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Operation Rescue: In Plain Sight ElrodW A young man, feeling totally unwanted by his family, runs away. He needs to find a way to survive, and eventually, he stumbles into an Op Rescue clinic. [email protected] ******************************************************************** Prologue This story is copyright by the author. It is protected by licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. Pete buried his head in his pillow to muffle the sound of his screams. Frustration was overwhelming him; the dispute with his parents was all- too-familiar, and all-to-frequent. It always ended the same, too - he managed to be in trouble for something he hadn't done, and was being punished unjustly. He heard the door open, but he didn't bother to look. He could tell by the sound of the shoes on the floor that it was his mother. "Peter," she said softly, but still sternly. When he didn't reply, she crossed her arms. "Peter Louis Franklin, you look at me when I talk to you." Pete turned angrily and glared at her. His cheeks were moist from his tears, and he was angry at himself for such a childish display of emotion. He'd been crying like a little kid, not like the fifteen-and- a-half year old he was. "Why?" he snarled. "Don't you take that tone with me, young man!" his mom replied angrily. "You're the one who is in trouble. Unless you want to make it worse." Pete's eyes were narrow, and his nostrils were flared and his jaw clenched. "I didn't do it! It was Chuck and ...." "Stop it! Quit trying to blame your brother and sister for your actions!" Mom walked to the bed and held out her hand. "Just for that outburst, give me your cell phone." If looks could have killed, Pete's angry glare would have struck his mom down where she stood. Instead of arguing, which was just as futile as every other time, he pulled his cell phone from his jeans pocket and slapped it in his mom's hand. "You're grounded for two weeks," Mom stated firmly. "Maybe you can put some effort into getting your grades up, like your brother and sister, while you've got time on your hands." She paused, and she saw his angry stare. "And you don't need to bother coming down for dinner tonight, either, if you can't be civil!" "Whatever," Pete snapped. Very deliberately, he turned from his mom and flopped on his side on his bed, facing away from her in an obvious display of contempt. He imagined that he could feel his mother's gaze on his neck, burning with her ire at him. After a few silent seconds, his mom strode from the room, closing it firmly and noisily behind her. "Stupid fucking assholes!" Pete muttered to himself. "Never listen to a fucking thing I say! It's always my fucking fault!" Mocking her voice, he vented his feelings at how he knew his parents felt. "Precious little Maggie and Chuck can't do any fucking thing wrong, can they?" He lay on his side, listening to the noise filtering in through the closed door and walls. He could hear his mother setting the table, preparing for dinner - without him. He cursed aloud some more, not caring if his comments were overheard. As he fumed about his current plight, he couldn't help but think back of all the past incidents. The mental review seemed to get longer and longer every month. Starting from his earliest memories, he'd been tormented by his siblings, and his mom and dad had nothing but punishment and harsh words for him, while they showered Maggie and Chuck with endless praise. He could do no right, and they could do no wrong in his parents' eyes. He couldn't remember even _one_ single incident when he'd been praised - only derided, scolded, spanked, belted, and punished. His eyes stung with tears at the bitter memories which seemed to be his only constant companion. Eventually, he wearied of swearing at the situation. He could smell the meatloaf, which caused his stomach to rumble, and it made him realize that he hadn't eaten anything since school lunch several hours ago. He sat up and gingerly crossed the room to his desk, to his school backpack sitting on a chair. Glancing at the door, fearful that someone would come in and catch him and confiscate his snack, he rifled through one of the side compartments and pulled out two candy bars. He tore one open and began to devour it, taking the edge off his hunger. Suddenly, he stopped, a half-chewed bite still in his mouth. Random thoughts had suddenly coalesced, and he knew what he had to do. He put the unopened candy bar on his desk, and began to remove the books and other content from his backpack. Padding softly across the floor, he picked some underwear and socks from his dresser, and then took some clothes from his closet. These he stuffed into his backpack. Pete reached up to his bookshelf, and took down a fat novel. He opened it and pulled out a pile of cash from the hollow pocket between the covers. Within a few more minutes, he'd gathered everything that he thought he might need, and then he closed the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. Carefully, to avoid making any unwanted noise, he opened his window and climbed outside. He pulled it shut behind himself, not really knowing why, except that it might buy him a few more seconds to get away if, for some odd reason, his parents happened to come to his room and discovered his absence. Pete was grateful for the early dusk; the dim light covered his movements as he trotted across the neighbors' yards. He glanced, frightened, over his shoulder periodically, certain that he'd been discovered and was being pursued. Eventually, he reached a lightly wooded area bordering the subdivision he lived in, and he ducked into the more substantial concealment of the trees and shrubs. Feeling slightly safer from discovery, Pete sat down on a fallen tree and contemplated his options. He had to get out of town, lest his so- called family hunt him down and have him returned to his hellish life, where he could continue as the scapegoat for everything that his siblings did, and be an outlet for his parents' anger and frustration. He didn't have a lot of alternatives. The thought of hitch-hiking was downright scary; there had been several recent stories of hitch-hikers being molested, beaten, and in one case, killed. There was no passenger train service. That left the airport and the bus. Pete frowned to himself. If he went to the airport, there would be records and security everywhere, and his parents could easily track him down. On top of that, cheap airfares had to be purchased weeks in advance, and even then, he wasn't sure he had enough money. Plus there was the distance he needed to travel to get there. More of a chance for his parents, or the police, to find him. That left walking or taking a bus to leave the city, or going underground and hiding. He opted for the bus. Instinctively, he reached in his pocket for his phone, only to curse when he found nothing. His mom had taken it away, he remembered. Like most teens, he hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on his phone, and he realized that didn't know how to navigate around the city, or to find destinations, without it. He sighed heavily, but then Pete had another thought. If he used his phone, or even had it on, his parents would have been able to find him with tracking software. He often cursed the electronic leash they had forced him to install as a condition of having a phone, but now, he chuckled ironically. The first thing they'd do would be to use the software to try to find him, only to discover that his phone was still at home because it had been confiscated, and they had no way to track him. ********** Pete curled up under the picnic table, his spare clothes beneath him to protect against the cold concrete, and on top of him to give him warmth from the cool night air. He'd found some waste food in a dumpster behind a Taco Bell restaurant, and though it hadn't been what he wanted, he forced himself to eat. He needed to earn some more money so he could get a bus ticket. As he huddled, half-sleeping, he saw the headlights of a car turning into the park. Pete was suddenly awake, and he bolted upright. Quickly, he grabbed his spare clothes and backpack, crawled from under the table, and scrambled to some bushes. He watched nervously as a police car, on a routine security patrol of the park, drove slowly past where he'd been just moments before. For a brief moment as he hid in the bushes, Pete considered giving up, and at least have a warm bed for the night. As soon as that thought intruded, though, he remembered what he'd put up with, and his resolve firmed. He knew now that he was in a struggle to survive without compromising some of his ideals and beliefs. After the police car had passed, he crawled back under the table and spread his clothing back out. As he settled back in for what he knew would be long night, he realized that he didn't have what he really needed. He began to wish that he'd stayed in Boy Scouts, and learned more survival and camping skills. That thought gave him an idea. He could get a hold of his friend Ed, and learn more about what he needed to know. But he'd have to be careful; he wasn't absolutely certain that Ed wouldn't tell his parents out of concern for his safety. And he didn't have his cell phone, so getting in touch with Ed was going to be tricky. As he lay awake, wanting to fall back asleep, he started to form a plan. He'd go meet Ed just after Ed's scout meeting. That would be safe from Ed's parents, and from his - it would be one place they'd never think to look for him. Then he could talk to Ed in private, and get any tips or hints he could. He could also go to the library and find out about simple survival skills. Ed had talked about finding food in the wild, too. Maybe he could find a way to gather food, or catch some small animals, and not have to rely on others, or dumpster-diving, or becoming a gay prostitute, to satisfy his hunger. Content that he had a plan, he drifted off to a cold, fitful sleep. ************************************************************ Chapter 1 Suzie looked up from her computer when the door chime sounded. It had been a slow morning at the clinic. There weren't very many appointments scheduled, so the sound was unexpected. A young man, wearing scruffy clothes, and with scraggly, unkempt hair, was standing just inside the door, looking around nervously. Suzie's first impression was that he was lost, and she instantly thought about calling security. For some reason, though, she didn't. The newcomer looked to be a kid, short and wiry, and maybe eighteen. He didn't seem to be a threat. She wondered why he was at the clinic. "May I help you?" she asked in her best, friendliest voice. The boy - for he was only a boy -looked alarmed, even frightened. "Uh, I was ... uh ... looking for a ... job," he stammered nervously. "Are you here to ask about our program?" Suzie asked. She was rather certain that the boy knew nothing of what the clinic did - if he was even old enough. The boy seemed to calm down a little. "Uh, yeah. I saw one of your fliers ... in the paper, and I wondered if I could get a job." Suzie laughed. "It's more than just a job to us," she joked. "I have to ask a couple of questions first, before we can go any further." She gestured to the empty chair in front of her desk. "Please, have a seat." The boy glanced nervously over his shoulder, out the door, and then eased himself into the chair. "Uh, okay." He couldn't help but notice that the receptionist was pregnant. Suzie gasped at the boy's appearance. He was thin, almost emaciated, and dirty. His clothes were old, with threadbare spots and a few small tears. In his eyes was a hunted look, like he was on the run from something. "Name and age," she prompted. "And if you have an ID, I'll need to see it." The boy winced. "Uh, Pete," he mumbled. "Pete Franklin. I'm eighteen." "Do you have any ID? Drivers' license? Social security card?" Pete pulled a worn wallet from his pocket, and pulled out a worn plastic card. Suzie looked at it, and then at Pete, and then back at the card. "This is ... expired," she said, her brow wrinkled with concern. "Do you have anything more current?" Pete shook his head. "No. Just my learner's permit." He sounded and looked nervous at having to provide her details. "Okay." Suzie jotted down a few notes from the permit, and then handed it back to the boy. "It's surprising that someone your age doesn't have a drivers' license," she commented casually. Pete visibly stiffened at the comment. "I ... never got my license," he said. "Things ... happened ... before I could get it." Suzie's eyebrows rose at his unusual statement. "I'll need to see your Social Security card. We have to run a background check on all our applicants. She saw him tense at the comment, and wondered what she was going to find when she did run a check. "Don't worry. It's just routine, unless you've got some criminal history," she added. "No. I've stayed out of trouble." He still sounded defensive, but proud of being able to say that. "Okay. I need you to go over to one of the computers over there," she gestured toward a few small cubicles on one wall of the reception area, "and fill out a questionnaire." She smiled. "It's pretty long, and _very_ personal. You need to answer all questions honestly. We have to screen our candidates pretty thoroughly." "Uh, what kind of job openings do you have?" Pete was curious why she warned him about an intrusive questionnaire. "We work to save babies who would otherwise be aborted," Suzie explained, absently rubbing her swollen, pregnant tummy. "Our employees are called Adoption Facilitators." Pete wrinkled his brow. "I don't understand." "Do you know what we do?" Suzie asked with a curious smile. Pete shook his head. "From your ad, I figured it's some kind of pro- life thing." "You could say that." Suzie pointed toward the computers. "And we always need Adoption Facilitators. So if you would please fill out a questionnaire ...?" Pete realized that he wasn't going to get any more information from this receptionist. She probably didn't know a lot, anyway. His first was that she seemed like a typical dumb blonde secretary. He plodded to one of the cubicles and sat down at the computer. Suzie noted the disdainful look in his eyes. She chuckled to herself. He had no way of knowing that he'd already passed the first hurdle, that she'd already done the first-level of assessment of his fitness to join the program. Far from being a dumb blonde, Suzie was well on her way to getting her master's degree so she could become a counselor, and from the moment Pete had walked through the door, she'd been studying his every action and word. While he was busy at the computer, Suzie typed a quick memo to the office director. When she finished that task, she began to intently search records on the Internet, to find out more about the prospective client. Over an hour later, a very puzzled Pete leaned back from the keyboard. The questionnaire had been more than a little intrusive and personal. He stood and shuffled back to Suzie's desk, glancing warily out the door, and around the reception room. Two very pregnant ladies were reading magazines as they sat, waiting for who-knows-what. One glanced up at him, and she gave him a very pleasant smile. Pete felt a little suspicious of her pleasant demeanor. "I'm finished," he informed Suzie. Suzie smiled at him. "Please have a seat, and our director will be with you in a few minutes." She had watched him as he filled out the form; whenever the door opened, he seemed quite startled, and glanced nervously at any who came or left the clinic. He definitely had the look of a hunted animal. He sat down where he could see both the clinic entrance and the doors to the rear, behind Suzie's reception desk. He rifled through the pile of magazines, but was put off by the titles and topics he saw - all fashion, home d?cor, and pregnancy, so he just leaned back, trying to look like he was resting. Up to that point, the only clients that Pete had seen were women. But when the door chimed again, a man walked in. Pete gasped; the man looked so effeminate that it was a startling reminder of the encounters with some of the more extreme gay hookers who had tried to get him to work for their pimps. The newcomer wore his hair in a style that was more feminine than androgynous, and he wore makeup and had his nails done. His clothes were very feminine, but he was still, clearly, a man. A man trying to look like a woman, but a man nonetheless. "Good morning, Emily," Suzie greeted the newcomer cheerfully. "Are you here for your checkup?" Emily, the newcomer, nodded. "Tina wants one more check before I can have my transfer." Her voice was between masculine and feminine - and trying for the latter. "Go on back, then. You know the way." Suzie turned back to the computer, noting the reaction from Pete. Pete frowned. This clinic had started as a mystery, and was getting more enigmatic - scarier - by the second. Suzie had never explained exactly what they did, and now he was starting to wonder what he was getting himself into. The hunger in his stomach, though, a near constant reminder of his state of existence, pushed away those doubts. "Would you like a little snack while you're waiting?" Suzie asked pleasantly. Pete realized that she was watching him. "Uh, yes, please," he mumbled. "If it's not too much trouble." He revised his opinion of her. She was far from a dumb blonde. In fact, he realized belatedly, she'd probably been studying and evaluating him from the moment he'd entered. He swallowed nervously; had he blown it already by acting like she was an airhead secretary? He fought the urge to run from the office. Only the promise of respite from his nearly-overpowering hunger kept him in his seat. Suzie left her desk and walked into what, from Pete's angle, was just an alcove. In a few moments, she was back with a bottle of juice, a fruit- salad wrapped in plastic, and a plastic fork. "Here you are," she said as she handed the snack to Pete. She watched as he ate, gathering still more data on the prospective client. He looked around nervously, and then dug into the food. She could see that he was trying desperately to eat slowly, in a dignified manner, but his hunger was visibly overwhelming, and he was eating like he hadn't eaten in days. In mere moments, he put the empty food containers into the trash. "Thank you," he said. For the first time, he seemed to let his guard down - just a bit. A few moments later, Suzie came over to where Pete was sitting. "Something came up, and our director is quite busy. She said I should take you to get your physical, and then we'll set up a follow-up appointment after she has a chance to review your test results." Pete nodded nervously and stood. As they walked down the hall, Pete glanced at Suzie. "I promise that I won't fail any drug tests," he said with conviction. "I've never done any drugs." Suzie wondered why he had volunteered that information. She strongly suspected that he feared she was pre-judging him, and had expected that someone who looked like a runaway teen _would_ abuse drugs - or worse. With the training she was taking, and from other clients, Suzie knew what life on the streets could be like. She decided to not reply to his comment. "And I've never done anything else," Pete added defensively, answering the question that he was certain Suzie wanted to ask. It was a short walk to the nurse's station, which was a large, high, circular counter with work desk space on the inside of the circle. It was split in two with a gap on either side for accessing the work area, situated at an enlarged intersection of two hallways. Suzie walked to the counter. "Hi, Beth," she said to interrupt one of the two nurses at the station. The older nurse, dressed in light magenta scrubs, looked up at Suzie. "Yes?" "I've got a prospective host, and I need to get a complete physical for him." She handed a thin folder to Beth. Pete realized that she'd been collecting data on him while he'd been taking the test. He was trembling slightly with fear, wondering what was in the folder, and with whom it would be shared. Beth took the folder, opened it on her desk, and glanced at her computer. "Tina should be available in a few minutes. She just got out of surgery, and she wanted to grab a bite." Pete studied Beth carefully as she scanned whatever data Suzie had put in the folder. She was older than Suzie - perhaps forty or forty-five. She had a delightful, cheerful face, and she wore her hair in a short style that complemented her facial shape nicely. Her hazel eyes sparkled with joy. She stood, and as she extended her hand in greeting, he saw that she was a bit shorter than average, and just a bit more plump than Suzie. By no means was she fat, though. "Nice to meet you, Peter," she said with certainty. Pete looked at her hand for a moment, before he tentatively extended his own hand to shake. He was surprised by the strength of her grip. "I go by Pete," he said stiffly, correcting her. "I'm sorry. Pete it is, then." She glanced down at her computer. "While we're waiting for the doctor, we can start some of the routine parts of the physical." She stood, picked up a portable computer, and walked between the semi-circular desks toward one of the hallways. "Good luck, Pete." With a smile, Suzie turned and walked back toward the reception area. "Step on the scale, please," Beth directed Pete. Obediently, he complied. "One hundred twenty two pounds. Okay," she said as she jotted the information into the computer. "Do you know your height?" "No, ma'am," Pete said softly. "Ah, ah, ah! We aren't formal around here! You can call me Beth." She winked at him. "It sounds a lot younger than ma'am." From Suzie's brief notes, she was aware of now nervous, even paranoid, the boy was, and she turned on her charm to calm him as best as she could. "Okay, ... Beth," Pete agreed. It was plain that calling adults by their first names was a struggle for him. "Stand against the wall right there," Beth indicated a spot on the wall with markings going up the wall, demarked with their inch measurements, "with your heels touching the wall." As Pete complied, Beth read and marked down his height. "Five foot, eight inches," she told him as she input the data. "You're not a large boy, are you?" Pete shook his head, an angry frown on his face. "_They_ always made fun of me for being a skinny runt, too!" he said bitterly. "I wasn't making fun of you," Beth said quickly to clarify. She hadn't expected the reaction that she'd just received. "Your friends?" she asked. "Them, too." There was no hiding the venom in his voice toward whomever he was referring. Beth handed Pete a cup. "Go in the restroom, and give a urine sample. Put your name on the lid, and put the cup in the metal box." While he was busy, Beth couldn't help but wonder what had emotionally hurt this boy so badly that he was so bitter and had a look of both rejection and anger in his eyes. And fear. There was no mistaking fear in his expression. He was terrified of ... something. After he finished in the restroom, Beth took him to an examining room, and collected routine data associated with a physical, like blood pressure, respiration, and temperature. When she prepared a needle to take a blood sample, she saw him pale. "I take it you don't like needles?" Beth asked. Pete shook his head. "They make me think of ... all the junkies ... out there." "This shouldn't hurt much. Just look at the chart on the wall, and it'll be done before you know it." As she collected the blood sample, she kept chatting, mostly to keep him from being nervous. As they talked, Beth began to like Pete. He was a quiet, reserved, frightened boy, but she suspected that there was an inner core of strength and determination. She got the distinct impression that he was being very careful to not expose his feelings or emotions to anybody. She couldn't help but wonder why. ********** "Okay, let's have a look at you," Dr. Tina Martelli said as she put down the tablet computer. Pete shifted nervously on the examining table; he was clad in only the gown Beth had given him, and he was not used to having a female doctor examine him. "Uh ...," he stammered nervously. "I know this is embarrassing, but I'm a doctor," Tina scolded him lightly. She was startled at his reaction - her words seemed to have hit him with the power of a gunshot. "I'm a professional. I promise I won't hurt you." Pete was only slightly mollified. "Okay," he grudgingly replied. "By the way, I'm Dr. Tina Martelli, but you can call me Tina." Tina put her stethoscope earpieces in her ears, and held the instrument against her hand to warm it up. After a moment, she placed it on his back. "Deep breath." She listened for a moment, and then moved the stethoscope to his other side. "Again." She placed it on his chest, and had him repeat the deep breaths. "Hold your breath," she directed as she placed it over his heart. After a moment, she let it drop and pulled the earpieces out. "Your lungs and heart sound healthy. Did Beth already get the EKG?" "Yeah," Pete answered. He wasn't getting any less nervous. "And a chest X-ray, and she drew a lot of blood." Tina began to probe him physically, feeling his adenoids, then down his neck. "Okay, now comes the embarrassing parts," she said with a smile. "You need to stand up so I can check you for hernias. You _do_ know how I do that, don't you?" "Uh, no," Pete admitted. He looked more than a little scared. "I have to feel alongside your scrotum," Tina explained clinically. She pulled on exam gloves. "Don't be nervous, or embarrassed; it's a standard part of a physical. Everyone - at least the men and boys - get this exam." She placed her fingers and pressed. "Turn your head and cough." When Pete complied, she moved to the other side. "Okay, again." Pete was blushing at the very personal intrusion. His complexion turned scarlet when she had him bend over for a prostate exam. "Okay, the worst part is over," Tina said professionally. "Please take off the gown so I can examine you." She quickly examined his body, looking for deformities, including of his genitals. She felt his muscles and ribs, noting that some ribs were showing a little bit, evidence of an inadequate diet. "Okay, you can put the gown back on." While he did so, she made some notes in her computer. She turned back to Pete. "Okay, now we'll check your range of motion and reflexes." He followed her instructions in bending, squatting, and moving his body as she directed. Finally, she had him sit back down. "You're a little on the thin side," Tina observed. "How is your diet?" Pete shrugged. "Okay, I guess." "Three meals a day, whole grains, fruits and vegetables, limited fat and red meat?" "Uh, not really," Pete answered, looking down. He realized how far his diet differed from what Tina had suggested - and the discussion of diet made his hungry stomach rumble. "What do you eat?" "Uh, some fruits, when I can. Same for vegetables. A lot of meat, I guess. And once in a while, I get some canned food." "Snacks? Junk food?" Pete shook his head. "I don't know how long it's been since I've had a candy bar," he admitted. "Any vitamins or other supplements?" Pete shook his head. Tina scowled at his response. "I'll know more when we look at your blood chemistry, but I'm a little concerned about your nutrition. Your body mass index is very low for a young man your age." "You're making fun of me being small and skinny, too," Pete snapped. "No, no, no!" Tina reacted quickly. The boy was _very_ sensitive about his size. His reaction indicated that he'd probably been teased severely about it when he was younger. "What are all the tests about?" Pete asked cautiously. "Are you looking for drugs or alcohol?" Tina nodded. "Partly. We're also doing screening for various antibodies, looking at the blood chemistry, and looking at your hormone levels." She saw his concerned expression. "It's part of our standard physical." Inwardly, she wasn't so confident. He definitely had symptoms of malnutrition. She wondered just what his diet had been. ********** "Have a nice day, Pete," Suzie called after Pete as he walked toward the clinic door. Pete glanced over his shoulder and nodded. "You, too," he said, but his voice lacked conviction or warmth. He stopped at the door and looked outside, carefully looking around the clinic entrance, before he pushed the door open and stepped into the street. Behind him, Suzie sat at her desk, wondering. She should have discouraged him as soon as his ID check had revealed his status as a runaway. He was too much of a risk. She chided herself - if she ever wanted to be a counselor, she'd need to not only recognize problems, but act on them. Outside the clinic, Pete trudged slowly down the sidewalk, wondering what to do next. From the angle of the sun, he could tell that it was late - his watch had quit working long ago, and the chill of an autumn evening was starting to come. Damn, but he should have brought a jacket, he chided himself. He had a ways to go to get back 'home' - and one of the neighborhoods wasn't exactly good. Pete walked quickly, his hands in his pockets, looking down to hide his face. From the corner of his eye, he saw a police cruiser driving past, and he shuddered. Had the clinic ratted on him, and now the police were searching again? He forced himself to stay calm. Bolting from the scene would be suspicious - if the cops hadn't seen him yet, they would. After several nerve-wracking seconds, the police car was out of sight, and Pete focused on his tasks. His first stop was a fast-food restaurant. He knew that the pickings would be slim; waste food was easiest to find after nine, but by then, it would be very dark and chilly, and he'd be competing with the other homeless people who dumpster-dived for food. Absently, he rubbed his rib, the one he was certain had been broken more than a year ago in a major scuffle about territorial rights to a dumpster. Pete felt lucky to find a half-eaten cheeseburger, which he wolfed down. He was still very hungry, so he altered his course toward a church, where he knew they had a food collection basket. If he was lucky, there wouldn't be any parishioners around, and he could 'liberate' a can or two of food. Unfortunately for Pete, the church was bustling with people, and with his stomach growling angrily, he set course for 'home'. There were two more restaurants along the way; one Thai, which he hated but would eat because he was too hungry, and the other a chicken place. Maybe he'd get lucky. Pete had rationalized that taking food from food donation boxes and clothing from goodwill pick up spots was okay, because he was, after all, poor and homeless - the type for whom the goods were intended anyway. Beyond that, though, he tried not to steal - and certainly not to shoplift. He knew of a couple of runaway teens who'd been caught shoplifting, and the police had reunited them with their families. Besides, that was blatantly stealing, and Pete couldn't bring himself to do that. As a consequence, he had to buy some supplies, and his money supply had slowly dwindled, despite his best efforts to not buy anything. For a brief moment, Pete thought about going to the library again. It was warm, and he could hide in a cubicle while he surfed the internet. But it would close, and he was afraid of getting caught napping again. _That_ had been a close one; for some reason, the library staff had called the police to remove him rather than simply awakening him. Pete had barely gotten away, ducking out the emergency exit and diving into the trash bin. He shuddered to think of going through that ordeal again. No, the library was for early mornings, so he wouldn't risk falling asleep around closing time again. Pete turned toward the edge of town. It was time to get back to his hut, so he'd be safe for the night. He knew the neighborhood he was traversing. "Hi, Petey," a voice called out from the top of a staircase in front of an old brick building. Pete was startled, but only just. He knew this neighborhood pretty well, and many of the people in it. "Oh, hi, Vern." The young man - or boy, depending on perspective - pranced down the stairs. "How'th it going?" Vern clutched Pete's arm in a friendly, affectionate gesture. Pete shrugged. He'd gotten used to Vern over time. At first, Vern's dress, his walk, and his lisp bugged the hell out of Pete. Vern didn't walk, he minced about, swinging his hips as he walked on his high-heeled boots - which barely qualified as men's shoes. His jeans were stylish and tight, like a woman's, and he wore a frilly silk blouse. Vern's hair was almost stereotypically gay, and with three studs in each ear and a large ball stud in his tongue forcing him to lisp, there was no way he'd ever be mistaken for a manly boy, even if one ignored his eye shadow and lip gloss. "It's okay." Vern giggled. "I doubt it. It'th getting cool again, and you're homeleth. I know it'th going to be a long, cold winter." Pete tried not to be angry. Vern wasn't responsible for what he'd become - a gay hooker. It was Luis, his pimp, who, over time, had made Vern into a caricature of a sissy gay boy, just like he'd 'persuaded' other kids to be what would make him the most money. Pete shuddered at the thought of being pushed down that path. It steeled his resolve. "Tell Luis I said no." "Oh, come on," Vern pleaded, leaning his head onto Pete's shoulder like a lovesick girl. "You know it'th going to be cold, and you'd have a warm bed and regular mealth. And," Vern looked at Pete longingly, "we could alwayth cuddle on cold nighth to keep warm." Vern made no secret of the fact that he had a crush on Pete. "No," Pete said again, more firmly. He contemplated running - again. A few times, he'd been scared when Luis and a few of his crew - gay boys and men, girls, and young women, had closed in around him. He feared that he'd be kidnapped and forced into a life of sexual servitude, and end up like Vern. While Luis had some more macho gay prostitutes working for him, Pete knew that, given his size, he'd be pushed down the same path as Vern. "I had to athk," Vern said sweetly. "Even if you don't work, if it getth too cold thome night, you can alwayth come by and cuddle with me to thtay warm." Vern released Pete's arm and sashayed back to his staircase. He stopped to blow a kiss over his shoulder at Pete. Pete shuddered inwardly as he continued his journey. Several times over the years, when it had been freezing cold, and he was desperately hungry, he'd almost given in. One time, he'd found himself walking, wrapped in a blanket, through the frosty late night air, toward this spot, to Luis and Vern and all the others. He'd caught himself - that time - but he wondered how much longer he could hold out. He had almost no money left. Food was hit-or-miss. When he got to the wooded area, Pete glanced around himself nervously. This was when it got dangerous. This was a known location for marijuana growers, hiding their plants among the trees and bushes and shrubs of the large woods. They were very territorial and quite dangerous, especially in the very early morning and late evening hours, when people were shadows moving among the trees. They had a tendency to shoot first in defense of their valuable plants, and it was getting more perilous every month. Pete sighed with relief when he closed the 'door' behind himself in his hut. The first thing he did was to grab a sweater and pull it on, and then wrap a blanket around himself for further insulation from the rapidly-falling temperature. A tiny candle, stored under his bed, was lit, providing a bit of flickering illumination - enough that it didn't seem like he was in a cave. The tiny bit of heat given off by the candle, coupled with the insulating layer of dead foliage, helped keep the hut livable - barely. Sleep was fitful to Pete that evening, and the next two. He was out of options. He could work for Luis - and probably end up a sissified gay hooker like Vern, or he could work for the clinic in their mysterious job. While he didn't object to gay people or their lifestyle - he had known a few kids in school who were gay, and he got along with them, and Vern was a nice-enough guy, even if he was annoyingly affectionate - Pete didn't want to get into the prostitution business. From what he'd seen and heard over time, it was a brutal business; hookers were only useful to the pimps as long as they made money, and to make money, they had to do whatever a customer might want. It could get dangerous, too. He'd heard of a few prostitutes who'd met an untimely demise, through violence of customers, pimps, and rivals, or through drug overdoses. And there was the police record - if he were arrested, his name would be advertised, especially since the city started the 'shame the hookers and johns' campaign a year earlier. That, in turn, would bring _them_. The clinic was a mystery. Adoption facilitator. What the hell was that? The staff seemed nice, but Pete had encountered too many people who'd been nice or charming at first, and only later had revealed their true motives or personalities. He didn't trust them. And the guy who'd come in - he seemed more gay than Vern. What was the business all about? It all came down to his options. He couldn't continue existing like he was. Food was scarce, it was cold, and the drug dealers had made the area too dangerous. Worst of all, he'd accidentally broken his knife, his prized possession, a couple of months ago. He'd learned, over the years, that a good survival knife was essential to living the way he did. Every reference he'd consulted for living in the wilderness had emphasized the importance of a good knife. Without it, he couldn't cut tinder to start a small fire. He had nothing to strike against the flint to start a fire. He couldn't skin and cut up rabbits and other small animals he trapped. Worse, he had nothing with which to defend himself. The loss of the knife had been a devastating blow to Pete, and he didn't have enough money to replace it. At the time, he knew it was bad. Now, with winter approaching, he realized just _how_ bad the loss was. Worst, though, was the increasing danger from the pot growers. While it might be safer during the winter season, spring would bring planting season, and renewed hazards. Last season, two groups had fought over the woods. If that happened again, Pete could easily find himself caught in the crossfire. Even more ominously, Pete knew that if he was caught, he was disposable; the growers would think nothing of making a homeless runaway 'disappear'. Pete was faced with a cold, brutal winter, with inadequate food and supplies, followed by three seasons of threat from the criminal element, again with meager rations. While he'd survived for almost two and a half years in his hut, he'd slowly come to the conclusion that he couldn't go on much longer where he was. Pete had three choices. The first - turning himself in and returning home - he discounted even as the thought formed. He'd rather die than stoop to that. Working for Luis - that was an option, but it was fraught with peril. Because prostitution was illegal, they wouldn't directly turn him over to his family. But the odds weren't good. Death or disease were frequent outcomes, and if, by chance, he survived, he knew that by twenty-five or thirty, he'd be discarded as being too old and unattractive. That left the clinic. He didn't like the uncertainty of not knowing precisely what they would have him do. Adoption Facilitator. It sounded important, and the pay was more than reasonable. But ... what the hell was the job? And the commitment was long - at least eight months, the receptionist had told him. What if it didn't work? What if they checked directly with the police department? There were too many 'what ifs'. He huddled in his 'home', fighting off the brisk autumn air and the constant hunger, trying to figure out which option was better. He kept coming back to the clinic, and the mysterious job of being an Adoption Facilitator. He had an appointment in two days with the director. Based on her reaction, he realized that the receptionist didn't really expect him to keep it. ********** "Mister Franklin?" The voice belonged to a woman who was impeccably dressed, standing in a doorway. She was in her mid-thirties, and her shoulder-length brown hair was quite attractively layered and styled, with modest highlights. Her jewelry wasn't ostentatious, but modest and professional, while also very feminine. She stepped forward as Pete stood, and she extended her hand. "I'm Doctor Rachel McKnight, director of this center." Pete felt a little fear. He was intimidated by her professional credentials and demeanor. "I'm Pete Franklin, ma'am," he said, his cracking voice betraying his nervousness. Rachel picked up on his unease. "Don't be nervous. We don't bite," she laughed. "And I think you've already been told that we're very informal around here. Please call me Rachel." Her eyes twinkled with warmth. "Let's go back to my office and chat." "Okay." Pete sounded very hesitant as he followed Rachel back to her office. He had no sooner sat down than Rachel began with a very pointed question. "Why did you run away?" she asked bluntly. Pete's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Are you going to tell someone that I'm here?" he asked. He looked near panic at the prospect, and ready to bolt from the clinic if need be. Rachel shook her head, a slight smile on her face. "We verified you're over eighteen, which is a requirement for the program. You're not a minor, so we don't need to tell anyone you were here. We _can't_, in fact. There are patient privacy rules, you know." "Oh." He was relieved at her reassurance, but only just. "Why did you run away?" she said, reiterating her question. Pete stared at her for a moment, weighing whether he wanted to trust her. "I ... I couldn't stay," he said softly. "They didn't want me. They _hated_ me." In his brief statement, Rachel read volumes about his emotional state and motivations. He was a small, frightened young man who'd been living on the street for a long time. His words were confirming what the psychological profile test had told her. "By 'they', I assume you mean your family?" She saw the tiniest of nods. "Your parents?" He tried not to betray the reasons, but his eyes gave away his secret. "Was it ... abuse?" Pete shook his head. Her words had stirred memories, and the corners of his eyes began to moisten at those unpleasant memories. "No!" he answered sharply. "They just hated me. They ... made my life hell, because they didn't ... love me." He was fighting a losing battle to contain his anger at what they'd done to him over the years. "How ... how did you know? That I ran away, I mean." "It wasn't hard to find out," Rachel said with a smile. She noted from the tone of his answer that there probably _was_ abuse of some form. "We did a background check on you." She saw the startled look on Pete's face. "Don't worry. It's standard procedure, and the law says that it has to remain confidential." Pete breathed a little easier at her assurance. "We had to see if you had any criminal record, or anything else that would be ... disqualifying." "Oh." "According to the reports," Rachel glanced at her computer monitor, "you ran away almost two and a half years ago." "Does that mean ... you don't want me?" Pete asked warily. His voice echoed with pain and rejection. Rachel realized that he felt, in many ways, like the babies they worked so hard to save were - unloved and unwanted. She fought back a strong sense of compassion for the boy. She couldn't let her emotions interfere with the job she was doing, which was to rescue the babies, not a runaway boy. "That doesn't mean anything of the sort. We will judge your fitness for the program entirely on your psychological test scores and physical exam results." She smiled. "You'd be surprised at some of the ... interesting stories that some of our clients have told. We take pride in the fact that, in helping babies, we give a second chance to a lot of deserving people who are down on their luck." Pete seemed wary. "Okay," he said, acknowledging her words, but not fully accepting the underlying message. "Why do you want to work with us?" Pete shrugged. "I need to earn some money." "That's a pretty honest answer," Rachel laughed. She got serious again. "Do you know what we do?" "The adoption facilitator thing - is it like clerical stuff?" Rachel smiled. "Not quite. But we'll get back to that in a bit. I'd like to talk to you about what you've been doing while you've been living on the street. How you've survived, and so forth." Pete's became stone-faced. "You got the reports," he said icily. Rachel knew she'd hit a nerve. That was okay - she had to know more about what made this kid tick. A lot more. "I got reports that cover since your eighteenth birthday. Juvenile records are sealed, you know." "Oh." "A lot of runaways end up in ... bad situations," Rachel tried to be diplomatic. "It's hard for a teenager to make money, unless they turn to certain trades - like sex or drugs." Pete frowned, his eyes flashing with anger. "I've never done drugs!" he snarled. "And I've never been ... involved in prostitution." He shuddered involuntarily at the thought. From his almost unseen reaction, Rachel had uncovered another detail she needed to know. "I wasn't implying ...." "Yes, you were," Pete rebutted sharply. He angrily glared at her for a moment, but then he looked down, ashamed of his angry reaction to a legitimate question, and continued. "Sometimes ... it got so tough that I was tempted. When it was so cold, and I was so hungry ...." He looked up, his eyes steely again, as if he were chiding himself for letting his guard down. "But I never did!" "Because of the work we do, I have to know," Rachel said, trying to calm the boy. "Now, let's talk about what we do." "It's some kind of adoption thing," Pete offered with hesitation, "right?" Rachel laughed. "Kind of. How do you feel about abortion?" Pete shrugged, but continued to eye Rachel with an untrusting gaze. "I hadn't really thought about it. It's not like it's something I'd have to worry about, is it?" "Interesting way to look at it," Rachel observed. "Our foundation was set up to provide an alternative to abortion." "Like ... helping people adopt babies instead of abortions, right?" Pete speculated. "Very good. The problem is that some pregnant girls and women don't want to carry the baby to term, though." Pete frowned. "So ... how can you help _them_?" he asked, puzzled. "Two very gifted researchers discovered a way to transfer a baby from one mother to another before the baby is born. Kind of like an organ transplant," she added when she saw Pete's confusion. "Oh. So that's what your clinic does? Helps arrange those things?" "In a nutshell, yes." "So what would _I_ be doing then - since I'm not a girl? Paperwork stuff?" Rachel smiled. "Not quite." She glanced at her computer. "I see, from your questionnaire, that you're rather ambivalent about sex." Pete blushed and looked down. "You aren't gay, but your sexual identity is rather neutral." "What does this have to do with ...?" Pete demanded angrily, clearly upset by the direction the conversation had turned. It seemed to be getting too close to Vern and his gay image and lifestyle. "The service we provide," Rachel continued as if he hadn't said anything, "is to provide host wombs for unwanted babies, so they can be delivered into the world and adopted by loving families that _do_ want them." "But I still don't get ...." Pete's eyes slowly widened, as he began to put the pieces together. "The guy who came in last time I was here .... Are you saying that ...?" He scooted to the edge of his chair, his hands on the arms, ready to dash from the room. "When we don't have enough women who volunteer, we allow men to participate in this wonderful life-saving experience," Rachel spoke almost reverently. "But to do that, men need to have certain ... adaptations." "Surgery? To make them into women?" Pete asked, astonished. "But ... I thought that sex surgery didn't ...." "Didn't you ever learn about cloned organs? Our founders were the ones who invented that process." She saw a light of recognition in his eyes. "We use a tissue sample to grow new parts so our male volunteers are qualified to carry the babies." She expected to see a look of shock in Pete's eyes, and even panic at her suggestion. She was disappointed. The expression he had was almost like visibly watching his mental gears turn. His mind was racing. Never in his life had he been a macho individual. He was smaller, and quieter, and much less physical than most boys his age. He had no strong attachment to his sex. "How ... how far do the changes go? How ... completely female ... are the men who work for you?" "Did you take biology before you dropped out?" "No." "Then consider this a biology lesson." Rachel smiled again. "A baby develops and grows in a uterus, or womb. To have the proper hormones for a baby to develop, it is necessary to have ovaries. Fallopian tubes are optional, but since the whole thing develops as a unit like it would in a baby, we seldom leave them out. That's actually more trouble," she explained unnecessarily. "And then a baby needs a birth canal to be born ...." "A ... birth canal?" Pete asked. Fear had crept back into his voice. "A vagina," Rachel said without emotion. "So essentially, everything down below is female." "Oh." Pete blushed bright red, and he visibly tensed. "What else? The ... guy ... I saw earlier looked like he was - really changing all over." Rachel noted that Pete seemed more intrigued by a full change than nervous. "That doesn't scare you?" Pete shook his head. "You're the one who said my sexual identity was, um, neutral." He lowered his head and blushed. "I'm ... er, that is, I've never ... um ...." She noted his hesitancy and embarrassment at admitting, without saying as much, that he was a virgin. Having run away at fifteen had robbed him of social interactions, including the time to explore his sexuality. She decided not to push that angle - not yet, anyway. Pete was being very careful with his choice of words, and he was hiding his emotions. "It's up to the client. One thing that does happen is that men in the program develop breasts." Pete flinched. "Why?" "Biology," Rachel said with a smile. "To carry a baby, a woman's system is flooded with female hormones, estrogen and progesterone, so she'll be prepared to nurse the baby. They're the same hormones that cause a girl's breasts to develop. Does _that_ scare you?" "So, if I understand, I'll have all my ... stuff ... replaced by girl parts, and then I'll grow ... boobs, too?" Pete was trembling with fear at the implications of Rachel's explanation. "What part of me _wouldn't_ be female?" "Face, hair, name. Your general body shape. But it's all temporary. At the conclusion of the contract, we restore your body." Rachel was expecting Pete to bolt for the door, but he didn't. Was he out of choices? For homeless kids on the street, there weren't many options. But it was also possible that he saw such a radical change as a way to hide. She was curious what he'd run away from that could make him accept such a significant change to hide himself. "Oh. Okay." Pete suppressed a shudder coursing down his spine. It would be hard - being a young, pregnant, and homeless girl. It would be a big change - to go from being a boy to being a girl. But the alternatives .... "Pete," Rachel said, suddenly sounding very warm and full of empathy, "if you're accepted, you and I are going to spend a lot of time together. Counseling is mandatory, especially for men in the program. This is a huge step in a person's life. It's not to be taken lightly, either by you or by us." "Oh," Pete mumbled. Rachel decided to pass on further discussion of his question - at least for the moment. "Do you know what it's like for a pregnant woman?" Pete shook his head. "A pregnant woman will have a swollen belly, swollen ankles, painful breasts, sore back, a kicking baby that makes you have to urinate frequently, cramps, possibly throwing up every morning from morning sickness, strange food cravings, and hormones that make your moods shift faster than you can think. Then, when she's had enough of that, she starts labor, with contractions, pain, and the unpleasantness of childbirth. Does that frighten you?" She watched his reaction. Pete gulped, and then nodded feebly. "Yeah. A little." "Good. It's supposed to," Rachel said with a smile. She gazed at him for several seconds, trying to read any emotions that his expressions would betray. He showed none, however. " So let's talk a little about you. What do you like? What don't you like?" "Why?" He sounded suspicious - again. "I need to get to know you," Rachel replied, "before I can judge whether this program is for you or not." ********** "Okay," Rachel said, looking around the conference room. "We're in agreement that Hailey Kingston is not a good candidate?" She watched as her staff physicians, including Dr. Tina, shook their heads. The two other counselors on staff also shook their heads. She glanced at the receptionist who was taking notes. "Please mark her application as unsuitable, and set up an appointment with her as soon as possible so I can talk with her, okay?" The girl nodded. "Okay, what else?" "The last packet is Mister Franklin." Rachel winced visibly. "Okay." She sighed. It was plain that she didn't want to deal with this particular application packet. "Tina?" Dr. Tina Martelli, head surgeon, glanced around. "Physically, he's a good candidate. He's young, and his physical test results are all acceptable." "Isn't he the skinny kid?" one of the other doctors asked. Tina nodded. "His BMI is just under 20. He's under desirable weight, but not unhealthily so." She frowned. "He shows signs of malnutrition, so I'm concerned about that." "Serious?" Tina shook her head. "Nothing some healthy food and a multivitamin wouldn't fix." She glanced at her computer. "His hormones are within range, except his testosterone is on the low end." She glanced up. "I'm not surprised, given his nutritional state." She looked back at the computer. "No STDs. No detectable drugs, alcohol, or nicotine. He's negative on all the diseases we screen for." Rachel frowned. "Is he physically acceptable?" Tina nodded. "Yes. He's in pretty good shape for a runaway - except for an abscessed tooth that'll need to be taken care of." One of the counselors chimed in, "If I remember right, didn't his psychological tests show some serious trust issues?" Beth felt a need to speak up. "He's a scared, emotionally abused kid who had to run away from home to survive. For someone who's lived on the streets for over two years, he's remarkably clean from drugs and STDs." Rachel shot Beth a warning look. She sounded like she was advocating in favor of Pete, which was against her rules. "I'm not sure we want to take a chance with him," she said. "Haven't we had other clients who were from similar backgrounds?" Tina asked rhetorically. Rachel shook her head. "Yes, but there's something Mister Franklin was hiding from me during our interview, and it left me with a very bad feeling." "How long will it take to grow new organs for him?" Beth asked. The question was also rhetorical; everyone knew that it took a minimum of four weeks with the rapid growth procedures and drugs the foundation used. "Why can't we take him in - provisionally - and do some further evaluations on him during that time?" Rachel glanced around the room, and saw nods of approval at the proposed arrangement. Until he committed, the danger to a baby was non-existent, and the cost of growing the cloned female organs for Pete was only a miniscule fraction of the cost of the entire host pregnancy. "Do you agree with that recommendation?" She saw hesitant nods around the room. "Okay, we'll do it that way. Let's get back to work." She sat back as her staff started to file out of the room. "Beth, one moment, please." Beth seemed to be expecting Rachel's words. She hadn't started moving from her chair. The two waited until everyone was out of the conference room. "You know you're not supposed to advocate for potential clients," Rachel reminded her in a reproving tone. Beth nodded. "I know. It's just that he's a nice kid when you talk to him. He's been through a lot, and he wants to have someone accept him." "Did he tell you?" Rachel asked, trying not to sound critical. Even though she was the head counselor, she _did_ value the inputs of her staff, and she made a point to listen to their input about patients. "Not in so many words. But I ... I don't know how to describe it. I just know he's a very hurt boy that needs a chance." Beth shook her head. "Once you get past his fear, he reminds me so much of ...," her voice cracked, "of Michael." Rachel put her hand gently on Beth's arm. "Beth, you know we have to be very careful not to get emotionally involved. No matter how hard. No matter how much they remind us of family or friends." Beth sighed. "I know." "We have to make sure we save our sympathy for the babies," Rachel reminded Beth. Not for the hosts." ********** Pete walked nervously into Rachel's office. She'd promised him that she'd get in touch with him, but she had no way to do so, and so she'd made him promise to return to the clinic on the following Tuesday. Suzie had seemed quite surprised to see him Rachel rose from her desk, strode to the door, and extended her hand in greeting. "I'm glad you could make it." "I told you I'd be here," Pete answered, uncertain of whether she, too, hadn't expected him to return. "No, I didn't mean that I'm surprised," Rachel answered with a light laugh. "Let's sit down and talk." She gestured toward the informal part of the office, a couple of wing chairs and a large, overstuffed sofa. Pete sat on the sofa, visibly luxuriating in the soft cushions. Despite the fact that he looked physically relaxed for the first time since she'd met him, Rachel noted that his eyes were still alert, and had the look of being constantly on guard against unknown dangers. "Are you curious about how the tests went?" Rachel prompted, trying to draw some kind of reaction from Pete. She needed to get him out of his shell, so she could understand him better. "I figured you'd tell me one way or the other," Pete answered without emotion. Rachel noted that Pete was very good at hiding his feelings - except for the visible fear and lack of trust. Those were apparently too deeply ingrained for him to be able to conceal. She made a mental note that she'd have to work with him on that. "Have you considered everything that will happen to you? The surgeries, the physical and emotional changes, the difficulty of carrying and delivering a baby?" Pete nodded. "It's not like I have a lot else to do during my days." He sounded a little bitter over his life situation. "Why don't you tell me how you're living right now?" Rachel prompted. Pete's face showed a little surprise. He'd expected a discussion over whether he was accepted or not, not about himself and his living arrangements. "I guess I just live," he answered. "Where? In a homeless shelter?" "No. Most of those places are full of drugs and alcohol. And hookers - both straight and gay." He shuddered involuntarily as he spoke, obviously repulsed by the thought that he might end up like them - an addicted prostitute. "I built myself a little hut in the woods, by Mayfield Park." He smiled, but even his proud smile was overshadowed by his caution. "It's pretty well hidden. If you didn't know what it was, you could walk right past it and never see." Rachel's eyes widened at his revelation. "How ...?" She was too befuddled to speak for a moment. "If you don't mind my saying so, you don't exactly come across as someone who's lived in a hut in the woods for two years." "I did my best," Pete said. He wasn't going to give up any secrets if he didn't have to. "How about your hygiene and diet? Those had to be challenges, but you don't seem to have any problems in those areas." "I ... guess I learned to take care of myself," Pete started to explain, again, giving no specifics. Rachel cut him off. "I want to see where you've been living," she said firmly. Pete's eyes widened. "Uh," he stammered, uncomfortable with the request, "it's kind of private." Rachel saw the warning flash in his eyes. It was more than private - it had been his refuge for over two years. "We do this my way. We take a field trip to your 'home', or I won't accept you in the program." She saw Pete's eyes widen as he considered her demand. "Just so you know, you're under medical and psychological care right now. There are very specific laws that prevent us from sharing any of this information with anyone else. If I were to tell anyone any of this medical information, I could lose my license, be fined, or even go to jail." She saw him processing the information. "Now, shall we take a field trip to see your home?" "But ... what if ...?" Pete didn't want to show anyone his secret hideaway. "Pete," Rachel interrupted him, "We're going to go see your home." She read the lack of trust in his eyes, in his posture. She could almost see the gears turning as he considered her request. Based on the lack of trust highlighted in his psych profile, she expected that he'd refuse, and leave. As seconds passed, agonizingly slowly, she considered that there were other factors at work in his life. "Okay," Pete finally said reluctantly. ********** Pete hadn't been joking about how well-hidden the hut was; Rachel walked right past the hut before she realized that Pete had stopped by one of several piles of logs and debris. She turned, and saw him grin and disappear into the pile. Nervously, Rachel followed him, and found herself standing in the entrance of his shelter. She could barely see anything; it was very dark inside. She carefully stepped into the hut, ducking to avoid hitting her head on the low ceiling. It took a few seconds, but her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Her jaw dropped as she looked around. On one side of the shelter was a crude, home-made bedframe, constructed from logs, on which sat a mattress with a couple of what appeared to be wool blankets piled haphazardly on one end. "This ... is where you live?" Rachel asked, astonished. "How do you keep dry in the rain?" Pete sat down on the edge of the bed. "I found some plastic sheeting at a construction site, so I used it to line the roof. It doesn't leak at all." "How about heat? How do you stay warm?" She sat down next to Pete to avoid getting a crick in her neck from stooping. "There's a lot of brush on top, and it's good insulation," Pete replied. "Except on the coldest nights, it's comfortable." Rachel noted a coupl