The dry meatloaf and limp steamed vegetables they give him in the ER that evening are the best thing Peter has ever tasted. He eats them clumsily with his left hand, because his right—the cut held shut by five neat-but-gruesome black stitches—has swollen slightly, just enough to prevent him from holding a fork.
He knows he should be scared.
He's certainly on edge: every time he hears footsteps outside the curtain that blocks the rest of the emergency room from view he snaps his head up, expecting to see the cop who dropped him off here hours ago, back with handcuffs held aloft, ready to take him away for good.
But Peter doesn't feel scared. He feels sick with worry for what Ms. Charlise is doing to the boys at the halfway house, and guilty, because his stomach is finally full and who knows if Felipe can say the same.
But mostly he feels elated. He looks at his swollen hand, still stained reddish brown with iodine, and he feels proud, for the first time in he can't remember how long.
Felipe isn't going to jail, he thinks. In a few weeks they'll let him out. Maybe he'll get to see his sister.
It's not much. It's so much less than he wants to do. But it's something. It's a chance Felipe might not have had otherwise.
Peter did that.
There are footsteps in the hall. Peter looks up, but when the curtain slides open it is not a police officer standing in front of him but his social worker, her hair piled in a flyaway bun on top of her head and looking, as always, like she is millimeters away from bursting into tears.
Behind her is a man. For a second Peter thinks he might be a police officer based solely on his build: he's more than six feet tall and almost too muscular, even though he's graying slightly and has small wrinkles around his eyes, denoting his advancing—though not yet advanced—age. But he's not dressed like a cop. He's wearing jeans and a polo shirt that's a little too small for him, so it's stretched across his broad chest.
He smiles at Peter as he steps into Peter's curtained-off portion of the ER behind the social worker. Peter, surprised, smiles back automatically, then quickly drops it.
"You," says the social worker, drawing Peter's attention, "are one lucky young man, Mr. Parker."
Peter can think of nothing to say to this.
"By some miracle," she goes on, undeterred by Peter's silence, "Charlise Benning has determined to deal with this fiasco internally. Apparently there are conflicting stories about what happened. A mister" —she checks something on the clipboard she has every time Peter sees her— "Felipe Cerna insists that the whole thing was a misunderstanding, though he hasn't clarified what sort, and that any violence was incidental." She nods at Peter's cut. "Ms. Benning disagrees strongly, but because you weren't being held at the house, at least not officially…"
The social worker sighs, flips her notes shut.
"The long and short of it, Mr. Parker, is that you aren't being placed under arrest tonight."
Peter goggles at her.
"I'm not going to jail?" he says blankly.
The social worker shrugs. "Like I said, you are one lucky young man. I wish I could say the same for me, seeing as I'm the one who has to figure out what to do with you now—needless to say, Ms. Benning isn't keen on taking you back—"
Peter's mouth drops open. They can't possibly send him back to the halfway house.
" —but it seems like luck is on my side as well, for once. One of our longest-standing foster parents has just seen his most recent project off to college, and so he has an opening. He's very kindly agreed to take you."
Peter bristles at the word project. It reminds him of Felipe's judge, calling him you people. But when he looks at the tall man, he is frowning slightly at the social worker, as if he too takes offense at the word.
"Steven has a lot of experience with problem cases," says the social worker. "I think he'll know exactly what to do with you. In fact, I'm counting on it. Because I feel I should warn you, Mr. Parker, that this is absolutely your last chance. I don't have anywhere else to put you, and if we have another incident, assuming you once again dodge jail time, you'll likely have to leave the city. Perhaps even the state. So try, for the love of God, to rein yourself in. Life isn't fair to any of us. That doesn't mean we get to go around taking it out on the people who try to help, do you understand me?"
Peter feels another flare of indignation—You think it fucking matters?—but he swallows it down. The thought of leaving New York is worse than the possibility of jail. He might not have a home anymore, but all of the ones he has had were here. His parents passed on their love of this city to Peter. So did Ben.
You are allowed to defend yourself.
(In his head, Uncle Ben's voice has faded. It no longer sounds like his uncle's voice at all. Just an impression of an impression. And soon it will be gone.)
Peter nods.
The social worker returns this with a clipped nod of her own, and steps aside to give the man room to step forward.