Overcast sunlight politely crept in through the blinds, casting an even tone of gray. Jack hadn’t slept well. His current bunk used to be Kyle’s, and it still kind of smelled like him. The odor kept his mind on high alert. Every other creak woke him up, including Devon getting up for work and Chris for school. 

Each time he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, red little faces clouded his mind. They were smart rugrats by necessity, but couldn’t understand what had happened. It was an issue created by the adults. His ex-fosters had made up their minds; he was somehow a danger to his kids. There was nothing he could say to change that.

My kids? That wasn’t right. They weren’t his, biologically or legally. The thought stung. He pushed it away. He deserved all of this for being stupid enough to trust someone. His skin crawled, like a colony of ants were trying to burrow their way out through his pores.

He swung his legs over the side of his bunk and let gravity pull him to the floor. The wood complained about his harsh landing. He stretched his arms behind his head.

The room wasn't much bigger than a large closet. The two bunk beds took up most of the space despite being pushed up against opposite walls. The shared dresser fit neatly between them under the window sill. Half-full laundry baskets crowded the door.

His left eye was swollen and difficult to open. Watercolor bruises decorated the side of his face. A suggestion of handprints stained his neck. 

His stomach growled audibly. 

Nagging anxiety set in, like he’d forgotten something important. He should be the only one home, so why did it feel like he was being watched?

That wasn’t my stomach.

A shadow shifted in the bunk beside him. His chest tightened. The shadow curled up in the bed, holding a yellow teddy bear.

“Quinn,” Jack let out a breath he’d been holding,  “you scared the shit outta me.” Quinn scooted further back against the wall. One side of his hair was pressed flat from being slept on. He wore the same long sleeve shirt and shorts from yesterday.

After passing out he’d gone to bed. He didn't say anything. He didn't look upset either. His face remained blank, giving no indication on how he’d registered the events, or if he had at all.

Jack’s gut twisted. Hunger pains mixed with guilt. He really had almost hit a kid. Apologizing was too awkward of a concept, especially if Quinn didn't say anything back. 

Then again, Quinn had almost watched him die. Jack scratched at the back of his head. The whole almost-dying part didn’t bother him as much as it should have.

“Sorry.”

“What?” Jack asked, startled. Quinn’s hands curled into fists around the stuffed bear. His face tightened.