Page 31 of Knox's Boy

I turned the corner to my landing, my keys already jingling in my hand, and froze. No, no, no, not now. I was too tired, too unprepared, and worse, my phone was dead. It died after my shift. I always forgot to charge it.

My landlord, Mr. Henderson, stood in front of my door. He wouldn't drag himself up four flights unless something was broken beyond repair or he wanted money. Today, he wasn't alone.

Two police officers flanked him. Their hands rested near their belts, casual but ready.

"Florian," Mr. Henderson said. He didn't look angry. He looked tired. He held a piece of paper in his hand.

"I have the money," I blurted out. I had what Knox gave me, but it wasn't enough. I could ask for more. No. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I stepped forward, my grip on my backpack strap tightening until my knuckles turned white. "My shift... I justpicked up extra hours. I can pay you by Friday. I promise, Mr. Henderson, please."

Mr. Henderson shook his head, a slow, final movement. "It's Tuesday, kid. You said that last week. And the week before." He unfolded the paper. "Eviction order. Effective immediately. You're three months behind, and I've got a family to feed, too."

"But you can't just..." I looked at the officers. They stared back. They weren't villains; they were just machinery. I was the glitch they were here to remove. "I have rights. Thirty days? Something?"

"Notice was posted a month ago," the taller officer said, his voice flat. "We're just here to keep the peace while the locks are changed. You have ten minutes to grab your essentials. Anything else goes to the curb tomorrow."

The world tilted. Ten minutes. My entire life, my pathetic little kingdom of books and dirty laundry, reduced to a ten-minute countdown.

"Please," I whispered, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it had arrived. "I have nowhere to go."

"Ten minutes," the officer repeated, stepping aside to let me reach the door.

Mr. Henderson unlocked it with his master key. I pushed the door open and stumbled inside.

Panic spiked in my chest. I scrambled for my duffel bag, the one with the broken zipper, and threw it onto the bed.

Essentials. Essentials.

What was essential when you were losing everything?

My hands shook violently as I yanked open the dresser drawers. Underwear. Socks. My one hoodie. I stuffed them into the bag without folding them, just wads of fabric to keep me warm. I grabbed my textbooks from the wobbly desk. That cost more than the furniture. I couldn't lose those. If I lost those, I lost school, and if I lost school, I was just Finn’s son, drifting toward the gutter.

"Five minutes," the officer called from the doorway.

I spun around, scanning the room wildly. My eyes landed on the nightstand. There, sitting next to a half-empty bottle of water, was the black debit card Knox had given me. His voice echoed in my head, deep and commanding and safe.I take care of what is mine.

I reached for it, my fingers hovering millimeters from the sleek plastic. It was a lifeline. One swipe and I could pay Henderson. One call and Knox would probably send a car, a lawyer, a moving crew.

But then another voice intruded. My father’s whine, wheedling for twenty bucks for vodka.Come on, Florry, don't be stingy. Family helps family.

I snatched my hand back. If I used that card to save myself from my own failures, I was no better than Finn. I was just a leech, draining a host until I was swatted away. Knox wanted a boy who was good, who had potential, not a charity case who couldn't keep a roof over his head without a sugar daddy bailing him out.

I couldn't do it. I would rather sleep on concrete.

I grabbed my wallet. I opened it, checking the hidden slot. Knox’s business card was there. I ran my thumb over the raisedletters of his name, a quick, desperate prayer, before snapping the wallet shut and shoving it deep into my front pocket.

"Time's up," Mr. Henderson said from the hall.

I frantically looked around one last time. My toothbrush. A phone charger. I grabbed them, shoving them into the side pocket of the duffel. I shouldered my backpack, hefted the bag, and took a step toward the door.

My apartment looked back at me, indifferent. The water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a grimacing face, seemed to mock me.

I walked past the officers, my head bowed, shoulders hunched up to my ears. I couldn't meet their eyes. I didn't want to see the judgment, or worse, the complete lack of it. To them, I was just another statistic, another broke kid washing out of the city.

We walked down the stairs in silence.

At the front entrance, the officer held the door open. The street noise rushed in, sirens, the rumble of engines. It was starting to drizzle, a fine, icy mist that stuck to my eyelashes.

"Good luck, son," the older officer muttered as I stepped onto the pavement.