THE BOY IN THE ALLEY

CHAPTER 1 —

Emily found the boy because she heard him coughing.

It was not a loud cough.

Just a small, dry sound from behind the trash bags in the narrow alley beside the bakery. The kind of sound adults walked past because they had groceries, emails, appointments, and better coats than the people making those sounds.

Emily was six.

She still stopped.

Her mother had stepped inside the bakery to pick up an order for a school fundraiser. Emily had been told to wait near the window, where she could be seen.

Instead, she followed the cough.

The alley was cold enough to make her breath turn white. Wet pavement shined under the gray winter daylight. Old red-brick walls rose on both sides, trapping the damp air and the smell of garbage, rain, and something lonely.

The boy sat curled against the wall.

He looked older than Emily but not old enough to be alone. Maybe nine. His messy light brown hair stuck out from under a dirty gray hood. His cheeks were smudged with dirt. His lips were cracked. His body was thin inside the oversized hoodie, like the clothes were trying and failing to keep him in the world.

He looked at Emily’s white coat.

Then at her clean shoes.

Then down at his own old sneakers.

Emily held out the wrapped sandwich she had been saving.

“Here,” she said softly. “You can have it.”

The boy stared at it.

Not like he did not want it.

Like wanting it hurt.

Emily stepped closer and placed it carefully into his hands.

His fingers were cold and red at the knuckles. He held the sandwich with both hands, as if it might disappear if he gripped it wrong.

“Thank you,” he said.

His voice was tiny.

Emily smiled.

She did not know what else to do, so she leaned in and hugged him.

The boy froze.

His shoulders stayed stiff. His hands kept holding the sandwich between them. He did not hug her back at first, but his eyes closed for one second, and that one second looked like the first warm thing that had happened to him in a long time.

Then footsteps echoed from the alley entrance.

Fast.

Sharp.

“Emily!”

Her mother rushed in, brown coat flaring around her knees, expensive handbag swinging from one arm. Her styled hair had come loose near her temple. Her face was tight with fear.

She grabbed Emily by the shoulders and pulled her back.

“Emily, step back.”

Emily looked confused.

“Mom, he’s hungry.”

The boy lowered his eyes.

He had been waiting for this part.

The pulling away.

The disgust.

The question adults always asked like it explained everything: Where are your parents?

Emily’s mother turned toward him, already reaching for the protective anger mothers use when fear gets there first.

Then she truly saw his face.

The dirty cheeks.