Chapter 4
The day Harry had run away from home was also, incidentally, the day Layla had gotten her first tattoo, from a seedy parlor that had been willing to do it for only a couple of dollars.
Layla had been nursing her sore skin on her forearm, glaring angrily at it, when Harry had come careening into the alleyway, tears streaming down his face and his ratty school backpack clutched in one hand. The only thing stopping him from colliding into the nearest dumpster was Bridget, who held him steady as he heaved, sputtering into her arms.
"Unc-uncle Vernon tried to- tried to- there were th-th-these le-tters and-and-"
Michael quickly stepped up beside Bridget, who let him scoop the kid up into his arms without any trouble. "Hey, hey, hey, calm down kid. What's goin' on? Your Uncle Vernon hit you real bad? Letters? C'mon, talk to me a little here,"
(Over Harry's shoulder, he made eye contact with his sister, who looked furious. He shook his head subtly).
"There were these letters," the kid sniffed. "They kept on comin' even when Uncle Vernon started boardin' up the windows. Today they came through the chimney and I managed to grab one, bu-but then Uncle Vernon got really, really mad and kicked m-me. I had to grab my backpack and run out really fast, and I-I think he's coming a-fter me,"
Ok. One thing at a time.
Electing to ignore everything else for now, Michael peered out into the street, looking for a walrus of a man that matched the description Harry had given him so many times. There was nothing, but that didn't mean shit- trying to look for a person when you've never even seen them in the first place was hard. So, he looked towards his friends and sister, and jerked his head. "C'mon, let's get to the shelter. We'll hide Harry there, talk to front desk, see hat they can do,"