The Magic Misfits. Neil Patrick Harris

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      Carter walked the long way back to the halfway house where he and his uncle were staying. Looking over his shoulder, he passed through alleys, took weird turns, then backtracked, retracing his steps to see if the cops had followed. He felt nervous to face his uncle again.

      A harsh wind whooshed through his clothes and brushed at the satchel hanging from his shoulder. He found Uncle Sly sitting on the steps. When Uncle Sly noticed Carter approaching, he stood up and puffed out his chest like an angry ape. Carter flinched, expecting the worst. But to his surprise, his uncle said nothing, staring at him silently instead. This was scarier to Carter than whenever his uncle screamed at him – it was so unexpected. Uncle Sly turned away, letting the door almost slam in Carter’s face. Carter followed, closed the door gently, and took off his shoes. His uncle left a trail of muddy footprints in the hallway. Carter cleaned them up.

      “Cold night, isn’t it?” asked Ms Zalewski in her thick Polish accent. The always-smiling old woman volunteered in the kitchen, feeding those that came through the shelter. She wore a dirty blue apron and a small, sparkly diamond on a chain around her neck.

      “You look hungry. Would you like me to make you dinner?” she asked.

      “No, I’m good,” Carter said. He wasn’t hungry, even though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

      “Rubbish,” she said. “A growing boy must always eat. Come, sit down. I’ll make you a grilled cheese and radish sandwich.”

      “Grilled cheese and radish sounds perfect,” Carter admitted.

      You see, Ms Zalewski made a mean grilled cheese and radish. Mean is usually bad, but in this circumstance, it means extremely delicious. Carter sat at the table in Ms Zalewski’s quiet kitchen, enjoying the warmest, meltiest, crunchiest, and meanest sandwich he’d ever tasted. The woman’s outrageous stories and her smile often warmed Carter with laughter, even after a horrible day out “working” with his uncle.

      It was rare that anyone ever greeted Carter with such kindness, and he’d grown fond of her. She made him wonder about his grandparents and what a life with them might have been like.

      “Would you like some prune juice, dearie? I mix it with this delicious orange powder when my pipes are clogged.”

      “I think my pipes are good.” Carter giggled. Uncle Sly would never have talked with him about his pipes, and if he had, he’d never have tolerated Carter giggling about them.

      Carter cleared Ms Zalewski’s table and washed the dishes as she told him a tale about her childhood in Poland and Russia and then coming to America by boat. “The boat was filled with good people, and crooks too. This diamond I wear belonged to my mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her. When I came over, I hid it in a matryoshka doll. You know, the Russian ones with a doll within a doll within a doll. This tiny diamond is all I have left to remind me of home.”

      “I used to have a home,” Carter whispered.

      “What’s that, dearie?”

      Carter shook his head and said nothing. He liked when Ms Zalewski spoke of home. He didn’t care if Uncle Sly thought he was being sentimental. Carter often wondered what having a real home again might feel like. Certainly it would it be better than a new bed in a new town every other week.

      Uncle Sly stormed into the kitchen. He sat down and put on his famous fake smile for Ms Zalewski.