Streaks of crimson and dark maroon crossed the slate gray door. Whether it was dried blood or paint meant to dissuade the casual drinker, the boy couldn't tell. He stood in the dark alley, staring up at the door with a mixture of fear and determination that most would find odd on a boy that young. But something in his stance said he wouldn't be turned back, that he'd come too far to be turned on his heel at this, his final destination. He swallowed, running a hand over the face that had yet to meet a shaver's razor, and puffed out his chest.

He pulled the door open and was hit with a wave, a smell that was a mixture of urine and cigar smoke and decay. The lights were low and the smoke heavy so he never saw the face of the man he ran into. A pair of bony hands closed around his shirt, lifting him off his feet and carting him back like a stray dog that had dared poke his head into the people's dining room.

When the hands released him, he stumbled. His thin legs caught each other up and he fell onto his ass, forcing himself to his feet as quickly as possible lest anyone see a sign of weakness. Laughter roared from the quickly-closing door, everyone in the bar entertained by his immediate disposal. Humiliation caused him to hesitate, staring at the again-shut door and balling his hands into tight fists.

Huffing, he took a step towards the bar door for another go.

"You won't wanna be doing that."

The boy stopped in his tracks, turning and taking three steps back until he located the speaker's location. He kept his teeth gritted and tried for a strong voice when he demanded, "Who are you?" Instead, his too-wide eyes gave away his fear and his voice sounded more like a croak.

The man was leaning against the brick wall, lighting a stogie with a book of matches. He tossed them aside and said, "Kid like you'd get chewed up, spit out in a place like that. They'd skin ya just for fun... or if someone puked on the carpet the night b'fore. You best go running home to your momma."

"Man's in there," the ki