Jason's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 2
At fourteen, Jason Stone had been living on the streets for over a year, long enough to learn to be tough and aggressive when necessary. He’d learned to fight all out, to strike first and to never show weakness. Life had taught him well; hesitation meant defeat.
Winter was coming. The sun was setting earlier. The October air had a bite that cut right through his coat. He was fourteen years old, and he was scared. He had no idea how he was going to get through a Chicago winter.
He had been walking along the alley behind the bakery (thinking about the whole loaf of bread in his backpack) when he spotted it, an unlatched basement window. The building had been a warehouse or manufacturing space; now it held a gym. He knew that customers came and went until about nine at night; then the place went dark.
His hands were already numb from the cold. The forecast called for the first frost of the season. He couldn’t spend another night huddled behind the dumpsters.
He had to try.
He gave the small hopper window a push. It wasn’t latched. After checking to make sure no one was watching, he wiggled through the small opening. The difference was immediate—blessed warmth enveloped him like an embrace he hadn’t felt in months. The basement was dark and smelled musty, but it was blissfully warm.
He made his way carefully through the darkness, hands outstretched until he found a set of stairs leading up. His eyes gradually adjusted to reveal a workshop. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, and under a staircase that presumably led to the first floor, he discovered canvas drop cloths—thick, paint-stained, but clean enough.
This was it. This was the stroke of luck he’d been praying for.
He pulled out the loaf of bread he had scored from the dumpster behind the bakery. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, washing it down with sips from his water bottle. The concrete floor was hard, but the drop cloths provided decent insulation. He wrapped himself up like a cocoon, feeling safer than he had in weeks. The gentle hum of the big heating unit created a lullaby that pulled him toward sleep.
He slept deeply.
Too deeply.
A kick to his feet sent shock waves through his body, jerking him from dreams of warm beds and full meals back to cold reality. He scrambled backward, still tangled in the canvas, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights that now flooded the basement.
“What the hell are you doing down here?”
The voice was deep, rough, and carried an edge that made his blood freeze. He looked up to see a mountain of a man towering over him—easily six-foot-four, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the entire basement. His face was weathered like old leather, with deep lines carved by years of scowling. Dark eyes stared down at him from under bushy gray eyebrows, and the man’s massive hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
The boy tried to speak, but only a croak came out.
“I said, what are you doing down here?” The man took a step closer; Jason slid out from under the staircase and rose to his feet. Started calculating escape angles.
The staircase.
“Sorry, I was just ... I was cold, and I didn’t think anyone would mind. I’ll just get going.”
“You didn’t think anyone would mind if you broke into their property?” The man’s voice rose, echoing off the concrete walls. “How long you been coming in here, boy?”
“Just ... just last night. First time, I swear.”
“How old are you, kid?”
The question caught him off guard. “Fourteen.” He moved slowly to one side. He’d been sleeping underneath the stairs. If he could just get a few more steps, he would have enough room.
The man’s expression changed. He rubbed his jaw with one massive hand, the sound of stubble scratching against his palm surprisingly loud in the sudden silence.
“Fourteen,” he repeated to himself. “Shit.”
Jason took his chance and threw a punch, then darted to the right, desperately trying for the stairs. The man was old, but he moved automatically just enough to avoid the punch.
The man sidestepped the next punch just as casually, not even changing expression.
“You done?” he asked quietly.
Jason came at him again, faster this time, more desperate. The man simply wasn’t there when the punch arrived. No fancy moves, no dramatic counters—just gone, like smoke.
“Hey kid, how about you join me for breakfast?”
Shocked Jason stared at the man. That was the very last thing he expected. He stared at the man suspiciously. Nothing was free in his world. But something in this man’s eyes was different–different from the social workers with their clipboards and false smiles, the cops who moved him along, the street predators who circled vulnerable kids like sharks.
“Why?” Jason’s fourteen-year-old voice cracked despite his efforts to sound tough.
“Because I was you once. And someone gave me a chance.”
The diner was a working man’s café called Mac’s Place. The booths were green cracked vinyl, and the coffee could strip paint, but it was warm, and the busy waitresses didn’t look twice at Jason’s filthy clothes. The man ordered for both of them—steak and eggs, toast, orange juice.
Real food. Jason’s mouth watered at the thought of it.
They ate in silence for the first ten minutes. The man didn’t ask questions, didn’t lecture, didn’t try to fix anything. He just ate his eggs and watched Jason wolf down the first hot meal he’d had in days.
“My name is Charley Finnegan. You got family?”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “No. Had one for a while.”
“Foster homes?”
“Three. Last one bad. Ran away.”
Charley nodded. He understood running away. At fifteen, he’d escaped his foster home and lived under bridges for two years before Jimmy Santos, a Vietnam vet with one leg and infinite patience, had found him trying to steal from the donation box of Our Lady of Sorrows soup kitchen.
“I got a room,” Charley said. “Apartment on the second floor of the gym. It’s not much, but it’s warm and dry. You could stay there if you want.”
Jason’s fork of hash browns stopped halfway to his mouth. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. But there are rules.”
“Like what?”
“You work. No drugs. No stealing. You go to school.” Mr. Finnegan paused. “Maybe I teach you how to fight better.”
The apartment was sparse—a bed, a dresser, a small table, and a tiny kitchen with a stove and a little refrigerator. But it had its own bathroom and a lock on the door. Mr. Finnegan, as Jason would forever after call him, handed him the key and stepped back.
“I’m next door if you need anything. The fridge has bottled water.”
That first night, Jason barely slept. He kept waiting for the catch, for Mr. Finnegan to demand something in return. But morning came, and there was just a knock on the door to wake him up and an invitation to breakfast.
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