Chapter 1
Under the Bridge
Keep moving, Zaine. Just keep moving.
I’m muttering the words over and over. It’s one of the first things I learned on the streets. Keep moving, and don’t get caught off guard — especially after dark.
The last three weeks have been a crash course in survival. I’ve learned a lot of things the hard way. You can’t assume empty cars are abandoned, because their owners might come back in the middle of the night. Offers to sleep on someone’s couch can come with strings attached, like being expected to have sex with the couch’s owner. And shelters aren’t places where you should try to catch any sleep. The only time I stayed at one, someone stole my extra hoodie, two pairs of socks, and my last twelve bucks.
My legs are heavy as I shuffle down the grimy sidewalk. The wind blows a plastic bag against my legs. I’m too tired to kick it away. I veer toward the stone building to try to get out of the wind. A groan nearly makes me jump out of my soggy running shoes.
In the darkness, I almost trip on the edge of a sleeping bag. The guy huddled inside it is barely visible beneath the doorway. “Sorry, man,” I say.
I flip up the collar of my jacket. God, will this Edmonton winter never end? But I can’t think too far ahead. I just need to keep stumbling forward.
I’m at the edge of the city when my backpack slips off my shoulder. Hoisting it back up takes more strength than I have. My eyes are heavy and I’m afraid I’ll drop onto the street right out here in the open. So when the street leads onto a footbridge that stretches over the river, I circle around to the path underneath it. In the dim light, I can barely see the concrete wall running across the bottom of the bridge. The narrow space between the dividing wall and the bridge is mostly hidden. It also looks like it’s protected from the wind.
I lean forward and start climbing up the rocky slope toward it. I curl my fingers around the metal wire laid over the rocks. When I get to the dividing wall, I peer over the side. The space behind it is big enough for me to fit inside. It’s filled with soft earth and gravel. There are no clothes or food wrappers. No sign at all that someone lives here. I nearly sob with relief. Maybe this is my lucky break. I could use one of those for a change.
I pull myself in and roll onto my side. I can almost stretch my legs right out. I tuck my backpack under my head. I want to stay awake for even a few minutes — just to be extra cautious. But even as that thought bumps through my head, I am drifting off to sleep.
“What the —?”
That’s all I hear before it starts. A fist collides with the side of my head, then my throat, then back to my head. One punch, then another. I call out as I try to cover my face.
“This is my turf!” a man growls. “Mine!”
In this tight space, I can’t move. I can’t defend myself from the guy who’s cursing me out. Not from the punches, not from his sour, boozy breath in my face. The whole time, he’s punching me again and again. Each blow sends a shockwave of pain firing through me.
“It belongs to me!” he yells.
I can barely see the outline of his body. He’s climbed up higher. When he raises his foot to stomp down, I grab it and hold on. Then I give it a twist and I push it away from me. He roars as he tumbles down the rocky slope. His body lands with a heavy thud on the path below.
I roll out from behind the concrete wall just as the guy gets to his feet and starts back up the slope. I lunge toward him to try to knock him over. But my shoe catches in the wire mesh and I pitch forward, landing right at his feet. He grunts and puts the boots to me — one hard kick after another. My body recoils in a hot, hard spasm each time.
I’m trying to crawl away from him. I open my mouth and spit something out. Blood. Then I gag as the next kick catches me in the gut. Then the back of the head.
Of all the fights I used to get in at school, I never lost a single one. I always just let the rage take over. And I have a lot of rage to draw on. But out here, the rules are different. Because actually there are no rules.
“Sorry.” I force the word out through my bloodied mouth.
He gives me another kick.
“It’s yours.” I spit the words out.
“Damn right it is,” the man snarls. “So get out of here!”
I pull myself off the ground, my hands clutching my stomach. I’m weaving along the path. It’s only when my face scratches against something cold and damp that I realize I’ve fallen down. I don’t want to move. I can’t move. So I just lie there — feeling all those kicks and punches merging into one massive hurt that’s taking over my entire body. Through it all, a voice is running through my head.
Zaine, you stay here with Aunt Sarah. I’ll be back in a month.
“Mom? Mom?” I realize that the thin, crackling voice is mine.
“Mom,” I say, “I can’t wait any longer.”