"One warm night four children stood in front of a bakery. No one knew them. No one knew where they had come from."
- The Boxcar Children book 1 by Gertrude Chandler Warner

On his sixteenth birthday, Gus came home late after school to a locked house and his stuff thrown all over the front porch. Papers from his favorite book, The Boxcar Children, rustled gently in the dry California wind. The trailer was surrounded by the Mojave Desert, and the cool spring night was dark and vast.

Gus had been good for a long time after his arrest in Chicago. He had even been going to school and living with the Wiggins like he was supposed to... before Kevin moved back home.

Kevin was the Wiggins's grown son, an unemployed twenty-something who had gotten himself evicted and was now living in a trailer on their property. Gus could sniff out a drug dealer a mile away, and Kevin was the type who didn't ask any questions if you had the right amount of cash. The deal was the Wiggins continued to receive the check from the state and pretend everything was going well while Gus crashed in the trailer and paid Kevin for crystal meth. Everyone made money. Everyone was happy. 'Till now.

"HEY!" Gus shouted, pounding on the dirty door of the trailer. "I know you're in there, motherfucker! Open up!"

No answer.

Sighing, Gus sat down on the rickety front steps and lit a cigarette, trying to figure out what he'd done to piss Kevin off. He was always pissing people off, and he never understood why.

The cigarette was almost down to the filter, and instead of putting it out on the ground Gus pressed it against his forearm, gasping at the pain but feeling a thrill of pleasure pulse through him at the same time.

After he stood up and tossed the smashed cigarette into the bushes, Gus knocked on the door again. No answer, again. He kicked the splintery wood once in anger before stomping around the side of the trailer to try his bedroom window. Hours from crashing, he badly needed some tweak and couldn't stand for this bullshit.

His window was locked too, so he punched his fist through and climbed inside, cutting his hands on the jagged glass. The room had been stripped. He frantically searched for his stash of Ice in the bottom drawer of the dresser, only to find it was gone, along with all his money.

Down the hall, Gus heard a door open. In a flash, Kevin stormed into the room, grabbed him by the shirt and slammed his body against the wall like he weighed nothing.

Gus had been small his whole life because he'd been born doped up. His ability to run, evade enemies and squeeze into small spaces had earned him the nickname Mouse back in Chicago. Now he just felt like a mouse in a trap.

"Why the FUCK are you breaking my windows, Gus!" Kevin yelled in his face.

"Why the FUCK did you lock me out, Kevin?" Gus said the name mockingly.

Kevin threw him against the empty dresser. It wobbled once, then tipped and landed with an ear-splitting BANG on the floor.

"Ow! That fuckin' hurt, asshole!" Gus shouted, shoving Kevin back.

"YOU STOLE FROM ME!" Kevin yelled.

"I DID NOT!" Gus countered.

It was not exactly the truth. He had swiped a hundred dollars so he could score better Ice from a different dealer in the next town. But he had the money now to pay it back.

"WHERE'S MY MONEY?" Kevin demanded.

Gus dug in his pockets and threw everything he had at Kevin's feet. "It's all there! I'm sorry!"

"Too fuckin' late. I want you out."

"You kickin' me out over this?" Gus asked disbelievingly.

"You can't be trusted! And I want my own space back! I can't stand having you around!"

"I thought we were friends!" Gus said.

Kevin laughed. "Oh my God, you're so embarrassing right now, retard. You have NO friends! No one likes you except the bugs and dealers! You stink, you talk too much, you eat all the goddamn candy! Having you around is like babysitting a three-year-old. Get lost, little shit!"

Gus looked at Kevin, glaring. If he wasn't glaring, he might cry instead, and that would be much worse.

"You want me gone? Then get the fuck outta my way," Gus mumbled, and he pushed past Kevin to get outside.

On the cold front porch, Kevin watched while Gus bagged up his stuff.

"Here. I'll give you twenty bucks," Kevin said, holding out a single bill.

"Gee, thanks. I can live on this forever!" Gus said sarcastically as he took it.

"No hard feelings, okay? I just don't want a roommate. Especially not a whiny little pussy like you."

"Your parents already said I can't stay there no more if I'm gettin' high!" Gus said.

"So?" Kevin shrugged.

"So where do I go?"

"Figure it out. You been on your own before."

"Not by myself! How am I a'spposed to get money?"

"Sell blow jobs or somethin'. It ain't the first time you been fondled by some old pervert. I bet you even liked that shit when you were little." Kevin laughed.

Gus swung around and shoved Kevin through the screen door. Kevin landed on his ass inside the trailer, shocked. Shreds from the screen flapped in the wind.

"Don't ever say that to me," Gus said slowly. "Ever. You know I could call that prissy social worker right now. She'd get you for hustlin' crank to a minor and Joe and Linda for kickin' me out. All you stupid rednecks behind bars gettin' ass raped by inmates and me just sittin' and laughin'."

"Okay, I'm sorry! Seriously!" Kevin said, looking genuinely frightened.

"But I'm not gonna do that," Gus said triumphantly. "Because I'd rather be on my own anyway."

With that, he left, throwing his stuffed trash bag over his shoulder. The desert highway was silent, and he allowed himself to cry in the cold wind. He held out his thumb to every passing car. All he knew was that he was walking in the direction of Los Angeles. That was a good place to get lost, especially if no one wanted you.

Eventually a semi-truck stopped in front of him, and Gus ran to catch up to it.

"You headed to L.A.?" Gus asked the driver breathlessly.

The trucker eyed him like he was a piece of food. "Yeah."

"Can I hitch?"

"Climb in, kid."

Gus tossed the trash bag up into the truck and hoisted himself into the passenger's seat.

"How old are you?" the driver asked, looking him over.

"Eighteen," Gus lied.

"You look much younger. I don't want any trouble."

"I'm jus' small for my age. I won't say a word to nobody! Just drive."

Without questioning him further, the driver eased the huge truck back onto the empty highway. As the miles passed, Gus felt himself slipping down, down, down into the crash. He had been up for five days on crystal, and his body simply couldn't go on without sleep. It was a cycle he was used to. Binge, crash, score, binge, crash, score. Against his will, his heavy eyelids closed and he was out.

In his dream he was making love to Hex, and she was smiling her beautiful smile and running her hands down his chest.

"I love you, Gus," she murmured before she went down on him, taking all of him into her mouth and making him so, so hard.

The dream felt so good Gus didn't know why he woke up, but he was instantly aware that the truck driver's hand was down his pants.

The driver saw he was awake and said nothing. Gus didn't say anything either, because he couldn't. He was frozen with shock, horror and shame. His mind whirled with thoughts; twist the pervert's hand and break his fingers, open the door and jump out, grab the steering wheel and make a hard right into the desert, flipping the truck and hopefully killing this bastard and maybe himself. But in real life, he just sat there, paralyzed.

This had happened to him before, and those memories were flashing through his head. He was seven. It was a foster father who liked to sneak into his bed at night. At first Gus had thought the man actually cared about him, because he'd kiss him and hold him. But after a few weeks things changed. If he didn't do it and pretend he liked it, he was beaten with a cord cut off a vacuum cleaner, the prongs ripping at his flesh like teeth. It had gone on for a year before he was removed from the home for an unrelated reason.

Now it was happening again, and just like at age seven, Gus's whole body froze, unable to fight or scream or move. But this time was different because, to his shock and horror, he came. Without a word, the driver tossed some napkins in his lap and continued driving as if nothing had happened.

Gus cleaned himself up in the silence, sick with shame and self-loathing. Why did he come? Had he somehow given the truck driver the impression that he wanted this? He was shaking and blinking back tears. Nothing like this had happened the first time he was sexually abused; he'd never had an orgasm. Did this mean he secretly liked it? Was Kevin right? What was wrong with him?

As they drove, Gus began scraping his fingernails repeatedly on the inside of his wrist, until they were bloody little crescent moons.

At an empty, dead-looking gas station where they stopped to refuel, Gus saw his out. He hopped down from the truck with his trash bag and ran into the black desert, where he collapsed and allowed himself to sob, curled up in a ball in the dirt. A voice in his head repeated: you are disgusting, you are dirty, you are trash, you are damaged, you are a waste. That voice had always been there. The only thing that shut it up was drugs. Crystal was ideal, but he'd do anything; weed, coke, crack, PCP, LSD, ketamine, poppers, molly, bath salts, spice and more. He avoided opiates and benzos because he simply didn't think they were fun.

It was only when Gus was sure the truck driver was gone that he dried his tears and walked back to the empty gas station. It was still his birthday, and as shitty as it was he figured he had earned himself a present, so he grabbed an apple fritter and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He wanted cigarettes too, but he would see how things went first.

The cashier was in his early twenties and obviously gay. Gus wasn't sure about himself; he had never sat alone with his grief long enough to make sense of the feelings he'd had for Adam, and girls certainly turned him on. But he did a damn good job of changing his sexual orientation to whatever it needed to be to get what he wanted. He knew he had a sweet, innocent, boyish face that few could resist, and it was the only advantage he had. On the streets, his looks had gotten him everything from money to drugs to food to places to sleep. The acts themselves made him sick like he'd been a few minutes ago, so he told himself it wasn't really sex. It was just survival, no different than stealing to get what he needed.

"You know if you wait thirty minutes we'll have fresh ones," the cashier said, holding up the apple fritter.

Gus shrugged. "The only reason I'd stick around here is to look at your sexy ass."

The cashier looked up, surprised, and blushed.

"Guess what?" Gus asked, leaning on the counter.

"What?"

"Today's my birthday."

The cashier smiled, already won over by Gus's natural charm. "Well happy birthday, sweetie."

"I been eighteen for four hours," Gus said proudly. He couldn't risk going higher than eighteen. He knew he already looked much younger than sixteen.

"You were born at midnight?"

"Don't know when I was born, so I just call it at midnight the day of."

"Well unless you just turned twenty-one, I can't sell you this," the cashier said, nodding at the bottle of Jack. "But I'm pretty sure you know that..."

Gus smiled his sweetest smile. "Pleeeaaase," he begged. "I'll share it. You gonna get off soon? From work, I mean."

The cashier blushed again. "I'm working until nine."

"Come take a break with me, baby?" Gus asked. "I'll make it worth your while. Whatever you want."

"Look, you're cute as hell, kid... but..."

"I just wanna kiss you. It would make my birthday," Gus said in a low voice, leaning in closely while gently tracing circles on the guy's hand.

The cashier took in a sharp breath. "I-I'm with someone I really love."

"Damn." Gus pouted. Quickly, he switched tactics and said, "This birthday just keeps getting shittier."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh my parents kicked me out of the house. That's why I got this trash bag. I came out to them today and they're church people..." Gus said, and he quickly conjured up some fake tears.

In addition to crying too much, Gus could also cry on demand, a skill that had served him well while panhandling. It helped that his eyes were already red and swollen from crying outside.

The cashier put his hand over Gus's on the grimy counter.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," he said sincerely.

Gus shrugged and let the tears slide down his cheeks for dramatic effect. "It is what it is. Guess I'm just stuck with the apple fritter. Happy birthday to me."

The cashier looked around to make sure they were alone.

"Buy it and leave. I'll buy you the Jack and bring it behind the building where there are no cameras."

Gus lit up. "Really? You're the best! Could you throw in a pack of cigarettes too? I don't have my ID with me."

The cashier raised an eyebrow. "Damn, I'm such a sucker for pretty boys. Sure. What brand?"

"Marlboro Reds."

"See you out back."

Gus leaned against the back of the building as he ate his apple fritter next to a full dumpster. He was starting to feel better. He wouldn't let himself think about what had happened in the truck. He would try to never think of it again. That was how he dealt with everything.

Fifteen minutes later, the cashier jogged over and handed him a paper bag.

"I put in some snacks too," he said breathlessly.

Gus grinned. Mission accomplished.

"Thanks. You saved my life. I guess it's a happy birthday after all."

The cashier smiled. "Good luck to you. Stay on the road and don't get lost in the desert. There are youth shelters in L.A. for gay kids who get kicked out. Ask around. People are pretty accepting there. Not as many backwoods crazies as there are around here."

"How far am I?"

"Thirty miles out."

Gus took a swig of straight whiskey from the bottle of Jack and winced. He rarely drank, but he needed to feel numb right now.

"Then I guess I'd better start walking," he said.

He kissed the cashier on the cheek and squeezed his hand to say thank you. And with that, he turned and headed for the empty highway again.