Chapter Text
Billie Joe gripped the straps of his backpack tighter, feeling the weight of it dig into his shoulders as the greyhound bus rumbled closer, kicking up gravelly dust in its wake. The air tasted stale, thick with the dry scent of the early Minnesota summer heat, but he barely noticed. His fingers fumbled at the cigarette between his lips—half habit, half desperation—but he didn't light it. The thought of the spark, of the first drag, made his skin crawl now, but he couldn’t shake the need for the motion, the ritual. He wasn’t even sure why he’d taken the cigarette from his stepdad’s pack this morning.
It wasn’t like he had the means to buy more, not with his part time paycheck from the gas station barely covering the rent his legal guardian demanded he pay for that shitty, rotting trailer. The same trailer that smelled like piss and spilled whiskey. The trailer that his mother legally owned, and by extension the man she married, and refused to leave also owned. He never really knew where the money he paid in rent went to, but he suspected it was put towards keeping the liquor cabinet stocked. Despite it all, here he was, holding onto the stolen cigarette like a lifeline, something to cling to in the moment before he disappeared into the unknown.
In the last few months, though, his cravings had changed. He hadn’t felt the gnawing hunger for nicotine as strongly as before. Not when his stomach had started growing, not when the nausea hit him harder than a punch in the gut. He’d known something was off, but he’d hoped it would go away. It didn’t. He was pregnant. Not that he could tell anyone. Not in a town like this. Not with his fucked-up life. It was his reason for fleeing, he was terrified of being stuck, terrified of continuing the cycle.
Billie Joe looked at the bus, its wheels grinding to a stop in front of him, the door swinging open with a loud hiss. The smell of exhaust mixed with the sweat and stale dirty air from inside, and he pulled his backpack up, hoisting it onto his shoulder with a grunt. His palms were sweaty, his heart thudding in his chest like it might leap out. His chest felt tight, a constant knot in his throat. He was leaving all of it behind. The state of Minnesota was soon to be a distant memory.
There was nothing here for him anymore. Not in the suffocating heat of this place, not in the stench of broken dreams. The trailer was full of bad memories—his stepfather, the fights, the things he’d witnessed, the things that haunted him every goddamn night. He had to leave.
Chicago was as far as the bus would take him for now, and even that seemed like a lifetime away from this hellhole. He didn’t know what awaited him there, or anywhere. But it was better than nothing. It was better than this. Anything was better than this.
He stepped onto the bus, feeling the weight of his decision in his stomach, his pulse racing in his ears. His eyes darted around at the few other passengers, a woman with her baby in the front, a man with a bandage on his head sleeping in the corner, the older grey haired driver staring straight ahead, looking tired.
Billie Joe slid into a seat near the back, his body tense, his green eyes on the road ahead. He wasn't sure where his final destination was, but he couldn't stay here. He couldn’t stay anywhere near the people who would never understand.
He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, letting the hum of the bus lull him for a second, even though he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling deep in his gut. The ache that had been there for weeks. He swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts away for now. It was his secret to keep. For now, anyway.
Its twelve long hours later when the bus finally rolled to a stop with a soft screech of the brakes, Billie Joe blinked awake, his neck sore from the awkward position he’d tried to sleep in. His eyes were heavy, the light of the early morning seeping through the grey haze outside. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion.
Chicago was nothing like what he'd imagined. The streets were cold and unwelcoming, lined with tall, impersonal buildings that towered over him like concrete giants. His heart sank a little. It wasn’t the escape he’d hoped for. The city felt just as hollow, just as lost.
As the bus pulled into the terminal, Billie Joe hesitated. He hadn’t really thought through what came next after the bus ride. He had no money to rent a place, no clear plan on what to do. His stomach twisted again, sharp and unpleasant. He wasn’t even sure how to survive here. All he had were the clothes on his back and the last of his cash, which wasn’t much, plus some spare change for a payphone.
He stepped off the bus into the thick, humid morning air, He had no plan, no direction. Lost he decided to head into the bus station, looking for a cooler place to think.
Then something caught his eye: a bright, vibrant poster half falling off the window it was stuck to. It was an advertisement for California. A glossy picture of endless beaches, golden sunsets, and smiling people living their "best life." The text read: “California Dreaming. The Good Life Awaits You.”
Billie’s heart skipped a beat. He’d never really thought about California before, and didn’t really know much about it for that matter, he was born there, that much he knew.
All he really knew of the state came from television and movies. California was the land of opportunity. The place where people went to start over, to reinvent themselves. It was a fantasy, an ideal that had never seemed real until now. But something inside him stirred—something deeper than just the pull of the coast. He needed to believe in something, even if it was just the hope that the world could offer him a fresh start.
Without thinking too much, Billie found himself walking to the ticket booth. His stomach ached again, the nausea creeping up his throat, but he swallowed it back, focusing on the motion of his feet, the feel of his backpack heavy against his shoulders.
“How much would it cost to take a bus to California?”
Billie Joe shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, the backpack starting to feel heavier by the second. His palms were slick with sweat, and his head spun slightly as the nausea rolled over him again. He swallowed hard, trying to mask the unease creeping up his throat. The lady at the counter was staring at him now, a bored expression on her face. She wasn’t looking at him with judgment exactly, but there was a tiredness in her eyes, a world-weariness he didn’t know if he could bear to witness. He was scared she’d ask his age, he was newly seventeen, but no one had to know that. Or his plans of running away for good.
"Well? What city?” The lady’s voice was sharp, cutting through his thoughts.
Billie cleared his throat and glanced up, realizing she was waiting for him to answer. He forced his mouth open. “I, uh… I don’t really know. I mean, California? Somewhere there.” His voice trailed off, the embarrassment rising in his chest, like an iron weight he couldn't shake.
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and Billie’s stomach flipped again.
“You don’t know?” She said, the words as flat as her tone. “You wanna just go anywhere in California?”
He could feel the heat creeping up his neck. He hated this. His fingers gripped the strap of his bag harder, knuckles white with tension. “I—I don’t know," he stammered. "I mean, I… never been there. I just need to get out of here. Somewhere. Anywhere.”
She sighed, glancing up at the large screen in front of her. There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them as Billie Joe just stared at her, unsure what to do with his hands or his nerves. The clock on the wall behind her ticked away the seconds.
“Well, kid," the lady finally muttered, her voice thick with indifference. "I can send you one way to the San Francisco Bay Area in about an hour, for around a hundred dollars, If you’re interested. You’ll have about three transfers ahead of you though.”
Billie blinked, trying to process the information. San Francisco. The name bounced around in his head like an echo. It sounded… different. More than just a city. More than a place. The San Francisco Bay. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but something about it felt more like the unknown he could lose himself in, a way to leave everything behind and not have to think about it for a while. He had enough to cover the fair, it would set him back once he arrived, but it felt right.
His throat was tight, but he nodded anyway, not trusting his voice to answer her.
“Yeah,” he croaked, swallowing hard. “I’ll take it.”
The lady didn’t offer a smile, simply printed out a ticket, and handed it to him with a firm hand. "Gate 14," she said, before turning away to shuffle through some papers.
Billie’s fingers lightly touched the ticket, He folded it in half, then again, and tucked it into his jacket pocket
The nauseous feeling was still there, a low hum in the background. But now it was mixed with something else—something that was almost like relief, or maybe just hope, though he wasn’t sure he really knew the difference anymore. He turned, heading toward the gate without another word. As he walked through the bus terminal, past the people moving in every direction, his mind kept returning to the same thought: What the hell am I doing?
But as he stepped onto the bus an hour later, his backpack heavier than it had been earlier,
He sank into the seat by the window, staring out at the line of people waiting for there turn to board, and let the air in his lungs become steady, letting his thoughts drift toward a place that wasn’t Minnesota, a place that didn’t carry the weight of everything he had tried to outrun. The first bus was to St. Louis, Missouri, another place he had never been.
The bus doors closed, sealing him in with a strange sense of finality. His fingers lightly brushed against the seat next to him, he was anxious. But the thought of California—the ocean he only ever saw on television, the sunshine, the idea of being able to breathe again—pushed everything else to the back of his mind. The hurt. The fear. The uncertainty.
It didn’t matter anymore. He was going to California.
Mike felt older than his twenty-three years, especially recently. The monotony of his days—working long hours and barely seeing the light of social life—had left him feeling weary. This wasn’t the life he’d imagined when he first left his quiet hometown on the other side of the bay. Back then, at eighteen, he’d moved to San Francisco, enrolled in the City College, hoping to use those two years to figure himself out. But as it turned out, the city wasn’t the answer, and neither was school. The classes were a waste of time—assignments piled up for subjects that he knew would never serve him in real life, degree or not.
Now, his life revolved around his shift at a local diner, washing dishes in a greasy kitchen that barely covered most of his rent, and a bartending job at night across town that covered the rest. There was little joy in it, but it was a job. And sometimes, that was enough.
He sat on a cracked bus bench, his cigarette burning low, the smoke curling lazily into the cool afternoon air. His lunch break was winding down, and he was about to head back inside. But for now, this quiet moment was his. That was until he noticed a Greyhound bus pulling into the nearby gas station, its engine humming as it came to a stop. Greyhounds always parked here, in what seemed like the most random places. It was a bit of an oddity—those buses didn’t stop for long, but they often let passengers off, people who were coming or going with no particular plan. Mike couldn’t help but wonder who they were, where they’d come from, and where they were headed.
In a city like San Francisco, everyone had a story. But no one bothered asking. People just passed each other by, wrapped up in their own business. Mike never thought to ask either. It was easier to stay in his bubble, to let the strangers remain… well, strangers. Still, a part of him always wondered.
Mike took another drag from his cigarette, staring blankly at the Greyhound bus as the doors hissed open. First, an elderly woman stepped off, leaning heavily on a cane, her steps slow and deliberate. She paused for a moment, scanning her surroundings as though she were uncertain where she’d ended up. Mike wondered if she was just passing through or if this was the destination she’d been chasing for years. Maybe she had her own story, a life full of twists and turns that led her here, to this random stop in a city that seemed to eat people alive.
Then, a younger man stepped off the bus, his gait more confident outwardly anyway, though with a hint of hesitation, as if he weren’t entirely sure of himself but was doing a damn good job of pretending. Mike studied him, trying to place his age. Maybe a few years younger than himself—late teens, early twenties. He wore a worn-out backpack slung over one shoulder, and his jeans were too big, baggy, it reminded him of himself arriving to the city, clad in his hand-me-down clothes, that never fit quite right.
The kid’s eyes scanned the city with a kind of wonder—wide and bright, like he was seeing it for the first time. Mike knew that look. He’d had it once.
Where the hell did this kid come from? And what was he hoping to find here?
Mike stubbed out his cigarette on the concrete, flicking it into the nearby trash can. He watched the young man pause for a moment, standing by the curb as if deciding where to go next. Mike wondered if he was thinking about his options the same way Mike had when he’d first arrived—brimming with idealism, believing the city held endless opportunities. Hell, Mike had been certain back then, heart pounding with the promise of new beginnings, that the world was his for the taking. He’d imagined he could do anything.
And now… now he was a lousy dishwasher. A part-time bartender at a dive bar. The city had a way of swallowing people up, one shift at a time, one year at a time, until all that was left was the bitter taste of missed chances.
Was this kid going to end up like him? Would he get lost in the grind, chasing a dream that slowly faded into something more mundane? Mike couldn’t help but wonder. The city had a way of tricking you into thinking you could be anyone, and then, just when you thought you’d figured it out, it knocked you back down, reminding you that maybe you weren’t cut out for it after all.
Mike shook his head, the thought almost making him laugh bitterly.
"Better him than me," he muttered under his breath, though part of him felt the familiar tug of envy. At least the kid still had hope. At least he hadn’t given in yet on the fight to figure out who he was, where he belonged, the journey everyone has to go through, it was apart of life wasn’t it? All to become who we are, Mike thought.
Billie Joe wandered the city streets for hours, the weight of his backpack pulling at his shoulders, but the weight in his chest felt heavier. He didn’t know where to go or what to do next. San Francisco, with its towering buildings and cold streets, hadn’t given him the fresh start he’d hoped for. It was just another city. Another place full of strangers, and yet he still felt as lost as he had in his small town in Minnesota.
He made his way through the maze of city streets, popping into small shops, diners, and local stores, asking about applications. Each time, the answer was the same: "Sorry, we’re not hiring." No one even looked at him twice. He wasn’t sure what kind of job he thought he could get, but the idealistic part of him still clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he could make it, and it would be easy. But that was proving difficult.
Before he knew it the sun was setting and He had to find a place to stay, somewhere to lay his head. But at the same time he needed a job—quickly. The money he had left was dwindling fast, he had enough to cover a meal here and there and maybe a night in a dingy motel, but that wasn’t going to last long. One more place, I will try one more, and then I find a motel. Billie thought.
By the time he made his way to the next diner—a greasy, rundown joint that had seen better days—he was almost certain he was getting nowhere. When he walked inside, the bell above the door jingled weakly. A waitress, looking bored and tired, gave him a half-hearted smile, the kind of smile that came out of routine, not genuine warmth.
"Can I help you?" she asked
Billie, desperate, asked “are you hiring?” His voice quiet and on the verge of cracking.
"Sure, we’re always looking for help," she said, barely looking up from her notepad. "Fill out an application, and bring it back whenever.”
The words were like a breath of fresh air. He could feel the spark of hope flicker back inside of him. Maybe this was it. Maybe he’d finally found something.
He took the application from her, and immediately place it in the pocket of his backpack for safe keeping, he would need a pen to fill it out, but he was hoping the one hotel room he could afford for the night would have one readily available. He left the diner, feeling a little better about himself.
That’s when his stomach growled, reminding him just how little he’d eaten in the last day, until now he had been surviving on a loaf of bread he bought somewhere in Denver, Colorado while awaiting his bus transfer. He was hungry, But for right now food was secondary. A roof over his head was the priority.
Super eight, had the cheapest rooms, and it was close to the diner he was trying to get hired at. But just when he thought he had it all figured out, he found out just how wrong he was, “I will need identification, a drivers license, or an ID card.” The man at the desk asked with fake politeness, Billie felt his stomach drop, he didn’t have anything like that, and even if he did, he wasn’t 21, the age limit for checking into a room.
“Is there anyway I can get a room without it?” Billie asked desperately.
The man at the desk raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by Billie Joe's request. He leaned forward, his fingers lightly drumming on the countertop. "Look, kid, I get it. You’re probably just trying to find a place to crash for the night. But rules are rules. We need an ID to rent a room. Can't bend that."
Billie's heart sank into his stomach, and he took a step back, his fingers gripping the straps of his backpack as if that would steady him. His mind raced, searching for some kind of solution, but there was nothing. He didn’t have a fake ID, and even if he did, he didn’t have the money to throw away on something that could land him in even deeper shit.
His throat was tight again, that awful nausea rising with the pressure of his failure. "I… I don’t have an ID," Billie stammered, trying to steady his voice, but it was hard when his whole world felt like it was slipping through his fingers. "I just need a place to sleep."
The man behind the desk didn't seem to care much about the desperation in Billie’s voice. He shrugged, his bored expression not softening. "Sorry, kid. Like I said, no ID, no room. Maybe try a shelter if you're that hard up, or you can find somewhere else. But that's all I can do for you." He turned his attention back to the papers behind the counter, effectively ending the conversation.
Billie Joe felt the full weight of his exhaustion crashing down on him. His legs felt like lead, his stomach a hollow pit. He didn’t know what to do next. Everything felt like it was out of his reach. And for a split second, as he stood there frozen in front of the desk, the thought about just walking out into the night was daunting, the thought of the cold street, of the unknown stretching out in front of him, sent a shiver through his body. He was already so far gone. He had no other choice.
As he turned to leave, the man at the desk called out behind him. "Hey, kid."
Billie stopped, turning back to see, the man’s look of pity, “Try the shelter a few blocks east. Doors open at six. But it’s first come, first served. It’s probably full already.”
Billie Joe nodded, barely registering the words. He turned and left the motel, the weight of exhaustion crashing down on him. He retraced his steps, back toward the gas station where the Greyhound had dropped him off earlier that morning. It was near the restaurant he had gotten the application from, somehow he had managed to walk a full circle looking for jobs.
When he reached the alley behind the 7-Eleven, he sank to the ground, his back against the cool brick wall, the familiar heaviness of his backpack pressing against his chest. He pulled out the job application, staring at it like it was his last glimmer of hope.
The questions were simple—name, address, experience. Billie’s new name for job purposes was “William Joseph.” It was the name he’d used to buy his bus ticket, the name that could keep him hidden.
But when he reached the part asking for his Social Security number, his stomach clenched painfully.
It was a dumb question. A stupid question. One that he couldn’t avoid, but also couldn’t answer honestly. He didn’t have a real Social Security number—at least not one he could use. Not one that wouldn’t tie him back to the mess he’d left behind in Minnesota.
The thought of someone discovering the truth, of being exposed for who he really was, made his throat dry. What would happen if someone checked? What if they found out he was only seventeen, running from everything he’d tried to escape?
Billie’s hands shook as he stared at the line on the application. The simple request for a number that could destroy everything. He didn’t even know how they would check—maybe they wouldn’t. But the "what ifs" ate at him, gnawing at his insides. It wasn’t far off to expect them to check his background, even his shitty gas station job back in Minnesota ran a background check. And even though it was a slim to none chance, what if someone he knew was looking for him already?
With a frustrated growl, Billie crumpled up the application and tossed it onto the ground. His frustration boiled over, and the reality of his situation hit him like a punch in the gut. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t let anyone find out the truth.
Tears pricked at his eyes, the weight of his failure crashing down on him. He leaned his head back against the brick wall, finally allowing himself to cry. His hand slowly came to rest on his small, barely noticeable rounded stomach. He had to keep going for them, for the tiny life growing inside of him.
And already, he was failing.
Defeated, he laid his backpack on the ground, before laying down himself, using it as a pillow. His left hand under his head, and right hand still resting on his stomach,
I wonder who you will become, Billie Joe thought before falling into a light sleep.