safety should be on top of the essentials' list.

He zipped up his sweater. There were long strands of white dog hair on it, shining against the black fabric. A ghost of a smile played on Noah's lips. His former dog, Andy, tended to rub against his belongings. She must've rubbed against the backpack transferring hair to his sweater.

No. Not his sweater. Malik's.

Noah scanned the thin crowd. He sighed, knowing he'd missed the guy. When he lied about where he lived, he'd been so consumed by hiding the lie that the sweater skipped his mind. Of course, he could call him and return it. He had enough coins for a payphone.

Except he had no idea what to make of him. Could Malik be as clueless as he claimed? Or was it a trap?

He could go to Patricia. Except she might not remember he even existed.

Noah inhaled the scent of the sweater as he walked. It smelled full of mint and cinnamon-like that of the sweater's true owner. If Malik was involved in Noah's father's line of work, why did he ask him to explain what the tattoo meant? Why hadn't he resorted to threats?

Why did he care when he believed Noah would kill himself?

He pushed his beat-up sneakers past dusty shop windows and sagging commercial signs. The avenue he walked to marked the beginning of real darkness. There were skinny boys dressed in shiny pink shorts, high heels, and pale grins. The girls also looked like the boys. Skin everywhere, starved faces, and haunted eyes, searching for a customer to chip away at their souls.

None of them approached Noah. They had been on the streets long enough to know he couldn't afford their bodies for a second.

A white sedan pulled in front of the bedsit motel. Two girls with dry, frizzy hair, one curly and the other cut to her neck, tumbled out. The girl with curls held a pair of pointed heels in her hand. Both girls flocked to the motel, with Noah falling into step behind them. He tried to stare mainly at the floor instead of the girls. He could still feel Malik's fingers massaging the back of his neck. Noah wondered if these girls' fingers could make him want to wrap his entire body around them.

"Jude!"

Noah looked up from the grey carpet with cigarette holes burnt into its edges.

He stifled a groan when he met Gold's smirk.

Gold sported a satin cream shirt over a pair of brown slacks. He wore a thick chain around his broad neck. He was as tacky as the motel, complete with silver sunglasses, a pinky ring, and a repugnant cologne. "My boy, are you done thinking?'

Noah shook his head and straightened his back.

Gold waved his hand, and Noah wasn't certain if Gold was swatting at flies or if he had dismissed him. "You need to be taken care of. I can give you a roof over your head, warm meals. Winter is coming."

Gold smiled at him as if he made a joke and expected Noah to join in the fun. Noah glanced at the reception desk.

"You can't afford a month here, baby." Gold said. "The streets don't play nice. Tell you what. We can ease you into things. Do baby stuff. You got good hands and that pretty mouth of yours. The clients will love you. When you're ready—"

"I-I can't do it."

Gold draped an arm around Noah's shoulder. Noah's mind screamed at him to get away, to bolt as far away as he could, but he let Gold lead them towards the desk anyway. Gold stood so close that Noah could smell the stink of cheap alcohol on his breath.

"Sooner or later, you're gonna bend over. You can either do it for free or get money and protection. You'll be the best fuck in town without trying." Gold patted him on the back, and Noah struggled to keep himself from flinching. "And I hate the word no, Jude."

Noah shivered against Gold's threat.

"What?"

Noah jumped at the voice at the desk. It was manned by a bald, middle-aged man.

"Can I get a room or a bed, please?"

He could hear, or rather smell, Gold going up the stairs of the motel.

"Tonight?"

"Yes, please."

The man chewed, typing on a keyboard.

"There's a bed. One night. Ten bucks."

Noah paid for the bed and trudged to the room. The motel was popular, not for its far from pristine state, but for how cheap it was. He could book four more nights as soon as it became available. Plus, they rarely asked for ID. The boys and girls working the streets rented out beds for the month. No doubt most of them worked for Gold.

Noah had spent his early days in the city at the motel before he'd run out of cash. When he turned the key in the door of his room, he realized he hadn't missed it.

A boy sprawled on the bed near the window dressed in a short sequined dress, his makeup smudged. He didn't stir as Noah crawled into the opposite bed, only continued his loud snores.

Noah stripped down to his boxer shorts as he lay against the hard mattress. He folded his clothes and placed them next to the pillow. There were scrapes and bruises on his arms and legs. Noah traced the yellowing bruises, knowing they'd be gone by tomorrow. They held a nostalgic air to them. They were not born out of malice but concern. They were a testament that someone cared. Even if for a brief moment. Even if it was based on ulterior motives.

Noah glanced at his snoring companion. He was out cold. Noah grabbed Malik's sweater, recoiling when Gold's cologne assaulted his nose. He turned it to its front until he found the overpowering scent of cinnamon and mint. He buried his head, inhaling the rich aroma.

He recalled Malik's warm fingers on the nape of his neck, how they would dance around his panic and draw circles on his back. Noah imagined Malik was his friend. He was with him too in this dingy room. He whispered and soothed. He was safe. He had everything under control.

Noah allowed the imaginary Malik to comfort him until his eyelids grew heavy. He wanted Malik to stroke his hair and maybe kiss his forehead.

Noah didn't let the fantasy go any further. In the morning light, it would seem too pathetic.