BURGERMAN MADE HIS MOVE.

I woke up last night to the sound of muffled screams. It went on all night. Burgerman always rode his new toys long and hard, until they broke. Just like me.

In the morning, I knew the drill. Got up, went into the kitchen, ate breakfast. Pretended it was the most natural thing in the world to see a naked seven-year-old boy sitting at the beat-up table, stupefied, in front of an overflowing bowl of cereal. Boy didn’t say anything. Just stared at his Froot Loops as they slowly turned dark red, green, and blue.

I didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t want the boy to think I had anything to do with anything.

Burgerman was still in the bedroom. Probably recovering from the night’s exertions. I noticed the phone had disappeared and the door had gained a new bolt lock up high, beyond the new toy’s reach. My pulse quickened slightly. I wondered if the Burgerman remembered the phone in my room. I wondered if he had snuck in in the middle of the night and stolen it.

I did my best to nonchalantly stroll back to my bedroom. Phone was still there. I decided not to take any chances, and I removed it myself, hiding it up in my closet. Like hell I was losing privileges just because Burgerman couldn’t control his appetites.

Back in the kitchen, I poured another bowl of cereal and sat munching in the silence. My presence must have galvanized the boy, because he slowly picked up his spoon and slurped up some soggy cereal. I wondered if he would keep it down. Some did. Some didn’t.

He’d be gone in a day or two, once the Burgerman had had his fill. Did he kill them, turn ’em loose? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I couldn’t remember anymore what year I had been born, my exact birth date. But I must have been a teenager, because the only emotion I could muster anymore was contempt. For Burgerman, the kid, myself.

And then, for no good reason, I thought of the very first boy. All those years ago. The one I’d thought I could help. I wondered if they ever found his body, or if he remained, rotting alone under the azalea bush.

The thought made me angry. I grabbed my cereal bowl, slammed it into the sink. The sound made the new toy flinch.

Burgerman walked into the room.

He’d put on pants, but not a shirt. The years hadn’t been kind to him. His beard held more gray than black, his frame had grown slack from too much beer and greasy food, the skin hanging from his thin chest and scrawny arms. He looked exactly like he was, an aging, white-trash son of a bitch, one foot in the grave and still mean as a rattlesnake.

I hated him all over again.

He looked at me. Then put a hand on the new boy’s shoulder. At the first contact, the boy flinched, then froze, sitting motionless while tears welled up in his eyes.

Suddenly, the Burgerman beamed at me. “Son,” he announced triumphantly. “Meet Boy. He’s your new replacement.”

And I knew, in that moment, that the Burgerman must die.

I waited until the Burgerman retired to his bedroom, dragging Boy behind him. Then I disappeared into my own room, stocked such as it was with a dumpy twin mattress, milk crate clothing bins, and a tiny black-and-white TV I’d salvaged from the neighbor’s trash and repaired myself.

My room stank. The sheets, bedding, dirty clothes. Everything held the rank, sweaty odor of unwashed skin, too-long nights. The whole dingy apartment smelled this way. Milk soured in the fridge. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink. Cockroaches scuttled across the stove.

It pissed me off all over again. The rancid stench of my own life. The endless, gray nothingness that marked my existence. Because the Burgerman had chosen me and after that I’d never had a chance.

Now there wouldn’t even be graduation. Oh no, the Burgerman had a new plaything now. A toy he planned on keeping. Meaning my days were numbered.

And for no good reason, the sting of Burgerman’s rejection hurt me more than his affection ever had.

I was stupid. I was weak. I was nothing.

The Burgerman had killed me. I just didn’t know how to die.

The screaming again. The poor stupid boy shrieking as if that would make a difference.

I crawled into the middle of the bed, pulling the blankets over my head and covering my ears with my hands. I went to sleep.

When I woke up later, it was dark. I lay on my mattress for a long time, watching the way the streetlight filtered through my blinds, creating slashes of light against the far wall.

Then I got up, went to the closet, and fetched the telephone.

Back to my mattress, I lifted the corner and retrieved a phone book I’d smuggled inside the apartment when the Burgerman wasn’t looking.

When I finally found the number, my hands were shaking and my mouth had gone dry.

I didn’t let myself pause, didn’t let myself think too much.

Plug in the phone. Dial the digits.

At the first pickup, “Help me,” I whispered, “Please help me.”

Then I hung up the phone and cried.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR PARENTS?” THE BOY asked. He sat on the front porch with her, drinking a glass of powdered lemonade. He’d been working most of the morning, since he’d appeared shortly after six a.m. She’d let him in without comment, feeding him breakfast, making light conversation.

He didn’t bring up their last encounter and neither did she. She’d done the same thing with Mel when the older man had rung her doorbell yesterday afternoon, bearing a box filled with fresh-ground sausage, eggs, and orange juice. He’d handed it over without a word. She had accepted it with a single nod of acknowledgment. Then he’d gone his way and she’d gone hers.

Sometimes, things were easier that way.

She noticed the boy moved stiffly as he’d helped her roll up rugs and drag them outside for a good beating. His ribs seemed to bother him, and from time to time, she caught him rubbing his backside. She didn’t ask, he didn’t tell. They had a theme to their gray, chilly day. And now this.

“My parents died,” Rita said presently. “Long time ago.”

“How’d they die?”

She shrugged. “Old age. Everyone dies in the end.”

“You’re old,” the boy said.

She cackled. “Think I’m gonna keel over, child? Leave you without a breakfast companion? Don’t worry. World’s not done with me yet.”

The boy was regarding her seriously, however.

“I had parents,” he said abruptly.

She stopped laughing, smoothing out Joseph’s old green plaid flannel shirt, the hem of which fell nearly to her knees. “I see.”

“They died, too.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I don’t know how,” he continued relentlessly, his voice growing thicker. “I had them, then one day they were gone. Just like that. My sister, too. She was little. Always gettin’ into my stuff, wantin’ to play with me. I’d be mean to her. Tell her we were playing hide-and-seek, but once she hid, I wouldn’t look for her. I’d go play all by myself. Then she’d cry and I’d call her a baby and my mom’d get mad at me.”

“I had an older brother like that myself.”

“He was naughty? Then the family sent him away to live with the other naughty boys?”

“We all loved him.” She said it matter-of-factly. “Then he went off and got himself killed in the war. Brothers and sisters fight, child. But they still love.”