CHAPTER 7 – SHOE REPAIR
The common room is loud in the way only tired people and restless kids can make it.
Plastic bowls clack on tables. Somebody's left the TV on low, captions flickering over a daytime talk show nobody's really watching. Kids weave between chairs, socks sliding on scuffed linoleum. The heater breathes warm air through a vent near the ceiling—steady, for once.
I sit in my usual spot: back to the wall, a little to the side of the heater where I can feel the warmth without being right under it. From here I see the door, the desk, both windows, and the hallway entrance in one sweep. The rig rests against my stomach inside the hoodie pocket, weight familiar now.
Background noise, foreground threats, hidden tools. Baseline.
Tina is moving through the room like she's trying not to exist.
She skirts the edge of a table, arms loaded with crayons and a half-finished coloring book. Her boots—if you can call them that—are coming apart. The left sole is peeling away from the toe like a mouth trying to form words. There's a hole chewed into the side, lace half-snapped and knotted three times already.
I've seen them before. Everyone has. Today they're worse.
She pretends not to notice. She's good at that. She keeps her chin up, whole body angled with that too-old-for-eleven toughness that says if you mention it, she'll bite.
The sole slips anyway.
Her foot skids on the floor as the front of the boot flips under. For a second her whole weight goes sideways. The crayons jump in her arms; the coloring book slaps her chest. She windmills her free hand and just manages to catch the back of a chair.
One of the little kids at the table laughs, short and mean, because laughing is safer than being the one almost falling.
Across from them, Rae sprawls on a table like she owns it.
She's half-sitting, half-lying on the cheap wood, one leg stretched out, the other bent. Boots muddy, jeans ripped at both knees, jacket more patches than original fabric. Her hair's scraped back into a messy puff under a beanie, silver threads catching the light when she turns her head.
She's been watching the room with that bored, predatory stillness for the last ten minutes. Eyes moving, mouth crooked, whole body loose. Nothing surprises her; everything amuses her.
When Tina nearly eats it, Rae whistles low.
"Yo, T," she calls, voice cutting through the chatter. "You auditioning for Gotham's Funniest Faceplant or what?"
A couple of kids snicker. Tina's ears go pink. She rolls her eyes, shifting the crayons higher like it's the stupid floor's fault, not her boot.
"I'm fine," she mutters.
"Sure," Rae says. "Floor's just trying to hug you. Real affectionate like."
The joke lands soft, angled away from real humiliation. Tina's shoulders un-hunch by a millimeter.
One of the staffers at the desk finally clocks the boot. She comes over with that tight, overtired concern staff get by late afternoon.
"Tina, honey, let me see."
Tina hesitates, then sticks her foot out a little, balancing on the other leg. The sole gapes when she flexes it, dirty foam and worn fabric visible where rubber used to meet leather.
The staffer winces. "You can't go out in that," she says. "We don't have another pair your size right now, and your socks'll be soaked in five minutes."
Translation: if it doesn't get fixed, Tina's either cold and wet all day, or stuck inside while everyone else gets to move.
Tina shrugs one shoulder like it's whatever. "It's fine. I'll walk careful."
She won't. She can't. Friction plus broken tread plus winter sidewalk equals disaster.
I should look away.
Not my business. Not my problem. I'm already pushing it fixing things I'm not supposed to even touch. Shoes aren't infrastructure. They're personal. Personal is dangerous.
My eyes don't listen.
They track the split along the sole, the way the glue has failed along the ball of the foot where all the pressure hits. The hole at the side is an easy water entry point. The knot in the half-snapped lace is going to blow out sooner rather than later. Her sock is visible through a thin spot near the toe, greyed with dirt.
If she slips on the stairs, she could break something. If she walks in slush with that hole, she's wet down to the skin.
My chest tightens. I file it as "risk assessment," not "anything else."
"Can't send you to school like that," the staffer says, more to herself than Tina. "Lemme see if we've got something in the back."
She glances toward the supply closet, clearly knowing there's nothing there and hoping that if she moves fast enough she'll find a miracle anyway.
Tina pulls her foot back, heel wobbling. "I said it's fine," she repeats, louder, like volume can patch rubber.
Rae watches all of this like it's a rerun.
Her eyes flick from the boot to the staffer to me.
I'm still in my corner. Still not moving. Still staring.
She catches me in the act and grins, slow.
"Hey, New Guy," she calls across the room. "You just collecting footage, or you got a plan?"
A couple of heads turn my way. Attention licks across my skin like static.
I could look down at my hands, pretend I wasn't staring. Could bury my face in the hood and let the scene play out like a thousand other small failures in a thousand other rooms.
Instead, I stand.
It feels like stepping off a roof.
The space between us isn't far—twenty steps, maybe—but it stretches. Kids dodge around me. The TV flashes blue and white and blue again. The heater coughs once and settles. My hand brushes the rig through the fabric of my hoodie, just enough for the weight to remind me it's there.
I stop in front of Tina and the staffer.
"Sit," I say. My voice comes out steady, quieter than I feel. "I can fix it."
Tina blinks up at me, suspicious. Her free hand tightens around the crayons like I'm asking for those instead of the boot.
"You sure?" the staffer asks, eyebrows going up. "It's pretty beat."
"I've seen worse," I say. Which is true. I have worn worse.
Rae props herself up on her elbows, grinning.
"If you make it worse," she says, "I'm telling everyone you're banned from shoe duty, Hoodie MacGyver."
I look at her.
"Hoodie what?"
She flicks two fingers at my chest. "You heard me."
Tina snorts despite herself. The staffer looks between us, then exhales.
"Alright. You three take that to the corner where I can see you," she says, pointing to a patch of wall not far away. "Nobody sticks themselves. Nobody eats any thread. Deal?"
"Yes, ma'am," Rae chirps.
Tina hesitates another second, then gives in. "Okay," she mumbles. "If it explodes, I'm blaming him."
"Fair," I say.
We move as a unit toward the quieter corner.
For a second, the room feels less like a threat map and more like… something else.
I shut that down and focus on the shoe.
The corner Rae steers us to is as good as any—against a wall, out of the main traffic, under a light that only flickers sometimes. I sit on the floor with my back to the wall, legs bent. Feels safer this way. Solid behind me, everything else in front.
Tina perches on a plastic chair directly opposite, boots dangling. She balances the crayons and book on her lap like a shield.
Rae drops onto the chair beside her, half-turned sideways, one leg hooked over the arm. She's decided she's part of this. No one invited her. No one had to.
"Foot," I say, holding out a hand.
Tina eyes me like I might bolt with her whole shoe and sell it on the black market. Then she slowly lifts her leg and lets her heel rest on my knee.
The boot looks worse up close.
The rubber sole has peeled away from the upper along the outer edge almost to the ball of her foot. The stitching near the toe is frayed to ghosts. The hole at the side is big enough to leak, small enough that nobody donated a replacement yet because "technically" it still works.
I press the sole gently, flexing it, testing how much give there is.
"I can walk," Tina says defensively.
"I didn't say you couldn't," I answer.
I turn the shoe this way and that, fingers mapping stress lines. The leather is dry, surface cracking. Whatever glue was used the first time has long since given up.
I look up. "You got tape on you?"
Tina taps the sad strip of tape already failing along the side. "Used it."
"Okay." I file that away. "We'll do better."
Rae leans in, watching like she's at the movies.
"You look like you're doing surgery," she says. "Gonna bill her or is this covered under the shelter's nonexistent insurance?"
"Don't make me laugh while I'm holding sharp things," I say automatically, then catch myself. That was… almost a joke. Huh.
"Sharp things?" Tina echoes, alarmed.
"Relax," Rae says. "He's just trying to sound cool."
She digs out her phone and swipes the flashlight on, angling it down toward the boot without being asked.
"Don't kick," she tells Tina. "If he pokes you with that needle, you're gonna scream loud enough to break the windows."
Tina glares at her. She does not move her foot.
I slide my hand into my hoodie pocket and find the rig by feel. Loop. Zip. Cardboard spine under my fingers. The sequence is automatic now. Pliers, screwdriver, wrapped blade, needle bundle.
I pull out the small roll of cardboard with the needle and thread tucked safely inside, then the wrap that holds the scissor half. Last, a folded piece of scrap fabric I peeled off a dead shoe in the donation box—a strip of black that still has some life left.
From the doorway, one of the younger kids, Jun, has appeared, hovering. Another girl with a frayed backpack strap hangs back behind him, eyes wide.
"Whoa," Jun whispers. "You got, like… a real kit?"
"Kind of," I say.
Rae's eyes widen a fraction.
"You walking around Gotham with a sewing kit in your hoodie?" she asks. "That's either genius or a cry for help, Hoodie MacGyver."
My mouth twitches. "Gotham's not exactly handing out warranties."
"Still," she says. "Most people our age are carrying vape pens, not toolboxes."
"That explains a lot," I mutter.
I flick my focus back to the boot.
First, grime. I use the wrapped scissor edge to scrape dried sludge away from the peeled section, tiny flakes dropping onto the floor. The smell of old street and salt and something acidic rises. I keep my touch light and precise.
Then I measure the gap, hold the scrap fabric against it, and cut a patch—a rectangle long enough to span the crack, wide enough to anchor above and below it. The scissor blade slices through cloth with a soft snick.
Tina watches every move, jaw tight.
"Is it gonna look stupid?" she asks suddenly.
Rae snorts. "Girl, it already looks stupid. That's why you almost fell on your face."
"I mean worse," Tina snaps.
I pause, fabric between my fingers.
"It's gonna look like somebody cared enough to fix it," I say. "That's as good as it gets."
She blinks once, then looks away quickly. Rae goes quiet for a beat, like she wasn't expecting that either.
I thread the needle, tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth as I guide the end through the eye. My fingers are a little colder than I'd like; they steady as soon as the work starts.
Patch goes inside the shoe, between her sock and the torn leather, like an extra layer of skin. I pull the sole back into place with my free hand, pressing rubber and upper together so the edges line up. Then I start to stitch.
Short, tight passes. In through the leather, through the patch, out through the sole edge. Again. Again. I aim for the spots where the old stitching failed, reinforcing and replacing at once.
My world narrows.
The room noise fades down to muffled shapes: TV, kid laughter, chairs scraping. What stays sharp is the feeling of the needle punching through material, the texture of worn leather under my thumb, the small shifts of Tina's ankle when she tenses.
Her sock is cold when my fingers brush it by accident—damp at the toes, probably. I pretend not to notice.
She flinches when someone nearby drops a tray, but she doesn't flinch when the needle passes an inch from her skin. Trust or stubbornness. Maybe both.
Rae keeps the flashlight steady, her breath warm at the edge of my vision. She smells like cheap soap and something floral that might be stolen body spray.
"You like this or something?" she asks after a minute. "Fixing random stuff?"
"Not random," I say. "Broken."
"That's… not an answer," she points out.
"It's the only one you're getting while I'm holding someone's shoe together."
She huffs a laugh. "Okay, boundaries. I see you."
Her leg bounces lightly against the chair. The motion shakes Tina's foot a little; I nudge it back into position with a gentle tap.
Rae goes still again.
"You from Gotham?" she asks.
"No."
"Where from, then?"
"Not here."
"That's not—"
"Still the only answer you're getting."
There's a beat of silence. Then she laughs softly.
"Man, you're annoying," she says. "In a mysterious way. The kids are gonna love that."
"The kids are going to forget about this in two days when the next crisis hits," I say.
She doesn't argue, but from the way she looks at Tina, I can tell she doesn't agree.
I keep stitching.
The curve of my spine starts to complain. I ignore it. My chest feels tight and hot, like there's a small heater turned inward under my ribs. It's not a bad feeling exactly, just… unfamiliar.
Too much.
I shove it sideways, into a bucket labeled "focus," and pour it into counting stitches. One, two, three through the weak spots. Extra reinforcement at the toe. Knot anchored behind the patch where it won't rub.
When I reach the end of the torn section, I tie off the thread, burying the knot inside the shoe. Then I run my thumb along the seam, testing for gaps. The patch holds the sole snug against the upper, spreading the pressure across a wider area.
"Alright," I say quietly. "Moment of truth."
I flex the shoe in my hands. The sole bends but doesn't peel. The stitches strain and settle.
I look up at Tina. "Try it."
She pulls her foot back, takes the boot, and slides it on. The leather squeaks a little as she works her heel in. She stands carefully, testing her weight. One step. Two. A small hop, just to see if it will betray her.
It doesn't. The sole stays put.
Her mouth fights a smile and loses. It hits her face full force and then she slams a lid on it fast, turning it into a shrug.
"…Thanks," she mutters, not quite looking at me.
"You're welcome," I say.
Rae lets out a low, impressed whistle.
"Okay, okay," she says. "Hoodie MacGyver's got actual skills."
"Please don't call me that," I say.
She smirks. "Too late. It's canon now."
Behind her, someone clears their throat.
"Um," a small voice says. "Can you fix… this?"
A boy steps forward—the one who was hovering, Jun—with a backpack dangling from one strap. The other strap is hanging by a few exhausted threads, barely attached to the body of the bag.
He looks at me, then at Rae, then back at me, like he's not sure who's really in charge here.
Rae grins, all teeth.
"Oh yeah," she says. "We're open for business now."
It doesn't take long for the line to form.
Tina moves back to her table, walking like she's daring the floor to try something now. Jun edges closer, backpack clutched to his chest. Behind him, another kid appears, holding a toy car with one wheel wobbling like it's about to fall off. A third hovers with a coat missing a button near the top.
They cluster just outside my personal space like a school of fish testing a new rock in the tank.
Jun holds out the bag.
"It broke last week," he says, rushing the words. "Ms. Nia said we don't have a new one right now, and if I carry it by the handle the zipper comes undone and all my stuff falls out and—"
"Breathe," Rae tells him.
He shuts his mouth with an audible click.
"One at a time, gremlins," she announces to the little crowd. "He's got two hands, not eight."
I consider pointing out that an octopus would be terrible at sewing, but decide it's not worth the air.
I take the backpack from Jun and inspect the torn strap. The fabric ripped right at the seam, threads snapped, edge fraying. The load from all the books and whatever else he's stuffed in there has been pulling at it for weeks.
"Can't you just tie it?" Jun asks.
"Not if you want it to last more than a day," I say. "Sit."
He drops onto the step next to me, knees jittering.
The toy car kid inches closer, still holding his offering like a bribe. The coat kid bites her lip and watches from behind him.
Rae swings her leg off the chair and leans against the wall, half-guarding the corner.
"Queue starts here," she says, tapping the floor with her boot. "No shoving. No crying if he says no—that's the rule."
A tiny hand shoots up. "What if we cry just 'cause?"
"Then you go cry by the TV," she replies. "This is the Fix Zone, not the Drama Zone."
They giggle. It works. The energy shifts from "desperate" to "excited," which is better for everyone's nerves, including mine.
I unzip the backpack enough to work with it, then slide my hand into my hoodie pocket again.
Tools out, tools in. Needle bundle. Scissor wrap. A longer strip of cloth I didn't use on Tina's shoe. My brain is already breaking the repair into steps.
Clean the frayed edge. Flatten it. Lay a patch behind as reinforcement. Stitch through all layers, spreading the stress.
I don't love being watched. But I love watching things fail even less.
"I'll do a couple," I say, more to myself than anyone else. "That's it."
"Nobody believes you," Rae says cheerfully. "But sure, boundaries. I'm proud."
I snort once, quietly, and start working.
As I cut away the worst of the dangling threads, Rae watches my hands.
"You know," she says, "most people our age don't volunteer to do extra work."
"Most people our age don't watch things break and just… let it happen," I say, eyes on the seam.
It slips out before I can stop it.
The needle hesitates mid-air for a beat. I shove the moment down and resume stitching.
Rae goes still. I can feel her looking at me.
After a second she says, softer, "Yeah, well. Most people our age suck."
Jun kicks his heel against the floor in a nervous rhythm. I adjust my angle so I can sew more neatly, the backpack propped between my knee and the wall.
The strap comes together under my fingers, reinforced by the patch behind it. I knot the thread, then run the new seam between thumb and forefinger, checking for weak spots.
"Try it," I say.
Jun scrambles to his feet, throws the backpack on both shoulders, and bounces experimentally. The strap holds.
His whole face lights up.
"Whoa," he breathes. "It's like it was when it was new."
"Maybe treat it nicer this time," Rae says. "No dragging it down the stairs like it insulted your mom."
"I don't— I didn't—" he stammers.
She ruffles his hair, crooked smile taking the sting out. "I'm kidding. Relax. Go show Mari."
He darts off, nearly colliding with the toy car kid, who steps up to take his place.
Piece by piece, the little pile of broken things grows and shrinks. The toy car's wheel gets reseated with a careful bend of its metal axle. The coat's missing button is cannibalized from the extra near the hem and stitched into place at the top where it actually matters, collar now able to close against the cold.
They bring me small problems and I turn them into smaller ones. It's not nothing.
Harris shuffles through the common room at some point, headed for the coffee pot. He slows when he sees the cluster in the corner.
Kids in a loose semicircle. Rae stationed as unofficial bouncer. Me on the floor with needle in hand, thread between my teeth, another problem halfway to solved.
His gaze flicks from the tools to my face to the kids.
"Careful, kid," he says, voice rough but amused. "You keep that up, they'll put you on payroll."
I huff under my breath. "Pretty sure they'd have to admit I exist for that."
He just grunts and keeps walking.
Rae laughs. "He's right, you know. You've got a whole side hustle going already. Shade Repairs, LLC. First fix free, next one costs a secret."
"Shut up," I say, but there's no heat in it.
She leans back against the wall, watching a girl stroke the now-secured button on her coat like it's a magic charm.
The room feels… different.
Not quieter—kids are still kids—but the noise has shifted. Less sharp edges, more background hum. The staffer at the desk looks less pinched. Tina is walking normally again, not scanning the floor for every potential betrayal.
It's not like the city stopped being awful. It's one boot, one backpack, one toy.
But all the little vectors of failure I noticed earlier are weaker now. Fewer places for things to go wrong in the immediate radius.
I refuse to give that feeling a name. Names make it real. Real things can be taken away.
So I shove it into the same box as everything else and stamp "maintenance" on the lid.
Fewer problems. Fewer emergencies later. That's it. That's all.
I finish the last coat stitch and tie off the thread. My shoulders ache in a familiar way. I tuck the needle back into its cardboard scrap, slide it into the rig. Scissor bundle. Cloth scrap. Everything in its slot.
Packing the tools away feels like a ritual now. Close kit, close job.
Rae watches me zip the pouch and shove it back into my hoodie pocket with the same interest she gave the repairs.
"See you tomorrow, Hoodie MacGyver," she says as the mini-queue begins to disperse, kids orbiting away with their newly functional stuff. "Don't disappear; they're gonna start scheduling appointments."
"That's not going to happen," I say automatically.
She arches an eyebrow. "You keep telling yourself that."
Tina glances over from her table. When she catches me looking, she lifts her boot and gives a tiny, almost invisible kick in the air—showing off that it holds. Then she drops her foot and pretends it never happened.
I stand, stretching my back until something pops, and step out of the corner. The weight of the rig settles back into place against my stomach.
Routine is dangerous. The more patterns you lay down, the easier you are to predict, to trap, to hurt.
But leaving things broken on purpose? That's dangerous too.
As I slip out toward the hallway, I tell myself I'll treat today like a one-time glitch.
The part of me that's already cataloguing which kid's backpack looked like it's going to fail next does not believe me.