Chapter Text
- Aaron -
Aaron learned early that adults preferred children who made themselves smaller.
Small enough to ignore.
Small enough not to inconvenience anyone.
Small enough to survive.
At fifteen years old, Aaron Minyard had already perfected the art of disappearing in plain sight. Teachers called him “mature for his age.” Social workers called him “well-adjusted considering circumstances.” Tilda called him whatever suited her mood.
Aaron mostly called it exhausting.
Wednesday nights were the only predictable part of his week. The church downtown offered free tutoring and cheap dinners for local kids, and as long as Aaron stayed there until closing, he could usually avoid the worst of Tilda’s evenings.
Tonight the basement smelled like instant coffee and wet coats.
Rain battered the church windows while volunteers folded tables and stacked canned food donations along the walls. Aaron sat near the vending machines with an algebra worksheet spread in front of him, mechanically solving equations while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
“Aaron.”
He looked up automatically.
Mrs. Weller smiled at him from the doorway, clipboard tucked under one arm. “We’re closing in ten minutes, sweetheart.”
Aaron nodded once. “Okay.”
“You need a ride home?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Adults usually stopped asking after that.
Mrs. Weller hesitated anyway, sympathy flickering across her face before she finally headed upstairs.
Aaron packed his books slowly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the city.
The crash of metal from behind the building made him pause.
Another bang followed.
Probably raccoons.
The food pantry bins behind the church attracted every stray animal in Columbia. Aaron should have ignored it.
Instead he crossed the basement quietly and pushed open the back exit.
Rain hit him immediately, cold and heavy.
The alley behind the church was narrow and half-flooded, brick walls slick with runoff and shadows. Overflowing donation bins lined the fence beside the pantry entrance.
A boy crouched beside them.
Not homeless.
Aaron knew the difference. This kid’s sweatshirt was worn thin but clean. His sneakers were ruined from overuse, not neglect. Dark hair had been hacked short unevenly, like someone cut it with motel scissors.
The stranger froze the instant he saw Aaron.
Not startled.
Prepared.
Every muscle locked tight like he expected a fight.
Aaron stopped beneath the awning.
For a long moment neither of them spoke.
Then the boy pulled a bottle of cough medicine from a torn donation bag and shoved it into his pocket.
“You gonna tell?” he asked.
His voice was flat, guarded. Older than eleven should sound.
Aaron shrugged.
The stranger narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
Rainwater dripped from the hood of his sweatshirt. His knuckles looked scraped raw.
“You sick?” Aaron asked.
“No.”
“Then why steal medicine?”
The boy stared at him like the question itself was stupid.
“Because I need it.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
A car passed nearby.
The stranger flinched violently enough that Aaron noticed immediately.
Not dramatic.
Instinctive.
His gaze snapped toward the street, tracking the sound until it faded again.
Aaron frowned slightly.
“You from around here?”
“No.”
“You got a name?”
A pause.
“Chris.”
Lie.
Aaron didn’t know how he knew, only that he did.
The boy, Chris apparently, watched him with sharp distrust, shoulders tense beneath the oversized sweatshirt. He looked ready to bolt at any second.
“You should go home,” Aaron said.
“You should mind your business.”
Aaron snorted despite himself.
Something brief and startled crossed Chris’s expression, like he hadn’t expected amusement.
“You always steal from churches?” Aaron asked.
“They throw half this stuff away.”
“That’s still not what I asked.”
Another silence stretched between them.
Then, “You always ask stupid questions?”
Aaron almost smiled.
Almost.
Footsteps echoed faintly from inside the church.
Chris heard them too.
Aaron watched panic slam through him instantly. The boy backed away a step before the basement door even opened.
“It’s just volunteers,” Aaron said.
Chris didn’t answer.
“Aaron?” Mrs. Weller called from inside. “Are you still down there?”
Chris ran.
One second he stood there.
The next he disappeared down the alley at a full sprint, shoes splashing hard through puddles.
Mrs. Weller stepped beneath the awning beside Aaron. “Who was that?”
Aaron stared after the empty alley.
“No one,” he said automatically.
But the answer felt wrong.
No one didn’t move like they were being hunted.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Tilda was awake when Aaron got home.
That was never a good sign.
Music blared from the apartment loud enough to shake the thin walls. Aaron unlocked the door cautiously and stepped into stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer.
Tilda sat sprawled across the couch in mismatched pajamas, mascara smeared beneath bloodshot eyes.
“There you are,” she said brightly.
Too brightly.
Aaron checked the apartment automatically.
No broken plates. No strangers passed out in the kitchen. No shouting yet.
Manageable.
“You’re late.”
“Tutoring ran over.”
“Well.” Tilda waved vaguely toward the stove. “I made dinner.”
Aaron looked.
Instant ramen. Burned somehow.
He swallowed a sigh and set his backpack beside the table.
Tilda watched him for a moment before her expression shifted abruptly.
“You know,” she said, voice slurring slightly, “you always look at me like I’m disappointing you.”
Aaron focused on opening the ramen cup.
Silence was safer.
“You think you’re better than me?”
A familiar exhaustion settled heavily into his chest.
Not tonight.
Please.
But Tilda was already spiraling.
“You’re just like your father,” she snapped suddenly.
Aaron kept his face blank.
Years of practice made it easy.
A beer can hit the wall beside his shoulder hard enough to burst foam across peeling wallpaper.
Aaron flinched before he could stop himself.
Tilda laughed.
The sound hollowed something inside him.
Later, after she passed out on the couch with the television still flickering static across the room, Aaron cleaned the apartment because otherwise cockroaches would take over again.
Near midnight he stood at the kitchen sink staring out at rain-streaked windows and thought unexpectedly about a strange boy with scraped knuckles and frightened eyes.
Chris.
Fake name or not, it was all Aaron had.
Somewhere in San Jose, that kid was still running from something.
Aaron understood that feeling better than he wanted to.