Kristin Butcher... has novel ideas

What could a 12-year old from a respectable family possibly have in common with an angry old man who lives on the streets?

Everyone knows Luther -- or thinks they do. He's been wandering the streets for years. Nick has seen Luther around, but never given him much thought. Then, when life at home grows unbearable, Nick runs away -- right into Luther.

In spite of their differences, Nick and Luther begin to like and, more surprising, respect each other. But Luther has a secret. As their friendship unfolds, Nick discovers they are both runaways. And they have to help each other to stop running.

(Excerpt from Chapter 1)

Nick didn't know if his chest ached because his lungs were bursting or because his heart was breaking. All he knew for sure was that he had to keep running.

He'd covered the three blocks down Falcetta Boulevard to Ramsey Avenue before he realized he was heading for home. It was a natural instinct, but it was wrong. Angry at his own stupidity, Nick changed course at the next intersection. And the next. He knew they weren't following him, but he kept running, hearing only the blood pounding in his ears. It was dark now and there were few cars or people on the streets, but Nick hardly noticed -- he was concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing. He couldn't let himself feel the ache growing in his side -- that would suck away the last of his hope, and he wouldn't be able to run another step. Then he would have to go back.

As he turned the corner at Kelly Lane and Kirkland Avenue, he looked back -- just in case they were following. It was a mistake.

Slam! He crashed hard into what felt like a wall. Then he reeled, unable to get his balance. His backpack tore free of his grip and flew off into the night. He stumbled over something -- metal, he thought -- that gouged his shins and sent him crashing to the ground.

Woomph! As the full weight of his body hit the sidewalk, the air rushed from his lungs. For several seconds he lay winded, gasping like a fish out of water.

Once he got his breath back, he didn't have the will to run again. But common sense told him he couldn't lie sprawled on the sidewalk. Gingerly, he tested the various parts of his body. He was bruised and scraped and sore, but nothing seemed to be broken. As he started to push himself to his feet, he heard a groan.

There it was again. It wasn't a wall he'd slammed into, but a person.

He struggled to his feet and stumbled in the direction of the sound, through the crazy shadows cast by the streetlights. Nick didn't see him right away because, in the collision, the man had been thrown from the sidewalk into a bush against a fence. That's where he was sitting, as though the bush was an overstuffed chair.

Except that the man was stuck, Nick realized. His feet, one shoeless, weren't touching the ground, and his muddy brown overcoat was spread wide, snagged here and there on the sharp branches of the bush. The worst part though, Nick discovered as he tried to free the man from his prickly throne, was the man's head. His hair, a shoulder-length mane of silver, had become tangled in the bush, and every time he tried to move his head, his hair tugged at his scalp, causing him to wince in pain.

"Hold still," Nick urged. "Let me untangle you." But it was an impossible job, especially in the dark. Finally, Nick snapped the tangled twigs from the bush. They were still caught in the man's hair, but at least he was free.

"Are you okay?" Nick asked, helping the man to his feet.

"Hmmph," the man grunted. "No thanks to you. Why don't you watch where you're going? You could've killed me, you crazy kid. Where's my shoe?" He shrugged Nick's hand from his arm and began searching the ground.

Feeling guilty and not knowing what else to do to make up for the accident, Nick joined in. The shoe had landed on the grass near the curb, right next to Nick's backpack. He ran to retrieve it. It was old and scuffed, but Nick knew it had once been a quality shoe. He'd seen ones like it in Cole's closet, and Cole always had the best. The sole of the shoe was worn thin. In one place it had given out altogether and a piece of cardboard had been stuck inside to cover a hole about the size of a quarter. The shoe had no laces. No wonder it had flown off the man's foot, Nick thought.

As Nick started back with the shoe, he studied the man, who had shuffled back onto the sidewalk and was waiting impatiently under a streetlight. He was short and old. His bushy eyebrows, long thick hair, and even the stubble on his chin were silver. His face was lined and leathery. He looked like a fisherman who had spent his life in the salt spray and sea wind. Whoever he was, he'd seen better days. His long threadbare coat was a couple of sizes too big and the sleeves hung down over the man's knuckles. The bottoms of his trousers were ragged and a big toe poked through the sock on his shoeless foot.

Yet despite his scruffy appearance, the man carried himself with a dignity that Nick found surprising in a bum. But a bum was what he was. Nick realized that he had seen him many times, wandering the streets, digging through trash for bottles and pop cans, placing them carefully in the two-wheeled wire shopping cart he always pulled behind him. He was as much a part of Andersonville's identity as the clock in the city hall tower.

Everybody knew him -- at least to see him. His name was Luther. Nick knew he must have a last name too, but no one seemed to know -- or care -- what it was. Nick wondered about that. If you didn't have an address, maybe you didn't need a last name either. Nick tried to imagine it -- no home, no name.

"What're you staring at?" Luther's hard black eyes glared at Nick from beneath angry eyebrows. He snatched his shoe out of Nick's hand and returned it to his foot. Then he took a few experimental steps, as though he were trying on new shoes at a store. "Hmmph!" was all he said, glaring again at Nick.

"Let me help you get the twigs out of your hair.

"Luther raised an arm to fend off Nick's help and backed up, placing his cart strategically between them.

"Don't you think you've done enough already?" he barked.

"But I just want to help. I'm really sorry. This was all my fault, and I want to make sure you're okay.

You are okay, aren't you?" Nick finished hopefully."You are okay, aren't you?" Luther mimicked in a high-pitched whine. "What do you care? Mind your own business. Can't a man even take an evening stroll without being mowed down by some thoughtless kid? What are you doing racing around the streets after dark anyway? Don't you have a home?"

"I-I-I ..." All the horrible events of the day stampeded through Nick's brain and panicked him. He might be better dressed than Luther, but he was no better off. No, he thought, he didn't have a home, not anymore.

Nick turned and ran.