“Do you like the baseball cards?” The mask muffled his voice. He sounded as though he were underwater. With all the dripping perspiration, he felt like it, too.

Matthew stared at him from the small bed in the corner. He sat on top of tangled bedcovers and hugged a pillow to his chest. His eyes were red and puffy. His hair stuck up in places. His soccer uniform was wrinkled. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes to sleep last night.

Light filtered in through cracks in the boarded-up window. Pieces of broken glass rattled as the wind crept in through the rotted slats. It whistled and howled, creating a ghostly moan and licking at the corners of the posters hiding the cracked walls. It was the only sound in the room. The boy hadn’t said a word all morning.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

When he approached, the boy skittered into the corner, smashing his small body against the crumbling plaster. The chain that connected his ankle to the steel bedpost clanked. There was enough length for the boy to reach the middle of the room. Yet, the cheeseburger and fries he had left last night sat untouched on the metal tray table. Even the triple-chocolate shake was still filled to the brim.

“Didn’t you like your dinner, or do you prefer hot dogs? Maybe even chili dogs? You can have anything you want.”

“I wanna go home,” Matthew whispered, squeezing the pillow, one hand twisted so he could bite his fingernails. Several were chewed down to the quick and had bled during the night. Dried blood spotted the white cotton pillowcase. It would be hell to wash out.

“Maybe you’d enjoy comic books more than baseball cards. I have some old Flash Gordons I bet you’d like. I’ll bring them with me next time.”

He finished unpacking the contents of the grocery sack: three oranges, a bag of Cheetos, two Snickers bars, a six-pack of Hires root beer, two cans of SpaghettiOs and a snack pack of Jell-O chocolate pudding. He laid each item on the old wine crate he had found in what must have been a supply room. He had gone to great lengths to get all of Matthew’s favorites.

“It may get chilly tonight,” he said as he unrolled the thick wool blanket and draped it over the bed. “I’m sorry I can’t leave a light. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I wanna go home,” the boy whispered again.

“Your mom doesn’t have the time to take care of you, Matthew.”

“I want my mom.”

“She’s never home. And I bet she brings strange men home at night, doesn’t she? Ever since she threw your dad out.” He kept his voice calm and soothing.

“Please let me go home.”

“She leaves you alone all the time. She works late. She even works on weekends.”

“I just wanna go home.” The boy began to cry, quiet sniffles he muffled with the pillow.

“And you can’t stay with your dad.” Calm and cool. He must remain calm, though already he could feel the anger starting in his gut. “Your dad beats you, doesn’t he, Matthew?”

“I just wanna go home,” the boy whined, no longer keeping quiet.

“I’m going to help you, Matthew. I’m going to save you. But you must be patient. Look, I brought all your favorite things.”

But still, the boy cried, a high-pitched whine that made him grimace. He felt the explosion racing up from his stomach. He must control it. Calm, why couldn’t he just remain calm? Yes, cool and calm.

“I wanna go home.” The wail grated.

“Goddamn it! Shut up, you fucking crybaby.”