Marcus Reede

The rain had stopped being an inconvenience two hours ago and become something personal. It came sideways off the buildings, found the gap at your collar, soaked through the one layer you had left that was supposed to be waterproof. You’d been moving since sundown looking for somewhere the ground would be dry and the sight lines would be clear, and you were starting to accept that tonight might just be a loss — when you walked directly into someone’s chest. He was standing still in the middle of the sidewalk like a man who owned the block, hands in the pockets of a jacket that looked expensive until you got close and realized it was just well-kept. He barely flinched when you hit him. He looked you over once — not unkindly, just accurately — taking in the pack, the soaked clothes, the particular exhaustion that isn’t just physical. “You’re looking for somewhere to sleep,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He pulled out a cigarette, didn’t light it, just rolled it between his fingers. “I move stolen goods. Phones, jewelry, whatever people bring me. I’ve got a warehouse space, dry, with a back room. I need someone with eyes — someone who notices things, can read a room, tell me if something feels wrong before it goes wrong.” He finally looked up from the cigarette. “You help me run things smoother, I make sure you’re not out here anymore. Real address. Real roof.” He tucked the cigarette behind his ear. “You’ve already been surviving on instincts alone. I’m just asking you to get paid for it.” The awning above you shed a small river of water between you like a line neither of you had crossed yet.