He uses the alley again

He took the shortcut through the alley without really deciding to. His feet just carried him there, past the high street, past the shops, toward the narrow gap between the buildings that led to the back of the school.

The smell hit him first — that same foul mix of urine and body odour, thick and unmistakable. He slowed, his heart beginning to thud against his ribs. Half of him hoped the man was gone. The other half — the half he didn't want to name — hoped he wasn't.

The mass of blankets was still there. And as Lorenzo approached, it shifted.

The man rose up, slow and enormous, until he stood at his full 6'4". His clothes were the same ragged layers, his face unwashed, his hands huge and dirty at his sides. He looked at Lorenzo and squinted for a moment, then broke into a wide, yellow-toothed grin.

"Well, well. Little lady. You came back."

Lorenzo opened his mouth. He could have said *I'm not a lady. I'm a boy. I'm a man.* The words were right there, ready, true. But they stuck in his throat. His voice would crack if he tried. It always did when he was nervous. And some small, strange part of him didn't want to correct the man at all.

He said nothing.

The man laughed — a low, rumbling sound. "Cat got your tongue? Don't worry. I remember you. The Marlboro Golds." He nodded toward Lorenzo's blazer. "You still got 'em?"

Lorenzo's hand moved to his pocket before he could stop it. He pulled out the pack. The lighter was still in there too — the one the man had given him.

The man's eyes lit up. "There she is. Come on, then. Join me for one. You know the drill."

Lorenzo's hands trembled slightly as he pulled a cigarette from the pack. The man took one too, then produced his own lighter — not the one he'd given Lorenzo, another one, battered and scratched. He lit his own first, then held the flame out.

Lorenzo leaned in and lit his cigarette. The paper caught, the tip glowed orange, and he inhaled.

This time, he didn't cough.

The smoke filled his mouth, warm and harsh, and he held it for a moment before letting it drift out. It still tasted awful. It still burned his throat. But it didn't surprise him anymore. His body had already started to learn.

The man watched him with something like approval. "See? I told you. It gets easier."

They stood there in the alley, two unlikely companions, smoking in silence. Lorenzo didn't know what to say. He didn't know why he was still there. But the cigarette between his fingers felt natural now, the weight of it familiar. He held it the way his mother held hers — index and middle finger, a small, elegant gesture he'd never noticed himself copying until now.

When the cigarette was done, Lorenzo dropped it and crushed it under his Oxford shoe. The man nodded at him.

"Same time tomorrow?"

Lorenzo didn't answer. He just turned and walked away, out of the alley and toward the school gates.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out. A text from his mother:

*"Forgot to ask — have you seen my cigarettes? I think I dropped them somewhere. I'm dying here! "*

Lorenzo stared at the screen. The pack was in his blazer. Two cigarettes were gone now. The lighter — the homeless man's lighter — was in his pocket.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

He typed: *"No, haven't seen them. Sorry, Mum."*

He hit send.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked through the school gates, the lie settling into his chest like a stone.