The bus door hissed shut behind Leo. He was eight years old. He held a tin can. The can was dented. It was painted blue. Once it had been red. Now the metal showed through in long, rusted scars. It was his only possession. His father had given it to him at the curb.

Here, son.

Leo had not looked up. He had stared at the mud on his boots.

Keep it out of the rain.

The door closed. The engine rumbled. Leo stood on the cracked asphalt. The city receded. The bus was a yellow smear. Then it was gone. He was alone. The air was cold. It smelled of diesel and wet wool. He clutched the tin can. His fingers were numb. He walked toward the highway.

The highway was a gray ribbon. It stretched into the fog. Leo walked. He did not run. Running wasted energy. He had learned that. His stomach was a hollow pit. He had eaten a crust of bread that morning. It had been hard. Dry. He had chewed it slowly. To make it last.

He walked for hours. The sun did not come out. The sky was a flat sheet of lead. He passed a gas station. The lights were on. He saw a woman inside. She was on a phone. She was laughing. Leo looked away. He did not want to be seen. He was invisible. That was better.

He found a culvert. A concrete tube under the road. Cars roared over him. The noise was a physical weight. It pressed against his ears. He curled up. He wrapped his arms around the tin can. It was cold. He held it tight. It was a mirror. It reflected his hunger. It reflected his fear. He was the can. Dented. Scraped. Used up.

He slept. Or he pretended to sleep. Dreaming was a luxury. It required safety. He was not safe. He was awake. He counted the vibrations of the tires. One. Two. Three. Four. The rhythm was steady. It was hypnotic. It was the heartbeat of the world. He was small. The world was huge. He was nothing.

A shadow fell over him.

Leo opened his eyes. A man stood there. He was tall. He wore a gray coat. The coat was clean. Too clean. The man looked down. His face was kind. It was a practiced kindness. It was the smile of a salesmen.

Hello there.

Leo did not speak. He pulled the can closer.

You’re out here in the cold.

Leo nodded. His throat was tight.

I’m Mr. Thorne. I drive the supply truck. I can give you a ride.

Leo shook his head.

It’s a nice truck. Warm.

Leo shook his head again. He was afraid. Not of the man. He was afraid of the warmth. Warmth meant change. Change meant loss. He had lost his mother. He had lost his father. He had lost his home. He would not lose the can. The can was his anchor. It was the only thing that was real.

Mr. Thorne knelt. He extended a hand. The hand was soft. The nails were trimmed.

Come on, boy. You’ll catch your death.

Leo stared at the hand. He did not take it.

I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to help.

Leo stood up. He was trembling. He was not cold. He was angry. He had been abandoned. He had been dropped. Like a package. Like a piece of mail that was too heavy. He was not a child to be saved. He was a survivor. He was a wolf.

Go away, Leo said.

His voice was a rasp. It was small. It was fierce.

Mr. Thorne stood up. He brushed the dust from his trousers.

Suit yourself.

He walked away. His boots crunched on the gravel. Leo watched him go. The man did not look back. Leo felt a pang of confusion. The man had been kind. Why had he left? Was it a test? Was it a trap? Leo did not know. He did not want to know. He sat back down. He hugged the can. The metal was warm now. It had absorbed his body heat. It was a small, hard heart.

He walked again. The fog was thicker. It erased the horizon. He could not see where he was going. He only knew he was moving. Forward. Always forward.

He passed a farm. A red barn. A dog barked. Then stopped. The dog knew something. The dog knew about hunger. Leo envied the dog. The dog had a master. The dog had a purpose. Leo had nothing.

He found a stream. It was shallow. It was muddy. He knelt. He dipped his hand in. The water was bitter. He drank. He drank until his stomach cramped. He wiped his mouth. He looked at his reflection. A ghost. A smudge in the mud.

He thought of his mother. She had sung to him. A lullaby. The melody was broken. He could only remember the first two lines. She had smelled of lavender. She had been gentle. She was gone. The silence was louder than the cars. The silence was the loudest thing in the world.

He walked until his feet bled. The blisters burst. The pain was sharp. It was clear. It was real. He welcomed it. Pain was a companion. It told him he was alive.

He saw a light in the distance. A house. A single window. It was yellow. It was warm. He walked toward it. He did not want to go in. He wanted to look. He wanted to see what life looked like when it was not a struggle.

He reached the porch. The wood was dark. The door was closed. He could smell food. Roast chicken. Bread. It was a torture. His mouth watered. He gagged. He pressed his hand over his mouth.

A door opened. A woman stood there. She held a basket. She wore an apron. She looked at Leo. Her face was soft. It was tired.

Oh, dear, she said.

Leo flinched.

What is your name?

Leo said nothing.

Are you lost?

Leo shook his head.

Are you running away?

Leo shook his head.

Then what are you doing here?

Leo looked at the can. He held it out. He offered it to her. It was a gift. It was a sacrifice. It was his soul.

The woman took the can. She looked at it. She turned it over in her hands.

This is a nice can, she said.

Leo nodded.

It’s empty, though.

Leo nodded.

What is in it?

Leo shook his head. He did not know. It was empty. It was full. It was everything. It was nothing.

Come in, the woman said.

Leo hesitated.

There is soup. And bread.

Leo did not move.

The night is cold.

Leo looked at the door. The yellow light spilled out. It was a trap. He knew it. He had been trapped before. By his parents. By the city. By the bus. He would not be trapped again.

No, Leo said.

The woman frowned.

Please, child.

No.

The woman’s face hardened. The kindness vanished. It was replaced by anger. It was a sharp, cold anger.

Get out of my way, she said.

Leo stepped back.

Go away, she said.

She slammed the door. The sound echoed. It was a gunshot. Leo stood in the dark. The light was gone. The smell of food was gone. He was alone again.

He walked. He walked until the stars came out. The stars were cold. They were indifferent. They did not care if he died. He did not care if they did.

He found a field. It was dry. The grass was dead. He lay down. He looked at the sky. He saw a plane. It crossed the horizon. It left a white line. The line faded. It disappeared.

He was the line. He was fading.

He thought of his father. His father had been strong. His father had been silent. His father had left. Why? Because he was weak. Because he could not carry the weight. Leo could not carry the weight either. He was dropping it. He was dropping the can.

He opened his hand. The can was there. He closed his hand. He opened it again. It was there. He could not let it go. He could not. If he let it go, he was nothing. He was air. He was dust.

He held it tight. The metal bit into his palm. He did not pull away. He wanted the pain. He wanted the mark. He wanted to be changed. He wanted to be defined by what he had lost.

He slept. He dreamed of nothing. No images. No sounds. Just a void. A black, quiet void. He floated in it. He was weightless. He was free.

He woke up. The sun was rising. It was a pale, weak sun. It did not warm him. The world was gray. The road was gray. The sky was gray. He was gray.

He walked. He did not stop. He did not look back. He walked toward the city. He walked toward the bus stop. He walked toward the door that had hissed shut.

He had to go back. He had to find the man. Mr. Thorne. He had to give him the can. He had to give him everything. He had to be empty.

He walked faster. His feet did not hurt. He had forgotten the pain. He was numb. He was empty.

He reached the highway. The traffic was heavy. The cars were a river. He stood on the shoulder. He held the can. He waited.

A truck stopped. It was a supply truck. The same truck. The door opened. Mr. Thorne stepped out. He looked old. He looked tired.

Leo, he said.

Leo nodded.

I’ve been looking for you.

Leo held out the can.

Here, Leo said.

Mr. Thorne took it. He looked at it. He looked at Leo.

Why?

Leo did not answer. He did not need to. The answer was in the silence. The answer was in the empty space inside him.

Mr. Thorne put the can in his pocket.

Get in, he said.

Leo did not move.

Get in, Leo.

Leo shook his head.

No.

Mr. Thorne sighed. He closed the door. The engine started. The truck pulled away. The dust rose. It settled on Leo’s shoulders.

Leo stood alone. He was empty. He was free. The can was gone. The anchor was gone. He was drifting.

He smiled. It was a small smile. It was a broken smile. It was a smile of defeat. It was a smile of victory.

He walked away. He walked into the fog. He walked into the silence. He was no one. He was nothing. He was free.

The road stretched out before him. It was long. It was endless. He walked. He did not look back. He did not look forward. He was here. He was now. He was alive.

The pain was gone. The fear was gone. The hunger was gone. There was only the walk. There was only the step. There was only the breath.

He was a ghost. He was a memory. He was a pale tale.

He walked on.