Loren laughed aloud, delighted by his good fortune. Half a hamburger still nestled in its cardboard box and wrapped in waxed paper that hadn't been crushed. He sniffed it cautiously. Hunger pushed him to eat things that didn't smell quite right and he sometimes regretted it. He slipped it into his jacket, grabbed his black vinyl backpack, and shuffled toward the street in bedroom slippers he'd worn since his shoes fell apart. His stomach churned, grumbling in expectation of soon being fed. The last thing he'd eaten, the remnant of an apple fritter abandoned on the sidewalk outside Starbuck's, had been hours earlier.

A Little League baseball field in the park across the way, empty of children and their parents cheering from the sidelines, seemed a good place to sit. He did so comfortably on a bench behind the dugout. If the sandwich had been a mere morsel he would have devoured it the moment he found it, but this was a meal to be savored. He retrieved it from his pocket and peeled open the bun, pleased to find several ribbons of shredded lettuce and part of a sliced tomato. He held it with his left hand, the cleaner of the two, and licked mayonnaise from the wrapper.

He chewed as slowly as hunger allowed, relishing the greasy saltiness of each bite. He thought of the time when he might have had fries and a Coke to go along with it. Not so long ago, he'd have paid for it and shoved the change into his pocket without regard, or put a few coins into a tip jar on the counter. Now, everything from pennies to empty water bottles redeemable for cash had worth. Newspapers had proven particularly useful. They didn't convert into money but could cushion him when he slept, or be stuffed into his clothes for warmth. He could also read them.

Whether he hunkered in doorways, sat on street corners, or wandered around the city, most of the people he encountered rendered him invisible. Others wrinkled their noses, their eyes fixed straight ahead. He'd seen his reflection in store windows. Drawn unshaven face, bedraggled clothes, hunched shoulders, and wild, straw-colored hair splintering out from under a soiled brown knit cap he'd retrieved from a trashcan. He barely recognized the boy he'd been three months earlier.

With evening approaching, he scouted for a place to sleep. The night before, he'd slept on the soft but prickly mulch under a camellia bush behind an apartment building near the freeway. Though noisy, it was comfortable until the lawn's automatic sprinklers turned on in the middle of the night, abruptly ending his sleep and soaking him, his clothes, and his backpack. All day he felt the lack of rest. He sorely needed a safe, dry place to sleep, where the police would not harass him, someplace private but not so secluded that he risked being mugged or worse.

A few blocks along Minor Avenue, almost at Cherry Street, Loren spotted an open space beneath a raised staircase that was free of debris and broken glass. The space seemed likely to remain dry even if it began to rain. He considered perching on the steps while awaiting nightfall but decided it better to return when he could tuck himself in without being noticed by the building's occupants. He pulled a torn blue sweatshirt that smelled like old gym shoes from his backpack and laid it inside the opening to reserve the space then hoisted his backpack onto one shoulder and walked around the corner.

Cherry Street had more commercial buildings and a higher volume of pedestrian traffic. He sat on the curb with his head bowed and eyes downcast, holding a small cardboard sign that read "Please help."

One guy growled at him to get a job. Loren restrained his impulse to react. What did the stranger know of his life? Did he think it fun to sit on a curb in the late afternoon drizzle, begging for assistance that wouldn't be given? As for getting a job, Loren had learned through repeated disappointment that employers weren't willing to hire people without references, a phone number, or a permanent address. That passerby knew nothing about him or anything else.

An hour after nightfall, he returned to Minor Avenue, pack hanging from his slumped shoulders, chilled by the heavy mist that penetrated his jacket. Though exhausted, the promise of a good place to rest propelled him. He arrived at the crawlspace to find the surrounding area more brightly lit than he'd expected. He dropped onto his hands and knees and quickly inserted himself, feet first. The sweatshirt he'd left was no longer there; Loren assumed a dog must have smelled it and carried it off. He spread a few sheets of newspaper on the ground for insulation, then set down his backpack to use as a pillow.

In the depths of sleep, Loren felt a hand shaking him. A female voice startled him more fully awake. He opened his eyes to see a face only inches from his own.

"Get out of there!" she said.

"Just want to sleep," he answered groggily. "No harm done."

"You're in my spot," she said. "There's my stuff." She pointed.

Realizing that she was not a resident of the building but another homeless person, he had no intention of moving. He turned to see that a couple of shopping bags had been tucked into the far back of the space. The angry voice belonged to a young girl, kneeling in the heavy rain, the water in her dark hair sending rivulets over her face.

"It's not your place," he told her. "I put my sweatshirt here to reserve it. You must have taken it when you stashed your bags."

She was shivering. "I've got nowhere else to go." Her voice quavered.

"Try the shelter at the church around the corner."

"I did," she said. "Some woman stole my gloves and sweater while telling me about Jesus."

"What makes you think you can trust me?"

"I have no choice," she said.

Loren could hear her teeth chattering. "How do I know I can trust you?" Even as he said this, he began to relent. "Okay, but stay over there," he said, pointing. "I don't want you near me."

The girl inched herself through the opening, careful not to touch him. "I can't go back to the park. The cops are cracking down on people sleeping there. They took my tent. That's where I was until a couple days ago."

"How old are you?"

She settled herself carefully, lying parallel to him on her back. "Fourteen next month."

A baby, he thought. "Where are you from?" He found himself falling into a conversation.

"Twin Falls."

When he didn't say anything, she added, "It's in Idaho."

Loren nodded.

"Had to get out of there. My stepmother was always after me when my dad wasn't around. She's crazy." She rolled away from him, shaking with cold, and turned onto her side. "I'm Becky," she said softly.

"Did you talk to your dad about her?"

She scoffed. "He always takes her side."

Loren scooted himself closer and looped his arm over her shoulder.

Her body grew rigid. "Don't," she said.

"Only making you warm, nothing else." It took a while for her to relax. Once she had, he fell asleep.

It had grown light by the time he awoke. He stretched and yawned, disappointed that the girl was gone. As he crawled toward the opening, he found a lidded paper cup, its contents still warm. Beneath the cup was a crumpled dollar bill and handwritten note that read "Thanks. Becky."

For the first time since leaving home, he wasn't invisible.