Rain soaked the streets again. Big, fat drops, the kind that sounded like a drumline on the metal awning above Quinn's head. He curled tighter into the corner behind the old liquor store, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie drawn up like it could actually keep the cold out. It couldn't. Not really.
Across from him, Andrew sat with his back against the wall, legs stretched out, staring at nothing. His eyes were half-closed, but he wasn't sleeping. He never really slept, not all the way. Not out here.
Quinn sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"You awake?" he mumbled.
Andrew nodded. "Yup."
"You cold?"
Andrew didn't answer right away. Then: "Not really."
He was lying. They both were cold. They were always cold now.
They'd been on the streets a while. Long enough to know which awnings didn't leak, which dumpsters didn't stink too bad, which shop owners yelled and which just ignored them. Long enough for Quinn to stop asking when they were going back. There was no going back anymore.
Quinn's stomach growled. Loud. Embarrassingly loud. Andrew reached into his backpack a faded thing with a busted strap and one working zipper—and pulled out a crumpled, half-smashed peanut butter cracker pack.
"Last one," he said, holding it out.
Quinn hesitated. "We can split it."
Andrew shook his head. "You're smaller. You need it more."
Quinn didn't argue. He tore it open with his teeth and started chewing.
The silence came back after that. Rain. Cars. Distant voices from a bar down the block. Someone yelling. Someone laughing too hard. City sounds, all muffled and far-off, like the whole world was busy doing something else while the two of them just sat here, waiting for tomorrow.
"Remember your birthday last year?" Quinn asked suddenly, crumbs in the corner of his mouth. "Your mom made those burnt brownies."
Andrew's face didn't change, but Quinn saw his jaw twitch a little.
"Yeah," Andrew said softly. "She tried, though."
"Still better than sleeping behind a liquor store," Quinn muttered.
Andrew didn't answer. Just stared at the slick pavement.
A few seconds passed before Quinn added, "I think I forgot what my mom's voice sounds like."
Andrew swallowed. "You didn't forget. It's just buried."
They didn't talk much after that.
The sound came out of nowhere, heavy boots on pavement, steady, slow. Andrew's eyes snapped up. Quinn sat up straighter. A man appeared at the mouth of the alley, backlit by a busted streetlamp that flickered like it couldn't decide whether to live or die.
The guy was big. Not just tall, but built like a fridge. Wore a long black coat and a flat cap pulled down low. His face was half-shadow, but something about him didn't feel like a cop or a junkie or one of those weirdos who asked too many questions.
He just stood there for a second.
Then he said, "You two hungry?"
Neither of them answered. Quinn didn't even blink. Andrew shifted his weight slowly, ready to bolt if he had to.
The man reached into his coat pocket. Both boys flinched, just a little.
But he only pulled out two sandwiches wrapped in foil, still steaming. He crouched down and gently placed them on the ground, like he was feeding strays. No sudden moves. No smile.
"You can eat or not. Up to you," he said.
Then he straightened up and leaned against the alley wall, folding his arms.
Quinn stared at the food. Andrew stared at the man.
"What do you want?" Andrew asked.
The man's lips curved slightly. Not a grin. More like he respected the question.
"I run a gym," he said. "Not far from here. Name's Dev. I've seen you two around. I don't usually get involved, but-"
"Then don't," Andrew said sharply.
Dev didn't flinch. "But I am. I don't like watching kids freeze to death when I got room and a couple extra bowls of stew."
"You want something," Andrew said again.
Dev nodded once. "Yeah. I do. You come live under my roof, there's a deal. When you turn thirteen, you train. You fight. You show up to the gym every day, rain or shine. You learn discipline. Heart. Focus. You don't skip. You don't slack. You don't quit."
"Boxing?" Quinn asked, his mouth already full of sandwich. He couldn't help it. It was hot and cheesy and perfect.
"Boxing," Dev said. "Real training. Gloves, mitts, bag work. Not street scraps. I'll teach you how to fight with purpose."
Andrew narrowed his eyes. "Why us?"
Dev shrugged. "You've been out here a while and you're still standing. That means something."
"You training us to be your little fighters? Your moneymakers?"
"No. I don't run that kind of gym," Dev said calmly. "I don't take kids in to use them. I take them in so they can stop getting used."
He pushed off the wall.
"I'm not dragging you there. I'm not calling social services. I'm giving you a choice. You come to Samson Street Gym tomorrow. 9 a.m. If you're there, we talk. If you're not, I keep walking. Simple as that."
He tipped his head to Quinn.
"Finish the sandwich. You'll want the energy."
Then he turned and walked back into the rain. The shadows swallowed him up like he'd never been there.
The alley felt quieter after he left.
Quinn wiped his hands on his pants. "You think it's real?"
Andrew didn't answer. He just kept staring toward the corner where Dev had disappeared.
Quinn pulled his blanket tighter. "If he's not lying, it sounds better than this."
Andrew looked down at his hands. They were scraped, scarred, and cold. He flexed them slowly.
"Maybe," he said finally. "Maybe it's worth finding out."
He didn't say anything else.
But Quinn could feel it, something had shifted.
Something was starting.
The next morning Andrew rose up and turned to Quinn. "Get ready we're heading out." Are we going to that guys gym?" Quinn asked. "Obviously...where else would we be going?"