Between Lives - 1. Chapter 1

I'm cold," Sophie tells him. She huddles against his side, legs tucked underneath her, and swipes the back of her hand under her nose. "How much longer?"

Nate slips an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. "Not much. I promise." She sighs and he gives a gentle tug to one of her tight curls. Her threadbare jeans, t-shirt, and windbreaker can't be too much of a help against the chill wind, and for as long as he can remember, Sophie has been thin and fragile. Almost made of glass. When she shivers again, he vows he'll only search for ten more minutes.

The classified page crinkles in his pocket when he turns to shield her from the wind. Nate bites his lip, giving in to the frustration that's been plaguing him. He can't let Sophie see he's worried, but if they don't make the appointment to see the house, it means another night on the street or at the shelter. Neither is safe or warm. His sister deserves better.

The bus stop where they're sitting boasts a clear plastic dome barrier, but it's no protection from the wind or cold. Nate gives Sophie's arm a brisk rub, then refocuses on the temp agency across the street. It opened hours ago, and people have come and gone since then – dirty, scruffy men, mostly, looking for day work. But none of them have been what he's looking for.

Caution is the key. Sprinkled with a bit of desperation, but caution still holds the reins. There can't be any mistake, he knows. If he doesn't pick right the first time, it's back to square one. A surreptitious glance around confirms this is the last place he wants his baby sister spending the night.

He's considering leaving, taking the long bus ride back to the shelter – the first one they've found that doesn't ask dangerous questions – when he sees him. The man has just pushed through the glass doors of the building and is standing on the sidewalk. Nate stiffens with a quiet gasp, and Sophie stirs in his arms. "Nate?"

"Hang on." He lowers his head and his bangs fall forward. It wouldn't do to be caught staring. The man isn't dressed like a bum, but his shirt is wrinkled enough to make Nate think he may have slept in it last night. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes dull. He shakes a cigarette from an almost empty pack and lights it with trembling hands. Nate holds his breath, and after another moment, the man turns and begins walking away from the agency, head down.

This is the one.

"Sophie, this is it. Do you remember what I told you?"

Sophie nods and pulls away. "I won't leave the bench and I won't talk to strangers."

"I'll be right back." Nate gives her a quick, crushing hug, then stands and darts across the street. He follows the man for a few moments, watchful, then – after a quick glance over his shoulder to check on Sophie – he reaches out and catches his sleeve. "Excuse me."

The man turns with a grunt, and Nate steps back. He knows he's not physically imposing, still only sixteen and skinny at that, but the man has that look. Like he thinks the whole world is out to get him.

Nate knows the feeling well.

The man turns and takes Nate's measure, a full sweep from head to toe, and Nate barely manages not to squirm or straighten his own wrinkled t-shirt. He hopes that, for once, his slim build and unassuming demeanor will work in his favor, because as much as he'd like to force the man into helping them, threats won't get him anywhere.

"Whadaya want, kid?" the man says and his voice is rough, graveled. A smoker's voice, but the lit cigarette in his hand has already given that away.

Nate clears the nervousness from his throat. "I have a proposition for you."

The man blinks. "Is that so?" He darts glances to the left and right. "I'm not into kids, so if you're some kind of cop—"

"No," Nate says, embarrassment tinging his cheeks pink. "It's nothing like that. Listen." He darts another look over his shoulder, and the man follows his gaze to where Sophie is sitting on the bench, swinging her legs back and forth. "I need a favor. I'll pay you."

"Sorry, little girls aren't my thing, either."

Red-hot anger explodes through Nate. It's been there for weeks now, simmering below the surface, and every time he senses his sister threatened, it gets a bit harder to muzzle. "It's not about her," he hisses through clenched teeth. He feels emboldened enough to add, "Don't even look at her."

The man drags on his cigarette, lets the smoke drift from his nostrils as he stares at Nate. "Take it easy, kid. What do you want?"

Nate takes a deep breath. He pulls the classified ad from his pocket and holds it up. "I need you to be my father. For two hours. I'll pay you fifty dollars, which is more than you would've made for the whole day, even if you had found work." He jerks his chin toward the gleaming glass doors of the temp agency.

The man tilts his head to the sky and laughs. "You're crazy, you know that?" he says once the laughter has dried up. "No way."

"You're really going to turn down fifty dollars?" Nate reaches into his front pocket, and the man's eyes follow.

They face off on the sidewalk, pedestrians passing on either side, oblivious to the struggle playing out. For the man, it's a measly fifty dollars, though he looks like he could use it. For Nate, it's the difference between a roof over his sister's head and another terrifying night in the homeless shelter. "Fifty dollars," he repeats.

"What makes you think I'd pretend to be your daddy for fifty bucks? And how the hell do you know I didn't get hired for the day, huh? Maybe I'm headed for the site right now." The man drops his cigarette and stubs it out with a boot. The sole is peeling away from the leather, Nate sees.

"Because," Nate says, still staring at the boot, "if you'd been hired, you would've turned left, towards where they're doing all the new construction one block over." He points. "Instead you turned right. Toward the bar." No need to point for that one. It sits at the end of the street, like a beacon to every depressed drunk on the block. And there are lots of them.

The man looks to where Nate doesn't point, toward the pulsing neon sign (T. Ricks – $1 Buds every Tuesday) on the corner. A wry smile crosses his face. "Got something against drunks?"

"Keep your hands to yourself and we'll be good." Nate ignores the surprise that flashes across the man's face. "So, you game?"

The man sniffs. In a move that reminds Nate of Sophie, he swipes his sleeve across his nose. He shakes the last cigarette from his pack and lights it. "Depends. What do I have to do? Be your dad, you said?" He snorts, then coughs, spouting smoke and phlegm into his hand.

Nate caps the disgust before it reaches his eyes. He doubts it would benefit their negotiation. "Yeah. That's what I said." He eyes the man's shirt and jeans with distaste. Up close, they're worse than he thought. "Do you have anything cleaner you could wear?"

With a roll of his eyes, the man groans. "Where am I going? An interview?"

"Of sorts." Nate shoves the scrap of newspaper back into his pocket. He doesn't offer to shake on their deal. He values his health a little too much. "Have we got an agreement?"

More laughter bubbles up through the man's abused throat. It's a hoarse, breathy sound. He scratches at his thinning hair and studies Nate with bloodshot eyes. "Yeah, kid. We've got an agreement."

***

It's a gamble, letting the man go to change his clothes. Worth the risk, though, as Nate's pretty sure it's the only way they'll get the house. The old lady's already hinted at waiving the credit check, airing the idea as an afterthought in their brief telephone conversation. She has no clue it made Nate so hopeful that he broke out in a sweat. But she was clear on some other points as well, and a "good, clean family" is one of them. Nate doesn't think she threw cleanliness in there as an afterthought.

He buys a hotdog for Sophie and returns to the bench. Her smile is worth the exorbitant two dollars and fifty cents he paid for it.

"Did you get ketchup?" she asks.

"Of course."

"Is he going to help?"

For a price. "Yeah."

"That's nice of him."

His hand clenches on the wad of napkins in his hand, and he says a quick, silent prayer that his sister will always see the good in people. "Yeah. It'll just be a bit longer. He's going to go change his clothes."

"Okay."

He keeps a sharp eye out while Sophie blows on the hotdog, the first hot meal she's had in two days. Guilt and shame wash through him, and he swallows against the sudden sting in his eyes. Surely, things will turn around for them soon. He'll never be able to live with himself if he lets Sophie down.

The gray sky and brown earth mock his optimism. A long, cold winter that refuses to die isn't helping their predicament. At least there's no shortage of needy people here. With the steel industry gone and little to take its place, he and Sophie should be able to find someone desperate enough to help them.

Sophie pinches the hotdog between her fingers and takes a dainty bite, humming her approval, then waves to a passing bag lady. Nate doesn't reprimand her, though it's on the tip of his tongue to do so. Instead he glares at the woman when she pauses and eyes the large backpack sitting between Sophie's legs.

He's carrying every cent they have in his pocket, but everything else they own in the world – including his camera – is in the bag, and he doesn't plan on having it stolen now. Not after lying awake for the past three nights in the homeless shelter to protect it.

He glances at his watch and winces. The appointment is in forty-five minutes. The bus ride will take thirty this time of day, if his limited experience is any measure. He keeps his eyes peeled on the corner where the man disappeared. As the minutes pass, he begins to lose hope. Unconsciously, his arm tightens around Sophie, and she slips her arms around his waist. "Don't worry," she says. "Don't worry."

Another ten minutes pass and Nate does worry. At least he hadn't paid the man. He's so caught up in his private pathos that the shadow falling over them gives him a start. "So?" the man says. He holds his arms out and turns a slightly unsteady circle. "Do I pass muster, kid?"

Sophie gives a delighted laugh and claps her hands, and Nate's thrown off guard enough by the whole thing to snap at her about the ketchup caked under her fingernails. He shoves a napkin into her hand. The man watches, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Well? Sorry I took so much time. I shaved."

"I appreciate that," Nate mumbles as he eyes the man. It's no wonder he missed him turning the corner – he looks nothing like the washed-out shell of a person Nate spoke to thirty minutes ago. His ripped jeans and stained t-shirt have been replaced with khaki chinos, creased in a way that makes Nate suspect they've been hanging for a long, long time, and a blue button-down shirt. Nate swallows a relieved laugh. There's even the proper white undershirt peeking out around the collar. "Wow," he says and means it.

The man laughs. "I'm no shirker, kid. You said respectable. Believe it or not, I didn't always look like that." He makes a loose gesture toward the other side of the street where the line of beaten-down men snakes around the building.

"That's okay," Sophie pipes up. "I didn't always look like this." She graces the man with one of her sunny smiles.

Nate's dismayed to see the man is quite dazzled. "Well," he says. "That's true enough, isn't it. My name's Will." He reaches his hand out. "And you are—?"

"Sophie." She holds her own hand out, but instead of shaking it, the man leans down and tugs her fingers to his lips for a quick kiss. Sophie giggles, pulls her hand away, and though Will lets her go without a fuss, Nate prickles all over with a fierce heat. His stomach rolls over.

"You have the prettiest red hair I've even seen," Will tells her. "Like amber on fire."

Sophie giggles again and wrinkles her nose. "What's that?" she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer before bursting out with, "I like Nate's better. It's darker red, like Mommy's was."

Will straightens and turns, reply on the tip of his lips. But one look at Nate has him backing up a step. "Easy, kid. Nate," he says. "I was just saying hello."

"Don't touch her." It comes out in a whisper, which he hates. It makes him sound weak, but Will seems to receive the underlying message regardless.

"I won't do it again," he promises, voice low, and now – god damn it – there's concern in his eyes, and Nate almost calls the whole thing off right then. They can't afford concern, or interest, or any kind of attention. He takes every ounce of control he possesses and wrestles his fear back.

"Don't," he says, struggling for a casual air and failing miserably if the sudden wariness in Will's posture is anything to go by. "Don't do it again."

Will nods. "Where are we going?"

"Oakmont and Seventh Avenue. There's a house there for rent." As he answers, Nate shoulders his backpack and coaxes Sophie to stand. "This is our bus. I'll pay for you." He doesn't wait for Will to answer or even check to see if he's followed. He half hopes he doesn't. But when the bus slides to a stop in front of the curb, Will slides right behind Nate and climbs the three steep steps.

Nate holds Sophie in front of him and mumbles to the driver that he's paying all three fares. A few seconds later, they're settled in a row of seats near the rear. Nate makes sure to place himself between Sophie and Will.

Will crosses his legs and drums his fingers on his knee. Nate watches him out of the corner of his eye. The dramatic transformation still fascinates him; that a shave, a hair comb, and a set of clean clothes could affect such a difference seems a miracle. If Will can hold his own in a brief conversation, maybe all hope isn't lost. They might not have to go back to the shelter that night.

He indulges himself in thoughts of a good night's sleep. One where he isn't kept awake by the worry someone will steal his bag, or worse, his sister. He feels sluggish from the lack of sleep, his brain fuzzy, and against his will, the gentle rocking of the bus with its bright sunshine-filled seats lulls him into a doze.

"Nate?"

He jerks awake, heart pounding, to find Will giving him that concerned look again. "What?" he rasps. He scrubs his hands over his face.

"Maybe you oughta give me a little more information, hmm? Like your last name? Or, at least, the last name you gave this woman."

"Rhodes," Nate says, not commenting on its authenticity.

Will nods. His gaze sneaks past Nate to Sophie, who's staring out the window, nose pressed to the glass. She's humming under her breath. Nate catches him watching and tenses. He slides his hand over his sister's smaller one. From Will's pursed lips, Nate suspects he noticed the gesture.

"Fine," Will says. There's a strange sound to his voice – a mixture of ice and resignation. "And how are you going to explain that I'm not going to be…you know…around."

"I told her you work two jobs. That things have been really hard for us recently, but we're getting back on our feet." It wasn't far from the truth. "I told her that most of time it's just me and Sophie, and that's why you wanted to get us into a nice neighborhood."

"And is this a nice neighborhood?"

"That's relative, I suppose," Nate says. He picks at a loose string on his jeans. "She liked to hear it, anyway."

Will gives a low chuckle. "I bet she did. Smooth move, kid."

The compliment is unexpected, and Nate's still turning it around in his head when the bus arrives at Oakmont and Ninth. He answers the question in Will's eyes with a choppy nod and turns to collect his sister. When he looks back, Will is already seven rows ahead of them, nearly at the stairs.

He's carrying Nate's backpack.

Their cash is a thick, unmistakable bulge in the front pocket of his jeans, but the thought of losing his camera, after coming so far with it, is nearly too much to bear. Even the few changes of clothes they managed to escape with aren't important, and maybe it's ridiculous that Nate's proverbial security blanket is a fifteen hundred dollar piece of metal and plastic, but the thought of losing it makes his heart seize.

He drags a yelping Sophie down the aisle and flies down the steps to the curb. His heart's in his throat, and he doesn't even register Sophie's tears until the bus roars away. Will's standing under the bus shelter – Nate's backpack at his feet – trying to light a cigarette in the blowing wind.

"Nate, you're hurting me," Sophie whines. She tries in vain to peel his fingers from her arm.

"Sorry," he says, breathless. "I'm sorry." He snatches the pack from the sidewalk and swings it over his shoulder. The sudden move isn't lost on Will.

"Just trying to help," he says, smoke escaping his lips in a thin stream.

Quite beyond words, Nate nods. Sophie's hand is cold when he takes it in his, though the wind has dried the stray tears from her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Soph," he says.

"S'ok." She sniffs and looks up at him, and even though she manages a weak smile, the betrayal is still there in her eyes.

Panic and regret war in his heart, but he quells them. Later when they're settled and safe, and Sophie's asleep, he knows it won't be so easy, but for now only strength and steadfastness will carry him through. He glances at his watch and turns to Will. "Ready? It's this way."

Will gives a slow nod. He lifts the cigarette to his lips with a slightly trembling hand. "Let's get it over with."

"Okay." Nate sets off toward Seventh Street with Sophie skipping alongside.

In this neighborhood, the remnants of a once-thriving steel industry, the houses are densely packed, but Nate sees the occasional side garden shoe-horned in between various shades of colored siding. Most look neglected, and the structures they're meant to complement are no better. While almost every house boasts a deep, covered front porch, many are packed with old furniture or other junk. Here and there, people have made an effort: cracked terra-cotta pots with autumn-brown foliage, fresh paint on the shutters, a clutter-free yard. Nate approves. It's a good place to get lost in, and even as close as the houses are – less than fifteen feet from each other in some spots – he suspects his and Sophie's business will remain their own. They simply need to keep their heads down.

"Should I say a prayer?" Sophie asks as she skips. "Don't step on the crack, cause you'll break your mother's back?"

"That's not a prayer."

Sophie laughs, like tinkling crystal. "I like it." She spins in place and her pink windbreaker (and god, it really clashes with her hair, but Nate has trouble saying no when it comes to his sister) ruffles in the breeze.

"I think this must be it," Will says, and Nate shakes loose of his reverie. They've stopped in front of a small white-sided house that looks better kept than its neighbors. An elderly woman, decked out in the brightest green house coat Nate has ever seen, is waving at them. A For Rent sign is clutched in her other fist. Nate recaptures Sophie's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. She squeezes back.

Will steps forward without any prompting. "Hello, there! I'm sorry if we're a few minutes late. The buses this time of day…." He lets it trail off, adds a self-conscious, apologetic smile, but the woman dismisses his excuse with a wave of her hand. The tightness in Nate's chest eases a bit more.

"That's not a problem," the woman answers, voice cracked with age. "I live right there, next door, so I'm here anyway. You must be Mr. Rhodes."

Nate sidles closer to Will, and Will glances at him before turning back to the woman. "That's me! Please call me Will. And thanks very much for being so kind to my son on the phone. It's nearly impossible for me to get time off during the day." He winks. "But today's important."

Beside him, Sophie giggles.

The woman leans down. "And you must be Sophie. Call me Miss Emma." She holds out a hand spotted with age. Nate can't help notice how it trembles, much like Will's does – though he suspects Will's problem isn't age, but alcohol.

"Hi, Miss Emma," Sophie says. "It's nice to meet you. That's a very pretty dress."

It's not, of course, and Nate wants to hug Sophie, because she managed to make the lie sound genuine. Though it's possible Sophie does like the ridiculous garment; she has funny tastes.

"Well, aren't you sweet?" Miss Emma pats her head, smoothing over the corkscrew curls. Nate clenches his fists, but manages a wan smile when Miss Emma turns to him. "And you must be Nate. It's been a pleasure speaking with you on the phone, young man. If I could only get my grandson to show half your manners, I'd die a happy woman." Nate's about to reply when she takes a sudden indrawn breath and her hand flutters to her chest.

Will steps forward. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, yes. Don't trouble yourself. Just old." She gives a trilling laugh. "Come on, let's show you around."

They're saved from further small talk, at least for the moment. As they follow Miss Emma up the cracked concrete walk, Nate glances up and his step falters. Standing on the top step, just under the protection of the porch roof, is a boy. He's dressed much like Nate, with faded jeans and a t-shirt. His feet are bare but for a pair of slip-on sandals.

And he's watching them. Or rather, he's watching Nate. Sharp hazel eyes under a mop of unkempt brown hair follow his progress through the leaning picketed gate and up the walk. It's Nate's habit these days to not meet other people's eyes. Mostly because he has trouble hiding what he's thinking. So it's with surprise and trepidation that he finds himself staring back, unable to look away.

The boy reaches for the woman and holds her arm as she climbs the stairs, one at a time. "Sorry," she says over her shoulder. "I'm going as fast as these old legs will let me. Bran, honey, take these keys and unlock that door."

"Sure, Grams." Nate watches from under his bangs as the boy takes the proffered key ring, slips it into the lock, then guides her over the threshold. The lock is shiny and new, and as he passes through the door, Nate notices an extra deadbolt on the inside. He glides his fingers over it, testing its weight and bulk.

"Nate?"

Will's soft voice catches his attention and he snatches his hand away. He's already been seen though, and not only by Will. The boy, Bran, is also watching. His eyes drift from Nate's face to the lock, then back again. "It's brand new," he says, "and strong." His voice rumbles pleasantly over Nate's frazzled nerves.

Nate answers with a nod. He feels an insistent tug on his sleeve, and with a silent sigh of relief, lets Sophie lead him into the next room. In the hallway, Miss Emma continues to talk to Will about utilities and security deposits, but Nate remembers the details from his phone conversations, so he tunes it out and focuses on his surroundings.

Calling the house small would be kind, but they don't need much space. The less the better, in fact. It's just two rooms downstairs – the living area and the kitchen – though the space feels open and airy. The wood floors are scuffed, but clean; the plaster cracked, but freshly painted. Upstairs, he knows, are two bedrooms and a bath in similar condition. Nothing's new, but that doesn't matter.

It has a door that locks.

"Nate?" Will calls. "Do you want to see the upstairs?" He appears in the doorway, Bran behind him.

Nate drops his eyes. "Sure." He brushes by both Will and Bran, pulling Sophie behind him. At the top of the landing is the first room. It's painted pink. Sophie's squeal of delight drowns out Nate's groan.

"Hmm," Will comments as he scratches his chin. "Bright." Nate glances over his shoulder and Will rolls his eyes. It's everything Nate can do not to smile. He leaves Sophie to her pink palace and moves down the hall. Behind him, Will sighs.

The second room is a bit larger and sports white bead board and navy-painted walls. Nate catches his breath at the colors. "Wow," Sophie says from behind him. "It looks like your room did at Mommy's."

"Yeah." It does, and he's not sure how that makes him feel.

"Nate?" Will slips into the room and closes the door behind him. "I told her we needed a minute to talk about it, but I'm guessing that's not really true, is it?"

"No." Nate shakes his head. "We want it."

"It has a pink room!" Sophie cries out. She tugs on Nate's sleeve. "It's perfect."

The vise around his heart – the one that's been alternately tightening and loosening all day – finally releases. Nate takes his first full breath in a week. "We want it," he repeats.