The Squat

The wind off Lake Michigan didn’t just bite; it chewed. It gnawed at the exposed skin of Silas Vane’s face as he kicked open the rusted service door of the condemned tenement building on Chicago’s South Side.

It was February 12th. The city was a gray, frozen monolith, and Silas was two months behind on rent. The eviction notice taped to his apartment door this morning had been pink—a cheerful color for a death sentence.

He pulled his collar up, his breath puffing in white clouds in the stairwell. He checked the dossier on his phone one last time.

* Target: Remy Ellis.*
* Bounty: $5,000.*
* Client: King.*
* Deadline: Midnight, Feb 14.*

Silas holstered his phone and drew his taser. He didn't like using it, but skips usually ran. They always ran.

He moved silently up to the third floor, avoiding the needles and broken glass littering the hallway. Apartment 3B. The door was off its hinges, leaning against the frame.

Silas stepped inside, expecting a fight. He expected a drug den, or a weapon, or a desperate man jumping out the window.

Instead, he found a boy in a threadbare sweater kneeling on the floor, whispering to a one-eared alley cat.

"Eat up, Barnaby," the boy whispered, pouring the last of a can of tuna onto a chipped saucer. "That’s the good stuff. Don't tell the others."

The room was freezing. There was no furniture, just a sleeping bag in the corner and a pile of sketches on the floor.

"Remy Ellis," Silas said, his voice rough from the cold and the cigarettes he was trying to quit.

The boy flinched, spinning around. He didn't look like a criminal. He looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. He was wearing fingerless gloves and a beanie that had seen better decades. His eyes were wide, dark, and terrified.

"Please," Remy said, standing up and backing toward the window. "I just need a little more time."

"Time’s up," Silas said, stepping over a pile of trash. "King wants his money or his collateral. That’s you."

"I don't have the money," Remy said, his voice cracking. "I told him. The hospice took everything. I just need another month to pick up shifts at the diner—"

"Not my problem," Silas muttered. He hated the sob stories. Everyone had a dead grandma or a sick kid. It didn't change the math. If Silas didn't bring Remy in, Silas would be the one sleeping on a floor like this.

Remy looked at the open window. We were three stories up. The fire escape was iced over.

"Don't do it," Silas warned, raising the taser. "You’ll slip and break your neck, and I don't get paid for corpses."

Remy hesitated. He looked back at the cat, which was happily devouring the tuna.

"Who’s going to feed Barnaby?" Remy asked, tears welling in his eyes.

Silas stared at him. "The cat?"

"He’s feral. He trusts me. If I go..."

"Kid, you’re about to be handed over to a loan shark in Detroit, and you’re worried about the cat?"

Remy didn't answer. He just looked defeated. He held out his wrists.

"Can you leave the window cracked?" Remy asked softly. "So he can get out?"

Silas felt a twinge in his chest—annoyance, mostly. He holstered the taser and grabbed his cuffs.

"Fine," Silas grunted. He snapped the metal around Remy’s thin wrists. "Let’s go. We’ve got a long drive."

As he marched Remy out, Silas glanced back. He used his boot to prop the door open a few inches. The cat didn't look up.