This is a continuation of Chocolate Rain (the whole story was too long to post in one story), which I’m submitting for a writing competition.

Ten minutes later, he begins to feel heavy, like an anchor dragging me into a mess bound to end in a sea of tears. I drag my feet across the pavement, searching for open places to sleep. Residents are sleeping up and down the streets; some seek shelter in tents while others bury their faces in their hands, obscuring anyone from seeing the embarrassment I know is plastered on their faces.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an empty bench directly across from where I’m standing on North Elm Street. I stifle a gasp and begin crossing the street, increasing my pace just fast enough to where I won’t draw attention to myself. I can’t believe no one’s seen it. At this time of night, North Elm is typically filled with dozens of beggars hoping to attract tips from patrons at the local nightclubs, but tonight, everything is quiet — what a blessing.

I gently set the child down so he lies flat on the bench. As I do, he wakes with a startle, gasping for air and thrashing about. He stares at me with forced intensity, ruined by the fact that there is no aggression behind his gaze, only fear. He jumps from the bench.

“Who are you?” he awkwardly spits as blood continues to trickle from his lower lip. He stumbles around as if drunk by the booze that hit him on the head, and I have to grab onto his wrist so that he doesn’t fall toppling over.

“The better question would be: who was that man that attacked you, and why?” I tell him, settling the child back down on the bench gently. He peers at me cautiously.

“I do not speak to creeps,” he retorts, and I have to stifle a laugh. I rest my head on the top corner of the bench and ignore the kid — these are problems for the morning and not tonight.

“He’s my dad,” mumbles the kid, “I’m Nick, by the way.” Begrudgingly, I sit up, resisting sleep yet again for this child. In the moonlight, I realize just how young Nick is. He has big dimples that make him look like a two-week-old puppy who fits warmly in the curvature of your arms. His eyes still retain an ounce of hope, pretending to be unbothered by the fact that his very own father has done unthinkable things.

“I’m very sorry, Nick,” I whisper, my voice cracking with every other word uttered. “I know how it feels to be thrown at walls by the people I used to love and what it’s like to wake each morning knowing that I will be nothing more than a failure — just like my dad said. Every day, I try to get myself to believe I’m more than that.”

Nick scoots closer to me on the bench. He intertwines his tiny, trembling fingers with mine, and we sit there for a moment in silence. I don’t know the kid well, but I sure feel like I know his experiences — they’re the early versions of mine.

“How long have you been on the streets?” Nick asks softly. I try and run through the numbers in my head — I used to keep track, but now, every day is the same as the last.

“More nights than I would wish upon anybody,” I reply. I try not to look at his face because the innocence brings me pain. He doesn’t realize this is his life now, and I don’t have the heart to tell him. Nick talks as if someone will come looking for him, pick him up in their arms, and whisk him away from danger. They won’t. I should know. No one has come for me.

“Thank you,” Nick utters, and I can’t help but stare into his big brown eyes. Tears begin to well up in his sockets, and his pupils enlarge at a rapid pace. I place a hand on Nick’s shoulder and pull him into a tight embrace. I can feel a puddle growing on my chest where the residue of his sobs collects.

“He’s not coming back,” he croaks. All I can do is hold on tighter — how I wish someone would’ve done that all those years ago. That dreary night, the streets held me tighter than my dad ever did. I refuse for Nick to endure the same fate. I run my fingers through his hair, cautiously extracting stray debris and covering dried blood with other hair follicles. He doesn’t deserve this. Who does?

Nick recoils slightly and stares up at me. He’s so young. I feel tears of my own escape from my eyes; they trudge down my cheeks, and when they fall off the tip of my chin, they join the puddle on my heart. I hardly ever cry, but for him, I don’t mind at all.

Maybe life will be better with Nick around — seeing that he chooses to stay. I think about the fun we’ll have hopping the streets and spending entire days basking in the sun. I haven’t felt this excitement since starting my life on the streets, and it’s refreshing.

Nevertheless, we can’t sleep. I’ve already counted all of the windows in each building and read all the advertisements plastered on the walls. I’ve run out of things to count. So, I try to count my blessings. I’ve never really understood why people find it so appealing because nothing seems memorable enough to be a blessing — until I met Nick.

Currently, Nick lies with his head buried in my arms. He wakes every few minutes, rising with a jolt, choking on his tears and gasping for air. As time passes, my mind can’t stop thinking about my dad.

Every time I picture him, I can vividly see his hands — massive and heavily calloused. Never once did his hands feel warm, and I felt them on my skin often. They were always cold, like his love for me. Eventually, things became too much, and I bolted — unlike my mother, who continued to soldier on.

“Excuse me?” a quiet voice says. My eyes open sharply, and I turn toward Nick; however, he isn’t the one speaking. I direct my attention upward and stare into the kind-looking eyes of a man dressed in a two-piece designer suit.

“Marshall Fields,” he introduces himself, reaching out his hand; I shake it confusedly, “I run a local shelter just a few blocks down and saw you two and wondered if I could do anything to help. We have room at the shelter for new residents and are willing to take you in free of charge.” he finishes with a smile. I feel my jaw drop and stare at Mr. Fields with my mouth agape as drool forms at the corners.

“Is that a yes?” Mr. Fields asks. I nod excitedly and shake Nick gently. He jerks up sharply, looking at me with worried eyes. I offer a reassuring smile, guide him off the bench, and pick him up on my back.

The walk to the shelter passes by quickly, and I hardly register the streets we pass by because I’m so excited. I know I should question the man — but I’m suddenly in a trusting mood.

Mr. Fields stops walking in front of a three-story brick building. It leans awkwardly between two apartment complexes as if someone forgot to make room for the structure and had to compress and stretch it at opposite ends. Nevertheless, it looks cozy.

I set Nick down, and we follow Mr. Fields inside. He disappears into a storage closet and brings back a few blankets and pillows. He hands them to me and grabs a flashlight from the front desk.

I grab Nick’s hand and follow Mr. Fields down a set of curving hallways. There’s a buzz in the air from dimly lit lights, and the air smells of rotten milk. We stop walking once we reach the end of the hallway. Rats scurry about the entrance of the room.

Mr. Fields opens the door, and I get my first look inside. It’s beautiful. The contents contain two twin beds, which sit across from each other, along with a mini kerosene lamp, a toilet, and a sink. I shake Mr. Field’s hand once more, and he lets us settle in.

I hand Nick the thicker of the two blankets and toss him a pillow before I tuck him in. He falls asleep in about 5 minutes — I find his quiet breathing quite comforting.

I sit down on my bed and begin removing my tattered shoes. I can’t help but glance at Nick. Tonight has been one big miracle, and it doesn’t feel real. I can’t believe I began today the same as any other: wishing things would be different. They are.

I reposition my body so that I’m lying on my back. There’s a small leak in the ceiling, and drops of water fall on my forehead — I don’t mind. I’m safe, and Nick’s safe, and that’s what matters.

Normally, on nights when the wind is screaming, I squeeze my eyes tight and grit my teeth. Tonight, there is no wind — only the drops from the ceiling and the comforting sounds of Nick’s breathing.

Normally, on nights when I yearn for the impossible, my brain gets all hazy, and I feel so stupid for dreaming. Tonight, I don’t need to dream, for it doesn’t take the sky raining chocolate for a miracle to occur. Glancing at Nick, I can see now that he is my chocolate rain — pure and strong.

I pull my blanket up to my chin so its warmth covers the freckles underneath my bottom lip, and I allow my eyes to close, for tomorrow is another day.