He sits in the back of the car, his cheek stinging and beginning to swell where the Good Samaritans had hit him. They’re all still out there now, shouting at him through the window, outraged.
Where was the anger when he was seven, his mother high and never coming down?
Where was the fury when he was thirteen, his mother’s friends coming into his room at night?
The lady had matching designer bags. She’s from a world he doesn’t understand because all he understands is hunger.
Arrested for picking her wallet, he knows now what it takes to be noticed.
Submitted for NYC Midnight microfiction contest, 2024.
j.k. armstrong 
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