The sky was overcast and fog was rolling in. I was alone outside San Francisco's Greyhound Station, drinking coffee, listening to "Time Has Come Today" by The Chambers Brothers, and waiting for my little brother's bus to arrive.

It was Jude's 18th birthday, and he was coming to live with me. I was thrilled, of course, but also afraid.

Life had been hard on Jude. He barely knew his father. Our mother, Patsy, was an addict and a narcissist. Our much older half-brother, Tom, a violent bully. Our sister died in a car accident. And then, over a year ago, I ran away to San Francisco, leaving him alone with Patsy and Tom.

It's the biggest regret of my life. I don't regret leaving. I had to leave. But I should have taken Jude with me. He was only 16, so I didn't, but I shouldn't have left him alone. With them.

When Jude walked out of the Greyhound Station, I hardly recognized him. He had grown fat and a long tangle of unwashed hair. His neck and shoulders were hunched over like he was trying to make himself small, but he was tall, taller than me, though his posture made him seem shorter. His clothes were torn and stained and too big for him, like he was hiding under a circus tent.

When we saw each other, we didn't run or shout; our communication was more understated than that, though we were overjoyed. I gave him a strong hug, but when we separated, he seemed uncomfortable.

"So you're really gay now, huh?" he remarked, gesturing to my outfit. I was wearing tight, grey, acid-washed jeans; a black jacket; and a t-shirt with a man reading a newspaper, as an explosion of birds, butterflies, and colors burst out the text. My fingernails were painted black with cosmic colors. My hair was dyed black to better contrast my light blue eyes, and each ear was pierced at an 8 gauge. It occurred to me that I'd changed dramatically since last he saw me.

"I prefer Queer," I said with a shrug. "But gay isn't an insult. You can call me gay."

"Does that mean you're bi?" he asked.

Smiling, I sighed. "Let's get moving. You can ask questions on the way. Need help with your bag?"

"Yeah, thanks. Where are we headed?"

"Up a few blocks, there's a streetcar. It's about a 20-minute ride to my place. You can store your stuff and shower there."

We were South of Market, a central district of San Francisco. Surrounded by people and skyscrapers, Jude was wide-eyed and smiling as we walked to Market Street, the busiest traffic artery of San Francisco. We jumped on the streetcar going to Castro, and I gave Jude the window seat so he could watch the city as we rode by.

Eventually, he turned to me and asked, "But you are into men, though, right?"

I nodded, "Not all men, obviously, but yeah, some of them."

"Are you also into women?"

"Sometimes. Less often, but it happens. It's just easier with men, I think. The sex is less complicated. For one thing, pregnancy usually isn't a concern with two guys."

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

"A couple times. Just one-night stands, though. They never went anywhere. Have you?"

"Yeah."

"Who?"

"Heather."

"Heather…?"

"Mom's friend."

"She's forty-something."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"She sucks a mean dick."

"I'll take your word for it. Good for you, I guess? I don't know how it works for straight people. This is our stop."

I still lived in a small studio in the Perramont Hotel with housing assistance from Castro Street Youth Housing. Jude had to be registered and leave his state ID at the door.

After he took a shower, we sat in my room, me on my bed, Jude in a chair I found on the sidewalk.

"You got any weed?" he asked me.

"You used to hate weed. When did that change?"

"After you left, Mom and I moved back in with Gramma. She lives like 3 miles out of town. It's fucking boring out in the sticks. No one's around. There's nothing to do. So Mom gave me weed to do shit, like mow the lawn and wash the dishes."

"You're telling me, for the last year and a half, Mom has been bribing you, a minor, with drugs, to do your chores?"

"They were your chores, not mine! You left! You know I have scoliosis! Pushing that damn lawn mower around hurts, and the weed helped."

"Why the hell didn't Tom do it, then?"

Jude scoffed. "Tom's busy setting his marriage on fire. He's been losing everything in the casinos and getting drunk."

"What a fuckin' mess. Okay, forget all that. I want to talk to you about something, and it's important. I've said this before, but it bears repeating. I'm allowed two overnight guests a week. That means you can stay here tonight and tomorrow night.

"In the morning, we're gonna walk to Lark Inn and get your name on the list for temporary housing. Hopefully, it won't take five weeks. In the meantime, I'm gonna introduce you to some friends. With any luck, you won't have to sleep outside.

"Jude, listen. When you stay in the shelter, you'll meet all kinds of people, and they'll offer you all kinds of stuff. I can't follow you around and make you make good decisions, but let me offer some advice, and I hope you take it.

"You will experiment with drugs. I can't stop you. You wanna smoke weed? It's easy to find. You wanna do mushrooms or molly? Be careful where you get it, and don't do it often. Give your brain some time to recover. The more time you give yourself between using, the better. These are not to be done casually. Same with booze. Don't drink every day. And don't get caught. Use responsibly, and these things won't ruin your life. But stay away from meth, heroin, cocaine, and anything with a needle. There is no safe or responsible dosage of meth. It'll kill you, slow and mean. It'll hollow out your insides until there's nothing left. I've seen it happen.

"Lark Inn is perilous. Keep your head down, stay focused, and you'll have a room of your own in a month. If you get off track, you might never find your way back. You could be homeless for the rest of your life."

I finished speechifying, and Jude simply said, "So I guess that means you don't have weed."

"Of course, I have weed. This is San Francisco. Everybody smokes weed. Alright, fine. You wanna smoke with me; you gotta make me a promise. Promise that you won't do meth or heroin, or cocaine. Anything with a syringe. Promise me."

"Alright, fine, I promise. Now can we smoke?"

"Okay... We gotta blow it out the window."

I took out my smoky grey bong, Vesuvius. It had been a gift from one of my many ex-boyfriends. After the door was locked, the bowl packed, and the window opened, I taught my little brother bong stoner etiquette.

"See, you hold the lighter to the side, so you only burn a corner instead of the entire bowl at once. That way, everybody gets greenbud."

We watched our favorite show together, Futurama, and laughed for hours over stupid stuff. I told him I'd been taking singing classes, and he demanded we sing a song together since he'd taken choir classes in high school. We landed on "Oh, Danny Boy," a favorite of our Gramma. She used to sing it, so we both knew all the words.

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.

The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,

It's you, it's you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,

It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,

Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!

But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,

If I am dead, as dead I well may be,

You'll come and find the place where I am lying,

And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,

And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,

For you will bend and tell me that you love me,

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!

"Are you a tenor?" he asked me when we finished.

"Yeah, you?"

"Baritone."

"I think that was the first song we ever sang together," I remarked.

"I think you're right… So you learned to sing. What else have you been up to?"

"I study English and Psychology, mostly, but sometimes other stuff, like music and swimming. I know how to swim now! And I'm in this creative writing class so I can get my teacher's input on my book."

"You're finally writing the book?"

"Yeah. And I wrote Morgan into it."

The mood of the room noticeably shifted.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"I based a character on her. It's for my creative writing class. I just wrote her introduction for an assignment. It's four pages. You wanna read it?"

Jude paused for a second that lingered. "Sure."