On one side of one door you might find nothing at all. Not nothing in the most literal sense; that would be quite impossible, but just how you’d expect. It was empty. An enormous open space, scarred by wicked graffiti and streaks of all urine down the walls. It was the perfect sort of hang out for anyone looking to make trouble.

And on the far side of the far door from there was where the troublemakers lived. The boys home stood in defiance of itself, refusing at all junctions to collapse into full disrepair or desolation, despite all monetary woes. The boys barely noticed. But the distraction of the ‘secret bridge’ helped.

Having an escape to someone free and out of mind was— well, freeing. And for everyone lost boy who crossed the sky bridge to break and old table or spell his name with his runoff, there was another making art, in paint, in chalk, in dust. They did as they could. And that was enough.