I nagged him to death last summer.

“I would start chopping now. Do you know how much wood we use in any given winter.”

I knew this: you could chop eight hours a day for six months and still, you will run out of wood. In winter.

Winter is about skiing. Dog sledding. Rinks on lakes. Fun.

For us, winter is endured. Internet and electric go right away. This is always due to trees falling down on top of wires.

I have finally figured out what a hot spot is. Don’t touch the stove with little fingers because the stove will bite you, bake you, and we would have to eat you.

Carlton never listens.

I knew he would start chopping when the snow was three feet deep.

We often cook over the fire in the fireplace. Ordinary enough.

Carlton is anything but. Ordinary.

His parents are due to be released from prison.

He is an elopement risk, too.

Until I explained to him that this was his last chance, and that if he wanted to be put in detention, he should prepare his shit hole with his lube and his fist. If you can get the hole to become a little less tight, it was going to be prepare or repair it was his choice.

Low profile and go fuck yourself. “I’m not sure you’re man enough or that you have balls big enough for what low profile means. So if you want to send up smoke signals for your parents so they know exactly where you are, be my guest. But make sure you prepare that tight hole until it stretches – you are conflicted – between loving your parents, and hating them for what they’ve done to you. Maybe if you reunite it can all work out. But I would get your shit hole ready in case it doesn’t.”

Let us say that someone, it could be anyone, is taking a tour directed by me because most residential nonprofits keep spies around – most of them turn into real estate ownerships and the bureaucrat I was showing around was more than curious. I did not like him but I am always courteous around even Republicans. Let us say that someone of some authority on his little tour has seen you.

Let us say that this anonymous person if ever asked if he has ever seen you, and where was this, and when. And does he have photographs.

Not the kind we take of kids I can obscure.

The ordinary kind.

Not art.

Apparently there are photographs. I never saw a camera. This guy is a professional. And if he’s asked if he has seen you, and he lies about it, it’s prison. Pipe to pipeline. Carlton did not beat himself up like that or ever come down with anal Gonorrhea. Carlton stank for a week with it. His guts turned inside out. You cannot chop wood with anal Gonorrhea. You just hold your guts in pain. There are often explosions. Depends.

You would have to say: “I saw him.”

This would arrive within a couple of weeks before his parents would be released into the society they love to hate, and they hated their son, too. Sometimes reunification works.

But when a prison gets involved, any kid becomes instantly vulnerable and is at high risk. Some kids don’t survive three days back in the happy, happy family.

Runaways have a secret pipeline far more street wise than law enforcement can know about.

Every shelter they could go to wants to see their ID so it can be copied.

The kid does not fill out the forms, he runs.

They bounce ideas off of me. I tell them what I think. Do I spin it. Oh, my, but yes. He will quickly run out of room to run in because his original bubble that he’s been living in is easily deflated. If this is the kid’s first time surviving on the street, you’ve lost him forever. He cannot be reached. The CDC can throw a zillion posters at him of stick figures that are designed by highly-paid professionals to reach the hard to reach.

Then, they give up.

Never spin. It’s ineffective. “Do I appear to be stupid to you,” is what I am always confronted with.

I give up every day.

Because I can see what the future holds for them. l seen it clearly. There is nothing obfuscated about it.

I hid the chain saw. There is no future.

It scares me to see the boys use the chain saw. Just chop.

In a few minutes, Carlton will remove his coat and shirt so we can all see his hunkness.

It’s really all he has.

The red flags all along this well-traveled route have him doing sex work by spring.

The sweat just drips from him. His tits are now excited.

He asked the entire group of us if anyone wanted to rim him.

My eyes to the sky.

Arms shot up. There were volunteers. This is not a life the mainstream of culture can recognize. It leaves them conflicted, too.

“You have at least another six months for you to keep chopping wood.”

He swung the axe hard as a battering ram.

His anger was what burst in an anguish that was either going to set him free, or it would kill him, all his various parts sets his jaw to stone. Chips flying everywhere.

The snow still coming down hard as angels.

https://tim-barrus.format.com/about