The Boy [mxb]

7

Mom needs a starter for her car, so I'm on my way to pick that up when I get the call.

"Any unit to handle please respond on 415, convenience store robbery, 1208 2nd Ave. Suspect there now. RP is the store owner. See comments for additional. Incident number 307. Unit to handle identify..."

"Control, five-sixteen, handling."

It's a low priority call, but what concerns me is that I know the store owner, Barron, well. I hope he's alright.

"Control, five-sixteen."

Dispatch responds after a beat.

"Five-sixteen, go ahead."

"Confirm RP is unharmed," I implore grimly.

"He says he's unharmed, yes."

"Copy."

I pull up to the scene, assessing it as I walk briskly towards the store entrance.

"Get down from there, you little rascal!"

Recognizing the old man's voice, I break into a jog.

I instantly recognize the little perp, crouched on top of a shelf of canned tomato sauce. He's got his hood up, curls spilling out the front. He regards me warily for a beat before his eyes light up with recognition and he smiles.

"You." An almost smile quirks my lips.

It's him. It's the boy.

I cup my hands around my mouth and call out to him.

"Come on down for me, sweetheart."

I'm more worried about the boy than Barron at this point, because there're always guns behind these counters, and he could get hurt.

The boy smiles smugly at me and twirls a bag of something around like a trophy. Even when he's being a little shit, he's beautiful.

"Dario, thank God." Barron shakes his head. "He ought to be punished."

"Really," I frown, genuinely disappointed in the man. "Look at him. You wanna punish him, just eat a meal in front of him." Shaking my head, I march off towards the boy who's climbing down.

"Do not try to run away. I repeat..." Eyes fixed on me, the boy takes off running.

Barron shouts in dismay.

I swear under my breath and take off after him. "Come here, you little brat!"

I chase him around the store, weaving in and out of the aisles, dancing around the display cases, sliding under tables and stands. Unluckily for him, I work out religiously.

"I can do this all day, baby."

Laughing, the boy pauses every once in a while to stick his tongue out at me like this is some kind of game.

After a while, I can feel a flush rise in my cheeks.

The little scoundrel finally collapses on the ground, gasping for breath. He rolls over onto his stomach, sputtering and panting, his already disheveled hair now a very hot mess. The boy is skinny and malnourished; it's a miracle he lasted as long as he did. He doesn't object when I pull his hands behind his back and drag him over to a cereal display to search him. The patdown reveals nothing but a bunch of pitiful, heart-wrenching belongings that people with a home don't carry on their person, like a toothbrush and blanket and an extra pair of socks. He's also got a bag, a worn backpack with a picture of a turtle on it.

I didn't find any ID. I know he's got it hidden somewhere, I just don't have the willpower to push him. I really wanted to find out his name, and if I was willing to abuse my power I'd take him down to the station, get his print or some DNA. But if I do abuse my authority to violate his privacy, I'll have IA crawling up my ass before I'm shown the precinct door. I'm going to let him off the hook, because he didn't technically walk out with anything, and because my job isn't to indiscriminately and robotically punish everyone for the slightest infraction; I can use my judgement. Plus, I've actually enjoyed myself. The little scoundrel amuses me.