Noah was unable to move. His mind seemed detached from his body as he gazed at the red tableau before him. The acrid smell of metal and blood filled his nostrils, drowning his senses until reality seemed to fade at the edges.
He didn't know how long he stood there frozen, but at last a primal urge took hold—he needed assistance. On shaking legs, Noah staggered backward out of the room, then turned and sprinted to the door on the opposite side of the hallway. His fists pounded on the wood with frantic urgency.
"Help, please help!" His voice cracked, strange to his own ears.
Mrs. Lawson, a widow in her late forties and resident of the building longer than anyone could say, opened the door. Her look changed from annoyance to worry as she regarded Noah's pale face and trembling hands.
"What's the matter, kid?" she said, grabbing hold of the collar of her worn housecoat.
Noah couldn't get the words out. He picked her up instead, spinning around and pulling her towards his apartment. She trailed behind reluctantly, complaining about youth and theatrics—until she noticed the blood. Her hand shot to her mouth, silencing a shriek as Noah took her to his father's room.
"Oh, gracious heavens," she breathed, stepping back right away. "Stay put, don't touch anything okay. I'm calling the police."
The rest of the afternoon was a haze. Sirens, lights flashing, uniformed officers taping off the apartment with yellow crime tape. Noah sat on a plastic chair in the hallway, answering questions with monosyllables as neighbors leaned out of their doorways, their faces a mix of morbid fascination and performative sympathy.
A middle-aged detective sat in front of Noah, his creased face etched with what appeared to be real concern.
"What happened? Tell me the details carefully," he asked, his voice steady and calming.
Noah recounted his day mechanically—school, the math book from Mr. Klein, the rain, returning home to find. this. The detective, who introduced himself as Officer Reeves, nodded and took notes, his pen scratching against paper with a sound that anchored Noah to reality.
After five hours of questioning, after Noah had been questioned and re-questioned, after forensic units had photographed and collected and cataloged, they informed him he couldn't remain in the apartment. It was now a crime scene. His home was no longer his but an investigation's.
"We'll take you to a temporary shelter for children," Officer Reeves explained, leading Noah to a police car. "Just until we can arrange more permanent ones."
Noah got into the backseat, holding his backpack—still wet from the rain—tightly against his chest. He had no family, at least none that his father had ever kept in touch with. His mother was unavailable, having made it plain three years before that her new existence had no place for old obligations.
The shelter for the children was a dingy gray building with small windows and the institutional smell of antiseptics. Noah was assigned to a room of three other boys, was handed toiletries and a set of fresh clothes, and left to sort it out.
Officer Reeves came by on a regular basis during the course of the following fortnight. He brought with him Noah's schoolwork, the occasional present, and news of the investigation that never held any real content. The officer appeared to be genuinely worried about Noah's well-being, something that was comforting and confusing to Noah. He wasn't accustomed to adults paying attention.
"We've cleaned the apartment," Officer Reeves told him on one visit, "but you can't go back there yet. You're a minor without a guardian."
Noah had nodded, knowing but not agreeing. Another choice made for him, another bit of control taken away.
When the coroner eventually released his father's body, there was a burial arranged. Noah didn't expect anyone to come—his father had alienated everyone with great proficiency during his life. Even Noah's teachers, who had treated him with small niceties, were conspicuously absent.
The day of the burial began gray and dismal, as though the sky itself recognized the seriousness of the occasion. Rain was falling in a cold, steady drizzle as Noah stood isolated in front of the plain coffin, listening to a preacher deliver generic platitudes about a man he never knew.
Noah felt nothing. No sadness, no relief, no closure. Only an empty space where emotions should be. The rain penetrated his borrowed black jacket, sticking his hair to his forehead and misting his glasses, but he did not stir or seek cover.
Then, without warning, the rain stopped falling on him. A big black umbrella materialized over his head, and a comforting hand rested on his shoulder.
"Sometimes life is frightening and cruel," a voice he knew said softly. "All we can do is fight back and get up again."
Noah turned to see Officer Reeves standing next to him, serious in his street clothes but with the same calm presence he had maintained from the start.
"Thanks," Noah whispered, the term lacking but all he could do.
The officer smiled softly, a flash of recognition passing between them as they stood and saw the last scoops of mud encase the coffin.
Noah did not weep. Not one tear escaped as his father was lowered into the earth. His will had been made of years of disappointment and neglect, tempered now by tragedy into something that would never break.
Two days later, Noah was permitted to go back to school. The staff at the children's shelter had washed and ironed his school uniform, and Officer Reeves had returned his bicycle to him. The ordinariness of the routine—putting on his uniform, collecting his books, riding his bicycle to school—seemed unreal after all that had transpired.
As he passed through the school doors, Noah could tell at once. Teachers gazed at him with fake pity, their tones softening when they addressed him. Others made vague promises of "being strong" and "giving time to heal," words that felt hollow when issued by individuals who had never cared about his well-being in the first place.
His fellow classmates were worse. Some gave no eye contact whatsoever, as though his tragedy were something he might pass along to them. Others gazed at him openly in curiosity, and behind raised hands they would whisper as he passed. Noah avoided them all, falling into the seat in back of the class and spreading the textbook across his knees as if everything remained normal.
Something was different, and something carried the name Jaren Winters.
Jaren was the type of bully who typically preyed on the weak and vulnerable—something Noah had never been despite being an outsider. The gangster's son had always been left alone, shielded by the specter of his father's reputation. Now, that specter is lost.
At lunch time, Jaren strolled over to Noah's workstation, surrounded by his typical entourage. Expensive apparel and a permanently smug look, combined with his height and girth for his age, made Jaren the school's golden boy—son of the school's main benefactor, and therefore immune to most infractions.
"Hey, look who we've got here," Jaren dragged out slowly, making sure that he had listeners. "The son of a deceased gangster. Hi! Get me some canteen snacks now!"
Noah ignored the disruption, reading on from his math book, not deigning to respond. The class went silent, other kids staring with anticipation and unease.
Jaren's face turned red at being overlooked. Snickers broke out all around the room, and the bully's shame rapidly turned into anger. With a quick jerk, he reached out and yanked Noah's hair, pulling him out of his chair, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
"You smug son of a gun!" Jaren growled, towering over him. "Don't ever forget that you're an orphan. Your late gangster father won't be there to bail you out of my clutches."
Noah said nothing, pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose where they had been knocked askew. He did not struggle or try to get away, which Jaren interpreted as an invitation. The first blow hit Noah on the cheekbone, jolting his head to the side. The second hit his ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp gasp of pain.
Jaren's friends got in on it, pinning Noah down while Jaren kept up the beating. For a minute, fists pounded against Noah's unresisting body. He didn't scream, didn't beg for mercy. He just took it, his mind detaching from the pain as it had from the horror in his apartment.
"What in tarnation is going on here?!" Mr. Klein's voice pierced the melee. The math teacher shoved his way through the ring of students to see Noah lying on the ground, his uniform in disarray and a small stream of blood trickling from his cut lip.
"He began it, sir," Jaren lied with ease, taking a step back. "He insulted my father."
Mr. Klein's face indicated he didn't think the tale was true, but his hands were tied. Jaren's father's contributions had funded the new science wing and computer lab. The administration had let it be known that the Winters family was to be treated with the utmost respect.
"Noah, go see the nurse," Mr. Klein instructed softly, assisting him to his feet. "Jaren, go back to your seat. We'll talk about this after class."
Noah recognized nothing would happen in that talk. The system was stacked, had always been stacked, toward those who held power and money. It was only one more lesson in a lifetime of brutal realities.
When the sun went down, Noah pedaled back to the children's shelter, his frame sore from the beating but his mind beset by matters more urgent. His father lay dead, his home was not his anymore, and his future hung in an unknown quantity suspended above a blank page.
On the following morning, Officer Reeves visited the shelter bearing tidings.
"Your apartment has been sanitized and everything's been returned to its proper place," he told him, offering Noah a set of keys. "If you want to retrieve anything you want to bring back here to the shelter, you can go collect it. It's still considered part of the investigation, but you can go get personal items."
Noah nodded in appreciation, tucking the keys into his pocket. He rode the five kilometers from school on his bicycle, a queer combination of fear and nostalgia churning in his stomach. For all that, it was the only home he had ever known.
He mounted the familiar stairs, keys clinking in his pocket. At his door, however, something was amiss. The door was open, contrary to Officer Reeves' assurance that it was locked.
Noah stood frozen, his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs as images of blood and death rushed into his mind. Someone had been here—or at least someone was still in there.