"My Little Runaway"

Chapter One: Of Kindness Unexpected

Panting, the boy ran at full speed around the corner, finally
scrambling into the questionable safety of his favorite hiding place.
The dumpster stank, but then, so did he.
He always had, ever since - ever.
Three days of no food had made him desperate, and clumsy.
Huddled in the filth, he - for no-one had ever bothered to give him a
name, just "the boy" and "the child" - stuffed the sandwich in his
mouth, chewing frantically. Three huge bites and it was down, and even a
beating wouldn't change that. Muffled voices cursing, kicking the edges
of metal, and the boy began to tremble violently, rocking - making sure
he was away from the edge of the boxy construction - on his haunches.
More thumps, threats, curses. Muffled crash. A cry of shock, then
fright. Sound of running feet. "Ya can come out now, kid." The voice
was gruff, pitched low, but something in it made him peek uncertainly
over the edge of the dumpster's rim. Standing in a pool of dirty
streetlight was a rather short man, with hair that came up in two
points, an angular, almost sharp face but for the masculine strength
there, and the most beautiful eyes the boy had ever seen. Blue-grey,
with a touch of the faintest silver, they seemed to flicker in the dim
light. A hand extended, and the boy was lifted effortlessly from the
filth. "What's yer name?"
"Don' have one." He made a curse a defiance.
"Uh-huh." The man seemed to consider. "C'mon, kid."
"Where you take me?" Faint fear, a flicker of hesitance.
"T' getcha somethin' more t' eat than a hamburger."

True to his word, the odd man did precisely that, not batting an eye
when the boy tore into seconds, then thirds, slowing only at the fourth
portion.
Wild thoughts skyrocketed through the boy's mind.
What will he ask of me? Will I have t' - no, don' think that. Don'. He
shivered. "You been on the street a while." It wasn't a question, but
it wasn't an accusation either. "Long 'nough." he tried to sound
unconcerned, but a hint of pain and fear rippled in his voice. He
didn't ask, mercifully enough, about his parents. He'd had enough of
that from falsely concerned social workers who put him in homes just
short of Hell. The man watched him, but there was none of the sweaty,
hungry look in his eyes that made the boy feel so very small and even
more dirty. Only a kind of patient compassion. "Thank y' for..." He
indicated the stacked dishes then realized suddenly that he owed this
man more than just a thank you. Food cost in the Big Easy, and his heart
hammered in his throat as he feared what the man might do. "Don't worry
about it, kid." That gruff tone carried an honest note that fascinated
the boy. He paid the bill without comment, then motioned for the boy to
follow him. The youngster hesitated. "Lissen kid, I know what it's
like t' feel alone an' rolled inna dirt." Those eyes met his, no
accusation, and not merely sympathy. It was empathy he saw, and a
kindness that went far deeper that their owner would ever admit to.
The boy took a deep breath, and followed the man out.

The man had found an empty room despite the crowds in town for Mardi
Gras, far from the celebrations, and left his young, bewildered guest
there to shower and get comfortable. There were two beds, a television,
and a small refrigerator with ice-cold bottles of beer the boy was
warned to leave alone in a mild, if firm, tone. Hopping in the shower,
he heard the door close and felt a moment's fright. Then he felt the
warm water against his skin, and luxuriated in scrubbing away the patina
of filth he'd lived with for the last year, never quite getting it off
in his infrequent, brief towel-baths he'd managed. He even was able to
wash his reddish-brown hair, and climbed out just as the door opened
again. Quickly, the boy wrapped a wide towel around his skinny waist
and peeked out. "Gotcha some clothes." came the now-familiar rumble. A
bag was tossed his way, which he caught one-handed, startled. "See if
they fit, kid."

Fit they did, and he was delighted. He now wore blue jeans, a black
shirt, and boots, no longer feeling filthy or repulsive as he tiptoed
out. The man was sprawled comfortably in one of the chairs, and he
hoped, suddenly, that the strange, kind man wouldn't hate him once he
saw his red-on-black eyes. "I'm Logan, kid." said the man, seriously,
staring directly into the boy's eyes with no sign of revulsion or worse,
pity. "An' you say you don't got one?" "No. Never lived with anyone
long 'nough for them t' give me one." "Awright then." said Logan,
calmly enough. "How 'bout Remy?" The boy blinked. "Remy? As a name?"
"Yeah." "Why...why would you give me a name?" For years, he had craved
a real identity, and now it was offered to him.
Just like that.
The boy's eyes were huge.
"Had a buddy back in the war that was named Remy. One'a the bravest men
I knew." He was leaning forward slightly, letting the boy make his
decision. "Yes! Oh, yes! Thank you, thankyousomuch...." the boy - Remy
- stammered. Logan nodded seriously, granting the boy the dignity of
not noticing his tears. "Ya hungry, Remy?" Logan's voice was so calm
that the boy had to wipe his eyes against his arm, drying his tears as
the odd, compassionate man didn't notice his loss of control.
"Y...yeah." Rising with easy grace, he walked to the door, waiting for
the boy to catch up with him.

Insanity is great fun! Never let the voices tell you different.