On the street, Brian’s waistband itched, his bowels ached.

He watched two pockmarked men pull the guts from a beaten stereo. A woman with red cheeks massaged her foot, which looked like a ham rolled in an ashtray.

Keith sucked the gap of his missing incisors. “Got a gun or a knife, Brain?” Keith was calling him “Brain.”

“No.” His parents took his Swiss Army knife before they kicked him out.

“Guys’ll cutchyer throat.” Keith pointed at a man straightening a cardboard awning. The man glared.

Brian’s abdomen groaned. He looked down and asked, “Where do people around here, uh… go?”

Keith said loudly, “One or two, Brain?”

Brian murmured, “Two.”

Keith made a show of leaning to look up and down the block. “G’wan behind that white car. Coast is clear. I gotcha.”

The stereo men chuckled.

Brian left his backpack, walked fast and squatted behind a white sedan. He reasoned this was something the others experience all the time.

A woman with keys appeared between the cars and said an involuntary, “Uh-guh,” and got in her car and pulled out, revealing Brian to the street.

The tents roared with laughter.

Brian didn’t look at Keith as he picked up his backpack, pulled out his cigarettes and lit one.

Keith laughed. “Look, kid, I’m sorry. Say, you couldn’t spare…”

Brian offered the pack. One left.

Keith stared at it. Then took it, and his eyes went serious. “Gotta get you a weapon, Brian. We’ll figure somethin’ out, don’t worry.”