"T-thanks."
"Who were they, son?"
"I don't know. I was just walking past the alley and they ... jumped me. I don't know why. Honest to God, Mister, I don't know why!"
He felt close to crying again and shut up for a moment to try and control the convulsive heaving of his chest. Then he looked up at the man standing next to him.
Black shoes, brand new. Neatly pressed gabardines. Tall and somewhat thin. Wearing a light, black topcoat like you might imagine a priest would wear. A tan hat, also brand new. Middle twenties, with the face of a saint. The face of a man you knew you could trust.
"What's your name, son?"
"Stan. Stanley Martin." He was still close to sobbing and the name came out with too many syllables.
The man pondered for a moment and Stan thought he looked a little like a high-school principal trying to guess how bright a student might be.
"We'll have to fix you up, Stan. Then we'll have to take you home." He helped Stan to his feet and guided him over to a black car a few yards down the street.
Far away, there was the wail of a siren.