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18 YEAR OLDS DON'T CRY

A sheet of the New York Post, blown by the gritty November wind, wrapped itself around his legs. Lucas Dexter peeled it off, screwed it into a ball and threw it into the night. On second thoughts he wondered whether it might have been more sensible to keep it as insulation against the cold. First night without a roof over his head and his head still buzzed from the fighting.

"You're brainless. You're stupid. You're lying. You're no son of mine." His father had shouted, each accusation punctuated by a blow aimed at his head.

"I'm not stupid. I ain't lying," he had protested, arms futilely trying to protect himself and the tears had come without him wanting them -- eighteen year olds don't cry.

The darkness was his blanket and in the wind came the first spots of rain. He'd have to find some shelter somewhere, probably a doorway.

"Please, George . . . " a faltering appeal from his mother, glancing from one to the other.

"I've had enough. He won't spend another night here."

...

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