He checked the short hallway.
One mattress on the floor. Thin blanket. Pillow. A backpack and a skateboard.
That was about it.
Murray came back and faced Hubert.
“How long has your mom been gone?”
Hubert stared at the floor.
“A while,” he mumbled.
“How long is ‘a while’?” Murray pressed.
Hubert shifted, tugging at his sleeve.
“A week,” he said. Then, in a rush, “Or nine days.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“Alone?” I said. “You’ve been here alone that long?”
Hubert’s back stiffened.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I go to school. I make food. Mom sends money when she can. She had to help my grandparents. There wasn’t room for me to go. She said I’d be okay.”
He sounded like he was repeating something he’d been told, not something he believed.
“I’m almost 13,” he added, as if that made him grown.
Murray’s voice softened.
“You’re still a kid,” he said. “You shouldn’t be handling this by yourself.”
Hubert’s eyes filled.
“Please don’t take me away,” he whispered. “I don’t want to go live with strangers. I’m doing fine. Just… don’t get my mom in trouble. Please.”
He turned to me like I had any power.
“Tell him,” he begged. “Tell him I’m okay, Mrs. Faith.”
I walked closer, knees aching.
“You’re brave,” I said. “But no, sweetheart. You’re not okay. You’re scared and alone and pretending you’re not. That isn’t okay.”
Murray looked between us.
“Faith,” he said quietly, “you live alone?”
“Yes,” I said. “Just me. For a long time.”
“If we get his mom’s permission and clear it with CPS,” he said, “would you be willing to have Hubert stay with you for now?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
Hubert blinked fast.
“You’d want me there?” he asked. “I’m loud. And I fall a lot. And I forget stuff.”
“I’ve had too much quiet and not enough falling,” I said. “I think we’ll manage.”
Murray smiled.
“Hubert, nobody’s dragging you out tonight. I’m going to make some calls, talk to your mom, and do this the right way. Fair?”
Hubert nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve.
The next week was paperwork and calls.
Child Protective Services came out. They inspected my house. They talked to Hubert’s school.
They called his mom in Alabama, where she’d gone to care for her sick parents.
She cried on speakerphone so hard I could hear her breath catch.
“I thought it would be three days,” she kept saying. “Then Dad got worse. Then Mom fell again. I kept thinking, ‘Tomorrow I’ll go back.’ I know I messed up. I just didn’t know what else to do.”
In the end, they agreed: Hubert could stay with me, as long as his mom stayed in contact and didn’t disappear again.
He moved into my guest room with his backpack, his game console, and the skateboard.
He stood in the doorway, awkward.
