Chris Breslin, a man who had never once considered the state of his soul, felt something in him recoil. He knew The Hollow's reputation, but seeing the level of depravity in person was shocking. The Hollow, named after the hollowed out condemned apartment building, was probably a nice place to live once upon a time. It was three stories tall and shaped like a horseshoe, with a nice courtyard in the center. The remnants of which Chris now stood in, watching a child of no more than ten try to hustle a tweaker in a game of three card monte. The building had been erected in the late nineteenth century, originally as worker housing for the textile mills that once dominated Kensington, a neighborhood in Philadelphia. He imagined the apartments were marketed to those who spent long hours at the looms and factory floors, creating a tight-knit community of working families. Essentially creating a company town within this little block of Philadelphia. But now? It was a forgotten wasteland, inhabited by those discarded by the rest of the world. From what Chris could tell from his research, it had survived the initial manufacturing decline of the sixties, but when the textile industry collapsed entirely in the eighties, followed by the crack epidemic, things went downhill fast. A few decades ago, everyone here was tied together by mill work and factory whistles. The current residents were tied together by drugs. Everyone here either sold them, used them, or was neglected because of them, as he suspected was the case of the red headed boy trading quarters for card tricks in the middle of a school day. Two years out of the Army and already making a name for himself among local criminals, Chris still found himself surprised by the depths people could sink to. Military life hadn't prepared him for this particular brand of civilian despair. Chris took it all in, a mixture of disdain and pity clawing at his insides. He spotted one well dressed man handing out water bottles from the back of the trunk of an old sedan. Unlike every other grouping of people, money didn't seem to be exchanging hands by that car. The good Samaritan spotted Chris, squinted in confusion, then walked over. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze steady. “I'm Pastor Michael from First Baptist,” he said with a gentle but firm voice. “And you don't belong here.” His tone carried an edge of protectiveness. Chris figured it was one he'd perfected for cops who came to harass his flock or predators looking to exploit the vulnerable. Chris wanted to blend in, but knew he'd be recognizable due to his size. Not many addicts are over two hundred pounds of muscle. He did his best to dress the part, but did not take into account how dirty everyone here was. He thought the worst case was they thought he was an undercover cop and would try to avoid him. He didn't consider running into someone that was sober enough to actually challenge him. Chris turned to look at the crowd. “I could say the same to you. You're dressed a lot better than me. Brave to do that around all these criminals and junkies.” Pastor Michael didn't flinch at the words. “Oh no,” he said, his initial suspicion softening. “The folks around here know better than to hurt the clergy.” Chris let out a sharp laugh, the sound hollow in the dead air. “I'm sure that's what the last guy thought.” Pastor Michael tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?” Chris stared back at him, his voice low, almost rueful. “The world's cyclical. A guy like you comes in to help. People on all sides agree not to touch you because you're here to help and it's beneficial to them. Then, someone gets too high, too desperate, or just too dumb... and they kill you. The world moves on. They'll turn on the killer, beat him, maybe even kill him too. Maybe. Then, a few months, maybe a year goes by, and another you shows up. Offering water, bibles, and salvation.” Pastor Michael looked at him quietly for a moment before he spoke, his voice calm and steady. “I trust the Lord's plan for me. I'm here because He wants me here, and I believe He'll take care of me.” Chris's eyes narrowed. That was the answer he expected, but he still couldn't shake the unease in his gut. God's plan? It felt so empty, so out of touch with the harshness of this place. Pastor Michael paused, sensing the tension. “What brings you here, though? What are you doing in a place like this?” “I'm looking for a cousin,” Chris lied. “Haven't seen him in years. Heard he had fallen on some hard times and ended up here.” Pastor Michael's face softened as he nodded. “Religious or not, it's good of you to come be there for your family. All of these people are God's children. Some the most vulnerable of the flock. But all of them have been abandoned by their families. Who specifically are you looking for.” Chris's gaze flicked back to the courtyard, “His name's Charlie,” he said, giving a false name in case this ever came back around to him. “But I don't know what he looks like anymore. People change when they're on drugs.” “That's true. I don't know a Charlie, but the young ones, they are good for information. Plus, any money you give them goes to food. As long as no one takes it from them.” Chris looked at the boy running the card game scam. He was dirty and emaciated but had the vigor of a carnival barker. As he expertly shuffled around the three cards, he shouted encouragement and challenges to the group. “It's not hard, just keep your eye on the queen! Anyone can win! Bet a quarter, win a dollar!” Looking back at the pastor he said. “So pay the kids, but be discrete. Got it. Thanks...father?” The pastor gave him a knowing look. “Brother. Brother Cedric. Take care of yourself,” he said softly, before turning to walk back into the car. Chris approached the boy and pulled a crumpled dollar out of his pocket. “I don't have any change, but I'm guessing I won't win anyway.” He looked up at Chris, smiling. “You should never bet against yourself. But you're right.” He showed the queen one last time to Chris then slowly began tossing the cards around one another. He wasn't the fastest card slinger Chris had seen, but his technique was good. Chris's eyes told him the queen was in the center while his brain was certain that was incorrect. A near toothless man who looked both in his twenties and fifties pointed to a card. “It's on the left. He swapped them. I saw it.” Chris thought he had a fifty-fifty shot unless the kid palmed the card entirely. Either way he'd only be out a dollar which the kid needed more than him. “Sure, the one on the left.” The boy flipped the card to reveal a black joker, then the center which was also a joker. Finally, the queen of hearts was revealed on the right side. The toothless man shuffled away muttering obscenities. “Nice try! Want to go double or nothing?” “No thanks. You've got skills, kid. What's your name?” “Jimmy the Card, but you can call me Card. Best card dealer in The Hollow.” Chris frowned slightly at the nickname, a memory surfacing from his Army days. His Irish father and Japanese mother’s union had given him pale skin with ruddy cheeks, but almond-shaped eyes and straight dark hair. He’d been dubbed “Japish” by his unit thanks to the mixed heritage. He'd allowed the nickname, hoping the label would fade if he didn't resist. Instead, the name shortened to “Jap”, creating uncomfortable confusion when Private Kaneko joined their unit. Since then, he'd developed an aversion to nicknames. “I'll stick with Jimmy,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “Nicknames have a way of taking on lives of their own.” Chris pulled out a money clip and removed a crisp twenty-dollar bill from it. “Alright, Jimmy. Ease up on the carnival act. My name's Steve and I'm trying to find my cousin Ronnie. I've got twenty bucks for you if you can help me find him.” He appraised Chris for a moment and Chris could tell he didn’t believe him. Normally any adult can tell a kid this age anything and they’ll believe them. But street kids were a different breed. They had to learn to smell bullshit in order to survive. The question then wasn’t whether he had a believable story, but if the money was enough to make him not care. In a single motion he took the bill, lifted his leg, and sneakily stuck it in his sock. “I know Ronnie. He’s one of the loud ones. Most of the apartment numbers are gone, but if you go through that entrance, “he nodded his head toward a makeshift plywood door, “you’ll see some stairs. Careful, they’re scary. He’s on the second floor in a room with an X on the door.” Chris thanked him and headed toward the sad excuse for a door. It was more of a roughcut wooden flap than a door. Looking back he saw the card hustler talking excitedly to a taller Hispanic boy. It occurred to him that race didn’t seem to come into play for anyone there. The full spectrum of skin tones were in The Hollow and no one seemed to care. They were all bonded by poverty and drugs. To the dealers, money was money. To the junkies, drugs were drugs. And to the predators, a hole was a hole. Skin color didn’t factor in. Eventually the younger boys would grow up and leave here. Those that didn’t go the straight and narrow path, a small percentage for sure, would probably end up in gangs split by race. But for now, they seemed to be peers. Chris had come to The Hollow to find the estranged brother of his client. Hoping the child wasn’t setting him up, he went through the flimsy wooden partition into the apartment building. Chris reached the second floor, the decaying wood creaking ominously under his weight. The hallway was dim, lit only by the weak daylight seeping through grime-covered windows. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, stale smoke, and the faint, sickly-sweet scent of decay. Chris pushed forward, his footsteps echoing faintly in the cavernous silence. He stopped at a door marked with a spray-painted “X.” This was it. He knocked, the sound hollow and foreboding. After a moment, the door creaked open just enough to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes. The gaunt face of a man, who might have been handsome once, peered out suspiciously. “Are You Ronnie?” Chris asked, his voice low. “Yeah. Who’s asking?” He tried not to recoil from the smell of the man’s breath. “Eric Hardy. Your brother sent me.” Ronnie’s eyes flickered with recognition but quickly narrowed. “Tommy sent you? What the hell for?” Chris shifted his weight slightly, trying to appear casual. “He’s worried about you. Wants to get you some help.” Ronnie snorted derisively, opening the door wider to reveal the squalid interior of the apartment. “Yeah, right. Tommy never gave a damn about me. So, what’s the real reason you’re here?” Chris stepped inside, taking in the bare mattress on the floor, the scattered needles, the filth. He closed the door behind him and compared the man in front of him to his sibling. Thomas had greeted Chris in a diner wearing khakis, a polo, and a fresh haircut. Everything about him screamed upper middle class. Chris imagined he lived in the suburbs with a wife, a dog, and a couple of kids. On the other hand, his brother was the embodiment of poverty. Ronnie wore thick green pants, probably from an army surplus store, and a dirty T-shirt two sizes too big. Like everything in The Hollow, he was dirty, unkempt, and likely dangerous. “He said you’ve been struggling. I’m here to make sure you’re alright.” Ronnie’s eyes lit up briefly with a spark of desperate hope. “You got anything on you? I’ve been out for days. Just a little something, man. Help me get through.” Chris hesitated, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, sealed syringe. Ronnie’s eyes widened and his gaze fixed on it like a starving man staring at a feast. “Yeah, I’ve got something.” He handed over the syringe, watching as Ronnie’s shaking hands eagerly grabbed it. As Ronnie sank to the floor, already preparing his arm, Chris crouched down beside him. “Is there anything else we can do for you?” Ronnie didn’t look up. “Don’t care. Just need this right now.” Chris sighed, standing and stepping back. As Ronnie injected the poison, Chris was surprised at how easy a job this had been. When Tommy had initially came to him promising a percentage of his father’s inheritance in exchange for killing his older brother, he assumed it would be a lot harder. But he just took the hot shot from him without question. He looked around the decrepit room and wondered what had happened for this man’s story to end here. Ronnie’s hand trembled as he dropped the syringe. His shoulders sagged, then he gasped twice before falling still as silence filled the room. Chris turned, heading back toward the door. He took a different way out from the way he entered to avoid being seen by the same people twice. His exit took him to an alley that ran between the apartment and distribution center. From there it was a short walk to his truck where his partner, Vince Santoro was waiting for him. He was about to exit the alley when a tuft of red hair sticking out from under a flattened cardboard box caught his eye. He lifted the box to find the boy from the courtyard badly beaten, with a small pocketknife sticking out of his chest. He was only wearing one sock and shoe, suggesting someone had seen him stash the twenty earlier. When Chris saw him take a haggard breath, he forgot all the rules he followed when on a job. Knowing full well he would be drawing attention to himself, he picked the small boy up in his arms and ran to his truck. “What the fuck, Chris?” Vince demanded, his dark eyes widening at the sight of the bleeding child. He was a lean, well-dressed Italian in his late twenties that Chris's mob connection had recommended. “Shut up and drive,” Chris ordered, cradling the boy carefully against his chest. Vince pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the highway, hands tight on the wheel. “Why do you have a dead kid?” “He's not dead.” Chris checked the boy's pulse again. “Why do you have a dying kid?” Vince's voice rose with exasperation. Chris kept pressure on the wound as he explained, “I gave him a twenty to point me toward Ronnie. One of those fucking tweakers probably saw it and tried to take it from him.” As he talked, he inspected the wound. The knife was stabbed into him vertically instead of horizontally. This meant, instead of sliding between the ribs, it got stuck between two of them. Hopefully that prevented it from going deep enough to puncture his lung. “We can't take him to the hospital,” Vince said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “There is no scenario where we don't get detained by the cops.” “We'll take him to Doc Cavanaugh. He can patch him up.” Chris shifted the boy carefully to keep his airway clear. Doc Cavanaugh was actually a veterinarian, but he made extra money patching up guys like Chris when they inevitably get hurt on the job. Vince shook his head sharply. “And then what? Ask him really nicely not to ever mention to anyone how he survived a back-alley stabbing? People are going to ask questions and then, probably, stab him again.” “He can stay at my place until we figure something out,” Chris said, his tone making it clear the decision was already made. “He's not a puppy, you can't just take in strays!” Vince slapped the steering wheel in frustration. Chris looked down at the boy's pale face. “Look, I had to do something. I made a judgement call.” “I paired with a fucking bleeding-heart hitman. Fantastic.” Vince rolled his eyes dramatically. “Did you even kill the guy you were supposed to, or did you feel bad for him too? Probably gave him a goddamn intervention.” “I can't just let a kid die!” Chris snapped, his voice echoing in the cab of the truck. Chris Breslin, a man who had never once considered the state of his soul until today, realized with startling clarity that some lines couldn't be uncrossed, and dirtying your hands with a child’s blood was one of them.