Page 5 of The Delivery

“Did you get pictures of him working? We might be able to get some coverage for this. This could potentially breathe new life into some of those development projects we’ve got on the back burner.”

“I can tomorrow. We only got as far as the outline today. He added all that color just in the last fifteen minutes. He works crazy fast.”

“That’s if he comes back.” I can hear the disappointment in my own voice, and now I’m not sure if it’s for personal reasons or because I just realized what a true asset he actually is. I try to reign in my excitement and remind myself I’m here to help him and not the other way around. He doesn’t need to be exploited.

“He said he would be. I get the feeling he’s a man of his word. Listen, Lana, this is just a hunch and I didn’t ask him or anything.”

“Sure. What?”

“I think he may be—have you heard of this group called the Dibujeros?”

“Sounds vaguely familiar, is it a gang?”

“Not really. It’s more like a group of underground street artists. Their identities are top secret as are most of their projects. It was his speed and talent clued me in. In order to be a member you have to be exceptionally skilled as well as fast in execution. I mentioned it in passing and he didn’t seem too affected.”

“How would you find out? Are they wanted for criminal activity or outstanding warrants?”

“For sure all of them are. Their stuff is heavily political so the placement of their projects is key. It’s the public vandalism that gets them in trouble. They don’t do abandoned train yards, these guys paint on federal buildings, universities, hospitals—anywhere that will garner heavy media attention. They’re radicals but they do some pretty cool things. You should look them up if you get the chance.”

“Yeah, I’ll check it out. Thanks.” Jennifer is looking at me like she wants to say more, but she shrugs and then glances down at the floor.

“I’ve got to run but feel free to stay and admire for as long as you’d like. Just make sure you lock the door when you leave. I don’t want to deal with another supply loss like the one we had last summer.”

Last year we never locked individual classrooms until we were struck by inside theft that wiped us clean of an entire summer’s worth of art supplies. It was a tricky situation as most of our lower level employees consist of former Pathways program graduates.

“I’ll lock up. I might take some pictures of the sketch. It’s truly incredible.”

After Jennifer leaves and I get a few shots of the giant skull with my iPhone, I sit down at Jennifer’s desk and take out my note. Maybe it’s a resignation. Maybe it’s a declaration of love and the inappropriate attraction is mutual. I’m his social worker. I’m his social worker. I’m his social worker.

I’m supposed to help him heal and thrive and become a functioning adult, a productive member of society. Not take advantage of him. Not give him clandestine blowjobs under my desk. I quickly unfold the note.

He’s written a short biography, presumably answering the questions we should have gotten through this morning.

Dear Lana,

My name is Moisés Robles de la Cruz. I’m eighteen years old. I’ll be nineteen in April, so I don’t know if you can let me stay in the program after that. I came to the US when I was six years old with my mother and baby sister. We lost my sister along the way. We came to find my dad, but we never found him. My mom got into a lot of trouble with finances and drugs and eventually prostitution. I was in foster homes. I was investigated twice due to my lack of citizenship. I ran both times so I could stay in the states. I didn’t graduate high school, but I never had any problems in school so I know I could pass the GED. When I got arrested for attempted robbery I pled guilty because I was guilty. I was desperate, and I couldn’t get a job. I’m willing to make up for my mistakes. I want to finish school and become a citizen. I promise not to waste your time.

Lana, thank you for the opportunity, and I will see you tomorrow. I’ll bring you a painting for your office on Friday, (before you start drinking).

Mozey

He called me Lana. Not Doc. Not Finch. He called me by my name. I want to hear him say it (and pull my hair when he does it.) I’m such a perv. I can’t stop. I’m going to end up with a restraining order. (Can it please be him who restrains me?)

CHAPTER 3

Mozey Cruz arrives at Pathways before we even unlock the doors. I see him standing outside through our newly installed, glass, fire safety door. The Pathways building, as of last year, is a fully converted elementary school. We didn’t do all that much to convert except to replace the miniature toilets and sinks in the bathrooms with adult sized ones. Janey and I giggled for months before they were installed about squatting so low our knees ended up higher than our hips. A compromising position—to crouch in a ball to pee five times a day.

I wave casually at Mozey through the door and tap my watch, tying to communicate to him we don’t open the doors until eight. He nods his head at me, acknowledging my presence but he seems unconcerned and absorbed by whatever’s playing in his headphones.

I shrug, grab my coffee mug and make my way back to my office. I’ve never felt attracted to a participant before. Most of them are far too damaged for my taste. It’s not like I can’t handle life scars, everybody has them, and I’ve even got a few of my own. But I prefer not to have them in my bed. I want a healthy relationship; I don’t have time for anything else. What I do is too important to me to make such a foolish mistake. I can appreciate everything about Mozey, his looks, his talent—everything. I can appreciate and walk away.

He comes straight to my office after he signs in at the front desk. He pops his head around the office door right as I hear Janey say, “Please have a seat out here.” She knows I don’t like unannounced visitors.

He walks in despite her warnings and closes the door. It would appear he’s more determined to see me than he is about adhering to site rules. Not a good sign. I’ll have to kick him out of the program if he’s a habitual rule breaker.

“You can have a seat,” I say clearing my throat. “Usually you have to sign in to see me. The door has to stay open. It’s standard procedure.”

He saunters over to my desk and pulls out a chair. He nods his head and keeps his gaze steady with mine. His eyes are charcoal gray. I swear he’s wearing guyliner, but I don’t want to look too close to confirm.

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