The bench was freezing. Chipped paint stuck to my hoodie. I sat anyway, 'cause the guard said:"Sit here. Visiting starts soon."
So I waited.
First Friday at Stanton.Other kids' moms came in with hugs so big you'd think the world was ending.Candy bags. Fried chicken in foil.
Mine didn't.
"It's fine," I muttered. "Maybe she's late. Maybe next week."
Second Friday. Same bench.Third Friday. Same.By the fourth, I stopped changing into the clean shirt.
The bench wasn't a seat anymore. It was a scar.
"Daniel Armstrong?"
I looked up. Counselor lady. Folder so thick it could squash me flat. Smile like she practiced it in the mirror.
"Yeah," I said.
"Tell me about yourself."
"…Why? So you can write it down and forget tomorrow?"
She tapped her pen. "Just the truth."
I shrugged. "Truth is—I'm the bench. Kid who waits for people who don't show up."
Her smile twitched. She scribbled something. I hated the sound.
Cafeteria lunch. Slop, one roll.I sat down, stomach growling loud enough to start a beat.
Spider slid in across from me. Skinny, big eyes, sharp teeth."Yo, Shadow," he said (first time anyone called me that). "You guarding that bread, or writing it a love song?"
I bit it. Dry. Still food.
His hand shot out, snatched it.
Chair screeched. I lunged. Fists flew, trays flipped, kids cheered like it was WWE. He bit my wrist—hard.
A guard broke us up. "Shake hands!"
Spider smirked. His hand was small. I squeezed 'til his knuckles popped.
Then I picked my bread up off the dirty floor and ate it.Everyone went quiet.
That night in the dorm, I tapped my bunk frame. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.Just noise to calm myself.
"Do that again," Tyrone whispered from the top bunk.
I did.
He started rhyming nonsense.Marcus drummed on his desk.Jamal stomped bass with his heel.Andre scribbled in his notebook like he was Shakespeare.
Whole room joined. For a minute, we weren't hungry.
The counselor's voice echoed in my head: "Truth."
The truth was, I wasn't just the bench anymore.I was the beat.
And Shadow was born.