"One of the many lessons that one learns in prison is, that things are what they are and will be what they will be."
- Oscar Wilde

Gus was empty. Only a shell. Something that would crumble away into dust if it was touched, like the husk of a locust.

The cops took him straight from Skid Row to an intake room at the nearest juvenile detention center. He was still shirtless, still shoeless and still bloody. They hadn't even let him take his clothes.

Mahaylia was dead. Ida had betrayed him. The only two people who mattered were gone. Now he was alone... again.

Numb and cold, Gus allowed himself to be their puppet. Name. Fingerprints. Mug shot. Drug test. Dragged here, there, everywhere.

Finally, he ended up in a small gray windowless room with a drain in the middle of it. A doctor in a white coat was waiting inside.

"Are you currently high?" the doctor asked him.

Gus shook his head.

"Were you tased or hurt during the arrest?"

He was still shaking his head from the first question and kept right on doing it.

"Do you have any drugs or weapons on you right now?"

"No." A whisper.

"We're going to proceed with a strip search including a body cavity search."

"Why?" Gus asked. "I didn't do nothin'."

He didn't know what a body cavity search was, but it sounded bad.

"There is reasonable suspicion that you have contraband on your person. Take your pants off."

Gus had been staring at the drain on the floor but now looked up at the doctor. The officer who had escorted him here waited by the door along with another guard, so there was no way out.

"What?" he asked softly.

"Take your clothes off so we can do a cavity search," the doctor said harshly. "Stupid," he mumbled under his breath.

"I can't do that," Gus said.

"Why not?"

Now he was shaking. Now the icy deluge of panic was racing through his body. He couldn't breathe.

"Don't make me, please," Gus whispered.

The doctor glared at him. "Hold him."

A guard instantly locked Gus's arms behind his back. His first instinct was to kick, and his muscles reacted like a sling shot.

"Don't fight!" the guard hissed in his ear as the doctor pulled his jeans off.

"No! No! No!" Gus whimpered, squirming.

"Kid, I'm telling you stop fighting."

"You want us to tranq you?" the doctor asked. "Hold still. This won't hurt."

He was pulling on a pair of gloves.

"Please don't, please don't, don't," Gus begged helplessly.

Everything froze after that and went dark. Gus didn't know if he moved or fought. It was like time jumped forward a few seconds. The next thing he was aware of was that his arms were free and he was standing in a warm puddle, naked.

"Call sanitation. He pissed himself," the doctor mumbled to one of the guards.

The guard who had held Gus's arms behind his back chuckled. He was a large black man with a deep voice. "It's over now, kid. You're good," he said.

Gus almost collapsed with relief but caught himself just in time. This is why there's a drain, he thought, looking once more at the mysterious grated hole in the middle of the room. He wished he was small enough to scramble through it and hide like a mouse.

"Here," the other guard said, thrusting an orange bundle at him.

Detention clothing. Gus had been dragged here with nothing but his jeans, and they were putting those into a property bag, so he changed into the bright inmate clothing quickly. It was better than being naked in front of these three men.

"You hungry?" the black guard asked as he led Gus away from the drain room.

Gus shook his head. He was not hungry. He was sick. He was cold. He was dead like Mahaylia.

"Okay, I'm gonna take you to the probation officer, and you'll have a chance to call your parents."

Gus was delivered to another room, this one with a metal table and two chairs on either side that were bolted to the floor. There were two different officers here that chained his cuffed hands to the metal link on top of the table.

"Gus Aaron Crady?" asked a third who'd just opened the door.

Gus nodded wordlessly, and the new officer sat down with a big sigh. He was a fat man, and it looked like everything he did took a lot of effort. In his hand he held a thin folder.

"Ran your prints. You're a ward of the state. We've already informed your caseworker, Margaret Brock, that you're in our custody and she will be the only person you are allowed to call once a week. You can also have her present in court. Do you wish to call her before we proceed?"

Gus shook his head.

"Let's talk about tonight."

Nod.

"Where did you get the gun?"

Gus looked down at his cuffed wrists. "Some dude. Mahaylia was being attacked. It was self defense. Well... defense anyway... I was defending her."

"You wounded the suspect in the arm. He'll live. But are you aware that, as a minor, you are not allowed to even touch a handgun?"

Nod.

"So you were aware you were breaking the law?"

Nod.

"The drugs-"

"They're not mine," Gus said hurriedly. "That wasn't even my tent! It was that woman's. She's a liar!"

Gus knew that if he said Ida's name, he would cry.

The fat guard leaned back and crossed his thick arms over his chest, eyeing Gus warily.

"Your drug test was positive for Ketamine, Crystal Meth, Xanax and marijuana. Did she force feed you those drugs too?"

Gus's face was hot. "No," he mumbled.

"You will remain here in our custody until your hearing next week, in which case they'll decide if you stay in juvenile hall or return to foster care pending your court date. However, given your history as a runaway it's unlikely you will be returned to foster care before court. You will be assigned chores and responsibilities here that you are to carry out without argument. You will have access to medical and psychological treatment as well as counseling. Questions?"

Gus shook his head.

"You have the right to have a lawyer present before you sign this statement," the fat man said, taking a piece of paper out of the folder.

"I don't need no lawyer," Gus mumbled.

"Then sign here please."

Gus took the pen and paper from the man. He couldn't read even half of the words on the statement, but he knew what they meant. He was guilty, pleading guilty and admitting to his crimes. He saw no point in doing anything else. At least here he wasn't sleeping on Skid Row, friendless and alone, or on the filthy sidewalks thinking about Mahaylia's eyes right before she died or the way Ida had turned her back on him.

"You'll shower before being escorted to your room," the fat man said, taking the paper back after Gus had signed it with crooked letters.

A shower sounded like heaven.

At least he could scrub away Mahaylia's blood in the scalding water.