Eli made it three blocks before his body refused to run anymore.
He stopped beside a brick wall, his hands on his knees, his lungs burning, the wool blanket clutched around his shoulders.
The world tilted at the edges.
He could feel his heart in his ears.
He could feel the cold in his fingers and feet and deep in the middle of his chest, where his mother's voice used to live and where, for the last two years, there had been mostly silence.
He thought about going back.
For one long second, he thought about it.
The fire.
The coffee.
The kindness in Sully's eyes.
How easy it would be to turn around, walk back through the snow, and let somebody else, for the first time in two years, be in charge of what happened next.
Then he thought about Mr. Henderson.
Mr. Henderson had been the foster father in Toledo.
Mr. Henderson had been kind, too.
On the first day.
He sat at the kitchen table with Eli.
Showed him his new room.
Told him he was safe now.
That he had a family.
That he would never need to worry again.
Mr. Henderson was kind for 11 days.
On the 12th night, he came home from a bar.
Eli learned that kindness from some adults was something offered first and taken back later.
And the taking back was the part you had to be ready for.
He had been ready ever since.
He turned away from the warmth of the camp.
He started walking east.
He dragged the blanket.
He did not look back.
Behind him in the lean-to, Levon sat on his milk crate and watched the empty corner around the second wall long after he should have gone looking.
He had been a boy on the streets himself once, in Memphis in 1962.
He remembered what it felt like when a stranger told you that you were going to be safe.
He remembered that the only thing more terrifying than not believing it was believing it.
He sat on his crate.
He watched the snow come down past the open end of the lean-to.
He waited for Sully.
Sully returned 40 minutes later.
Two club members were with him.
One was Cyrus Boyd.
Sully ducked under the tarp.
He looked at the empty corner where the boy should have been.
He closed his eyes.
"He ran," Levon said.
"When?"
"As soon as you were gone."
"Levon."
"I know, Sully. I know."
"I couldn't stop him."
"I couldn't have stopped him with a rope."
Sully turned to Cyrus.
Cyrus had listened with the patient attention of a man who had spent 30 years reading other people.
"East," Sully said.
"He went east."
"He wasn't moving fast."
"He was almost out on his feet when he left."
"He can't have gone more than a few blocks."
"He's looking for somewhere to hide."
"Somewhere quiet."
"Out of the wind."
Cyrus nodded.
He keyed the radio at his shoulder.
"Command board, subject confirmed east of Ninth on foot."
"Advanced hypothermia."
"Fleeing."
"He's going to try to get underground or indoors."
"Foot search. No engines."
"Every basement window, storm cellar, and steam grate east of Ninth within ten blocks."