He swallows, and then shrugs. “Whatever.”

I go back to the kitchen and pour him a glass of ice water and then slide into the booth across from him. He drinks half of it in one gulp.

“Your mother showed up here tonight,” I say. “She’s looking for you.”

He makes a face that indicates he doesn’t care, and then he continues eating.

“Where have you been staying?”

“Places,” he says with a mouthful.

“Are you in school?”

“Not lately.”

I let him get in a few more bites before I continue. The last thing I want to do is run him off with too many questions. “Why did you run away?” I ask. “Because of her?”

“Sutton?”

I nod. I wonder what kind of relationship they have if he doesn’t even call her “Mom.”

“Yeah, we got in a fight. We always fight over the stupidest shit.” He eats his last bite, then downs the rest of his water.

“And your dad? Tim?”

“He left when I was little.” His eyes roam around the room, landing on the tree. When he looks back at me, he tilts his head. “Are you rich?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you. You’ve tried to rob me several times now.”

I can see a smirk playing across his lips, but he refuses to release it. He relaxes into the booth more, pulling his hoodie away from his face. Strands of greasy brown hair fall forward, and he pushes them back. His hair holds the shape of a cut that’s long overdue, with sides that have grown out too long and uneven to be intentional.

“She told me you left because of me. She said you didn’t want a brother.”

I have to hold back my irritation. I pull his empty plate of food and his glass toward me, and I stand up. “I didn’t know about you until today, Josh. I swear. I would have been around if I had.”

He eyes me from his seat, studying me. Wondering if he can trust me. “You know about me now.” He says that like it’s a challenge to do better. To prove his low expectations of the world wrong.

I nudge my head toward the doors to the kitchen. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t immediately get out of the booth. “Where to?”

“My house. I have a room for you as long as you stop cussing so much.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What are you, some kind of religious nutjob?”

I motion for him to stand up. “An eleven-year-old muttering cuss words all the time seems desperate. It’s not cool until you’re at least fourteen.”

“I’m not eleven, I’m twelve.”

“Oh. She said you were eleven. Still. Too young to be cool.”

Josh stands up and starts to follow me through the kitchen.

I spin and face him as I push back through the doors. “And for future reference, you spelled asshole wrong. There’s no w.”

He looks surprised. “I thought that looked funny after I wrote it.”