Two schoolboys in matching white shirts and black slacks aimed at the trash can near a sleeping woman dressed in layers of grey. Noah squinted across the street trying to determine if the woman was the person he sought. The first schoolboy, however, slam-dunked his empty soda can and the second boy hit the edge of the trash can. The sound rattled loud enough to wake the sleeper who sat up and glowered at the boys.

Her deep wrinkled forehead scrunched and her missing front teeth were evident as she bellowed. "Watch where you're throwing your crap!"

Noah crossed the street and almost bumped into one of the boys in their haste to get away.

The woman shook a fist at them. "Next time I'll kill you. Do you hear that? Kill. You!"

"Time of the month?" Noah said and immediately wished he could take the crude comment back.

The homeless woman opened her mouth to retort but instead ducked as a purple box of tampons came flying at her. It landed with a soft thud, and she grabbed it with a squeal.

She gazed at Noah, who, despite his cool tone, began to blush.

"I'm not sure if it's the right one," he said.

The woman rattled the box. "There is one missing."

"I had a nosebleed," Noah mumbled and hunkered to sit a few feet away from her. He turned his attention to the mess of junk in his backpack.

"You wanna blowjob?" the woman asked.

Noah shook his head. "We're even."

Within the homeless community, the barter system was alive and kicking. No one did anything for free. During his first night at the Hound, the woman had allowed him to sleep next to her nook, so no one would bother him. That night he had tried to split the sandwich he had. She laughed at him then, telling him what he would learn to be true, that food and drink were easy to come by on the streets. What she'd give her arm for, however, was a box of tampons. So when Noah did a miniature raid in the supermarket, he had swallowed his embarrassment and swiped the box. Given her offer to pay him back, it seemed she'd been too high or tired or both to remember his promise to pay her back.

Barter system or not, everyone struggled. He would always help.

He began to drag the mixture of flyers and random papers he'd collected unconsciously for weeks in his backpack. He tossed the ones advertising for waiting jobs or shop assistants since the interviewers pretty much either took one look at him and said the job was no longer available or turned him down when he said he had no prior experience.

It was grating. How was he supposed to gain experience if no one was willing him to hire him to gain experience?

He did still have the email from the Haven of Hope. When he fled the hostel he'd taken a copy of the resident application. Turns out, Mrs. Lawrence had printed an email between Haven and the local community college. The email had details he could use, such as who to meet for the job and when. It wouldn't entirely solve his problems, but he would be guaranteed money by the end of each month.

And he wouldn't have to steal. It was disturbing how good he was getting at it. Before, he could only get away with stealing a few pocket-sized items. Now, he was stealing larger items or nicking the freebies normally attached to soap boxes. The freebies rarely had tags and never flared the store's alarm.

Maybe he should mention that on his list of prior experience.

It mattered but right then, he had to change into a pair of shorts.

***

The Victoria City 10K marathon ran on a quarterly basis. Noah had zoned out when the official had explained the event but brightened when the man mentioned the winner would receive a token of a hundred bucks. Noah signed up without a thought and now stood in the registration queue to get a number.

He got thirty-seven, his new lucky number.

Once done, the competitors were directed to a shady area with a few unoccupied benches. To Noah's surprise, the event was packed. There were families together with their kids. There were several booths for food and drinks and one for kids' face painting. Reporters in casual outfits and sport suits stood talking to athletic-looking guys in all their toned glory. They ignored his skinny person, which suited Noah fine.

He'd had no qualms about competing. He was good at running, and he had nothing to lose if he didn't win. But he had a lot to gain. He checked the competition to the right and left. Most were bigger than he and made of sturdier stuff. Some were jogging in place. Others paced.

Noah realized these competitors knew what they were doing. They had probably trained for months, adjusting their diet as well as working out.

Would Noah's years of former excruciating training hold?

No matter how intimidating the runners were, they only inspired him to kill time. Unlike them, though, Noah resorted to standard yoga poses. Downward dog, warrior pose, crescent lunges, all in rotation. His joints became limber even as the asphalt scorched his palm. He didn't gasp at the burns but kept going. Kept healing.

"Wow. How long have you been practicing?"

Noah glanced at the guy speaking to him. He had the beginnings of stubble on his chin, complete with a faint mustache. He was well built, exuding the confidence which came from knowing you were capable.

Not that Noah noticed.

"Um," he said. "You mean yoga?"

"Yeah. You're good."

Noah didn't know what to do with the flattery. "They're basic moves."

"I tend to get stiff," the guy said. "Tried a class once, and the instructor kept going on about finding your center and imagining water being sloshed around your waist. I fell on my ass."

The guy watched Noah, sizing him up. Though for what, he didn't understand. He was the least threatening guy there. Besides, he ranked as the opposite of cool.

"You been running runs for a while too?"

"Ah," Noah said. "No. I-I just like to run."

The guy nodded as if Noah had said something profound. "I used to suck at running when I was a kid. I'd run to beat the other kids, then bam! I end up giggling for no reason."

Noah's lips twitched. "Runner's high?"

The guy laughed. "Yeah. We didn't know it then. They thought I was doing it on purpose to get out of bets. Between you and me, I jog around five in the morning, and when I do get the giggles, I swear it makes the squirrels hide."

Noah smiled. "Where do you jog?"

"Windsor Park. You know it?"

Noah nodded. It was close to the Hound. He'd spent a couple of nights there before the city barbed its fences with wires.

He would've liked to hear this guy giggle. Noah frowned at the odd thought.

"You okay?"

Oops. Spacing out again.

"Uh-huh," Noah said.

The guy extended a hand.

"I'm Malik, by the way."

He hesitated. Should he give a fake name?

"Jude," Noah said.

Malik didn't comment on Noah's slender fingers. His large hand seemed too warm by contrast. His grip, while firm, didn't press hard enough for Noah to start feeling pressure against his bones. Malik wasn't trying to get into a tough guy match.

"You sure those will hold up?"

"Pardon?" Noah said, and Malik motioned at Noah's feet.

Noah looked down at his sneakers. His pair of black converse had seen better days.

"Yeah, they'll hold."

They didn't get a chance to speak more. The announcer told the participants to take their positions as the run would start in five minutes.

"Good luck," Malik said.

"Thanks," Noah said.

He looped the surgical mask in place over his face, securing it with the rubber bands around his ears. It wasn't the phobia of possible pandemics that made him wear it. It was pictures. If one of them hit social media and he saw it...

Noah shuddered.

"Hey, kid." A man in the run's official uniform called. "You can't run with a mask on."

"Let it go, James." A co-worker wearing an identical uniform said. "It's in the T&C."

James frowned and shrugged, leaving Noah be.

What is a T&C?

A whistle blew, and the competitors crouched, taking their stances for flight. Noah crouched, looking to his right, his blue eyes locking with Malik's hazel ones. Malik grinned back at him.

"On your marks," a voice said in a microphone, "Get set. GO!"

Noah bolted. It was a magic switch. There were no more thoughts, no more worries or fears. He crossed the distances with ease. He knew when to regulate his breathing, knew when to slow down to allow his body to preserve energy. His favorite part was when it would be time for the final sprint.

He could see some of the runners quitting. Some of them even sat on the side of the track. The guy who chatted with him earlier was still in the race. He was drenched in sweat like the rest of them, his breath coming out in pants every now and again.

The stupid mask bothered Noah. It constricted his breathing. Sometimes it drifted just above his eyelids, causing his eyes to water. He had to readjust it without causing a lapse in his focus or speed. The voice coming out of the speaker told the crowd thirty minutes passed.

Muscles aching, chest burning, he ran on.

Forty minutes.

He ran, the finish line now in sight. His body started getting tired, so he pushed harder, imaging a monster's jaws snapping at his ankles.

Come on, he thought.

He was close. So close.

One more push.

I can do this.

The crowd roared. Noah collapsed on the side of the track, a mess of pants and sweat. Then someone jolted him to the present moment by clapping him on the back.

He scrambled to his feet, his skin crawling from whoever had touched him.

The speakers were deafening. There were numbers being shouted. No, one number on repeat. Thirty-seven. Number thirty-seven won in forty-six minutes.

He won.

And he wanted to rejoice in the victory.

Except it was too loud. Too crowded.

Everyone spoke at once.

His heart raced, and he felt a drop in temperature as if sunset had come early.

No.

Not now.

He had to clear his head.

He had to move.

A man in a cap was leading him to a booth.

Get your hands off me.

Focus.

His chest started to hurt.

He's asking me a question, he thought, I need to say something.

"Pardon?" Noah said.

The man wore a black baseball cap, matching the official run's t-shirt.

"I said you need to take the mask off for the pictures."

Noah felt in complete control of his senses. The danger had passed. He sounded his usual cool self.

"What pictures?"

"The winner takes pictures with the sponsors, kid."

"I don't want to." Noah ensured the surgical mask, damp with sweat, was still in place.

The man tsked.

"No to the picture means we choose the runner up."

He pointed to the guy Noah met earlier, who wore a black sweater tied around his waist and was speaking Arabic on his phone. People walking next to him jumped when they heard the language.

"I don't care. Just give me the money."

"That comes with the title," the man said.

"I won fair and square."

The man pushed a brochure his way.

"It's in the terms and conditions the sponsors set up. You signed up for this, kid."

Noah scanned the two pages titled "Terms and Conditions". They were written in small grey font. He didn't understand most of what was said. The legal jargon made absolutely no sense.

"Hey. Sixty-one," the man hollered at Malik. Malik glanced at the man and jogged over to them.

"Yeah?"

"We might have a bit of pickle here," the man said.

"It's fine," Noah said.

"You'll do it?"

He shook his head. This was the hostel all over again. He'd get close to things working out before it crashed and burned.

"What's going on?" Malik said, looking between the man and Noah.

"Congrats," Noah muttered.

Malik knitted his brows, but the man who called him over directed Malik to a cluster of cameramen and photographers. Malik shook hands with them, beaming and chattering at the microphones. He seemed to belong there in the spotlight as much as Noah was resigned to defeat.

Noah dragged his feet to the tree where he'd launched his backpack earlier. Since the lockers cost money, Noah had tossed his portable home on top of a tree. He climbed, gauging the thick branches that would take his weight. He let the bag fly down then climbed back down, landing with a soft thud.

A whistle behind him made him spin and almost lose his balance.

"Wow."

It was Malik. He was grinning at him.

What is this guy's deal? Why did he follow me?

"Can I help you with something?"

Translation: get lost.

Malik took out an envelope.

"I think this is yours."

The run logo was printed on it.

Noah's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

People always expected something in return. What did he want that Noah could offer?

"You kicked my ass out there," Malik said. "Doesn't make me wanna keep loser money."

"Really?"

Malik took a step towards him, the envelope in his hand.

The sleeve of Malik's t-shirt hiked to his biceps. It revealed a tattoo with a symbol made up of a monogram that consisted of the capital letter L surrounded by the capital letter O.

Noah's blood ran cold.

Malik frowned and followed Noah's gaze to the cursed tattoo. "Do you know what this means?"

Noah stepped back, going for his pocketknife. "Get the hell away from me."