Get out of my house!

His father’s voice tore through Luke’s mind just as one of the teenagers drove a fist into his stomach.

The blow folded him in half and emptied his lungs. Before he could recover, another boy grabbed the front of his jacket and hauled him upright.

"Where’s the rest of it?"

"I don’t have anything else," Luke managed between shallow breaths.

"Yeah, right."

Through watering eyes, Luke made out three teenagers surrounding him near the mouth of the alley. They all looked younger than him, probably still in high school, but that hadn’t stopped them from following him after they saw him check the envelope at the bus station.

His worn clothes and overstuffed backpack must have made him look like an easy target. Someone alone, weak, and unlikely to have anyone searching for him afterward.

The boy in front pulled out a can of pepper spray and aimed it at Luke’s face.

A sharp hiss filled the air before Luke could turn away. The spray struck his eyes and skin, setting his entire face on fire.

He screamed and staggered backward, both hands flying toward his eyes. Every breath triggered another coughing fit, and squeezing his eyelids shut did nothing to ease the burning.

The boys laughed.

"Check his pockets."

Hands grabbed at his clothes from every direction. Someone yanked open his jacket while another dug through his pants pockets. Luke swung blindly, but his fist cut through empty air.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Please, that’s all I have!"

A shoe slammed into the back of his knee, sending him crashing onto the pavement. Then came the sound of a zipper opening inside his jacket, followed by the unmistakable rustle of paper.

Luke recognized it immediately.

"No!"

He reached toward the noise, but a kick to his shoulder knocked him onto his side.

"Thanks for the donation."

Their laughter faded with their footsteps, leaving Luke coughing on the pavement.

When he forced his eyes open, all he could see was a dark red blur. He squeezed them shut again and reached inside his jacket with a shaking hand.

The envelope was gone.

He searched the same pocket twice before checking the rest of his clothes. When he found nothing, he began feeling around on the pavement, desperate enough to believe they might have dropped it.

His fingers brushed dirt, gravel, and an empty bottle cap.

They had taken every dollar he had left.

That money had cost him months of work. He had washed dishes until midnight, unloaded delivery trucks before sunrise, and skipped meals whenever it meant saving a few extra dollars. He had guarded every bill because those savings were the only thing keeping him off the street for good.

Now all of it was gone.

Get out of my house!

His father’s voice returned with painful clarity.

Luke could still picture him standing in the doorway, one arm extended toward the street. A duffel bag had rested at Luke’s feet, stuffed with whatever clothes his father had bothered to gather.

It had been Luke’s eighteenth birthday. There had been no cake, no present, and no awkward attempt at celebration. His father had simply dropped the bag in front of him and said, "You’re an adult now. You’re not my problem anymore."

Luke had known the day was coming, so he had spent months taking every part-time shift he could find and hiding the money. He had convinced himself that it would be enough for a cheap room and some food while he searched for steady work.

Instead, motel bills drained his savings, employers wanted a permanent address, and landlords demanded deposits he couldn’t afford. Now a group of teenagers had taken what little remained.

Luke dragged himself toward the brick wall and sat with his back against it, struggling to steady his breathing. He had nowhere to sleep that night, no money for food, and no family he could call. Even his phone had stopped working several days ago.

For the first time since being thrown out, he could no longer pretend he was managing.

Without thinking, Luke pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. A fresh burst of pain shot across his face, and he hissed as he jerked them away.

"Help!" he called.

His voice came out weak and rough, nearly disappearing beneath the murmur of passing conversations.

"Please! Someone call a hero!"

A pair of footsteps slowed nearby.

Hope rose in his chest as he turned toward the sound, but after a brief pause, the person continued walking.

Another pedestrian approached a moment later. Luke lifted one hand in their direction.

"I can’t see. Please, call someone."

The footsteps abruptly changed course without a word.

No hero came.

Luke had grown up watching them streak across the sky in bright uniforms, pulling civilians from collapsing buildings and battling villains in the middle of crowded streets. Their victories played across enormous screens while cheering crowds called out their names.

Apparently, a homeless teenager being robbed wasn’t important enough.

Maybe heroes only responded when villains had powers or television cameras were already waiting. Whatever the reason, Luke remained alone beside the alley while an entire city moved around him.

He knew what people saw when they looked at him. His jacket was filthy, his shoes were worn through, and a few of them probably recognized him from the nights he had spent beneath the nearby bus shelter.

They might have assumed he started the fight. Maybe they thought he was drunk, or perhaps they simply didn’t want the trouble that came with helping someone like him.

Gripping the wall, Luke forced himself upright.

His legs shook beneath him, but he kept one hand against the bricks and began shuffling forward. Every few steps, his foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk or a piece of trash he couldn’t see.

Lauren’s café should have been somewhere farther down the block. He wasn’t certain he could reach it, or even whether she would still be there, but it was the only nearby place where anyone knew his name.

He only knew he couldn’t remain where those boys had left him.

His father’s words kept circling through his mind.

You’re not my problem anymore.

Luke had spent his entire life making sure he never became anyone’s problem. He stayed quiet when his father was angry, learned to cook and wash his own clothes, and disappeared into his room whenever his presence became irritating.

He had stopped asking for birthday presents years ago. Eventually, he had stopped asking when his mother was coming back.

No matter how small he made himself, his father had still wanted him gone.

Luke’s shoulder clipped the edge of a metal sign, knocking him away from the wall. He stumbled sideways, but before he could fall, someone caught him firmly by the arms.

"Luke!"

The voice was soft and familiar.

"Luke, what happened to you?"

"Miss Lauren?"

"I’m here."

Her hands steadied him. Unlike everyone who had passed by, she didn’t recoil from his dirty clothes or the sharp chemical smell clinging to his skin. She stepped closer instead, carefully resting one hand against his cheek.

"Oh, honey," she whispered. "What did they do to you?"

Something inside Luke finally gave way.

He had listened to his father scream at him without crying. He had spent cold nights beneath a thin blanket while telling himself he was fine, and he had gone hungry without admitting how badly it hurt. Somehow, the warmth in Lauren’s voice came closer to breaking him than any of those things had.

"They took it," he said, his voice cracking.

Her grip tightened around his arms. "Took what?"

"My money. Everything I had."

"I tried to stop them."

"I know."

"I really tried."

"I know, Luke."

Lauren didn’t ask why he had failed or tell him he should have fought harder. She simply drew him against her and held him with careful firmness.

"You’re safe now," she said. "Come inside with me."