A/N: I contributed the first two chapters of this fic to the Fandom for Mental Health.

Mental health is an issue I care about tremendously. I've been suicidal. I've been depressed. I know what it's like to walk around with an invisible illness, to be mistaken for lazy and awkward when it's really taking all of what very little strength I have to make it through each day. I was proud to be part of the compilation, and I look forward to finishing this journey with you.

Physiological

Prologue:

Another night. The nights were endless. He wondered how many nights it had been. He'd count them off—scratches on the wall just like in the movies—except that more often than not, he had no walls. He could tally mark the dirt, but even the patch of dirt he was trying to sleep on wasn't his. Sleeping here tonight wasn't a guarantee he could sleep here tomorrow.

It was damn cold tonight. A brutal cold. The kind that made him feel every inch of his skin. His blood felt thick and frozen. He'd been sluggish all day, and yet he couldn't sleep. He raised his quaking hands to his lips and blew out a shaky breath, trying to warm them. It wasn't like he was going to freeze to death in California. If he was freezing to death, he'd be numb.

Edward closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of despair. He was so cold and so tired. Desperation clawed at him. It was maddening. Within eyesight were dozens of buildings. He could imagine perfectly how warm any of them could be. All of them likely had carpet, too. He would gladly sleep in the lobby of any of them. Just for the night. He'd be gone before the business people trickled in to start their workdays.

He tightened his arms around himself.

At this point in his life, he should have been there in one of those buildings. How could it be that after three years, he still couldn't quite believe this was happening to him? If he thought about it for more than a few minutes, he felt pathetic on top of desperate. Shouldn't he have been able to pull himself up by his bootstraps by now?

When he was a freshman in college, in his first life, he vaguely remembered learning about something called Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. It was a simple concept, a pyramid of needs designed to make budding psychologists and sociologists understand what a person, otherwise sane, could be expected to care about. As each level of the pyramid was met, increasingly "trivial" concerns could be dealt with.

The very top of the pyramid were self-actualization needs: morality, creativity, spontaneity, problem solving, lack of prejudice, and acceptance of facts. At the very bottom were physiological needs: breathing, food, water, shelter, somewhere to take a crap, and homeostasis—physical equilibrium.

That was the problem with homelessness, Edward thought bitterly. In quiet moments like these, he understood in his educated, more rational mind what was happening to him. He couldn't meet all of his most basic needs; he was stuck on the lowest level of the pyramid.

He was lucky enough to live in Orange County. Anyone who knew how to look at a resource list could be well-fed in Orange County. He got $194 a month in food stamps. He knew every food pantry and how many times a month he could visit each one. Food was relatively secure, though getting from one end of the county to another proved a challenge on occasion.

It happened often that he didn't know where he was going to spend the night. Orange County didn't have a year-round shelter. Mercy House operated two shelters from October to April, but that was no guarantee. Sometimes they had no room. As they operated from a working armory, if the space was needed for the army, the homeless were shit out of luck.

Even when, like now, Edward managed to find a corner to curl up into, there was always the issue of sleep.

Hunkered down with his sleeping blanket up, his hoodie pulled tightly around him—hood up—and his knees curled close to his chest, protecting his backpack, he was still both cold and paranoid. A commotion drew his attention.

The strangers drew closer. Two men. A chill went down Edward's spine. He pulled his hoodie down and ducked his head. He tensed. His fingers closed around his knife. He switched the blade out, wincing at the audible click. They got closer.

They passed him, stumbling. Drunk maybe or high or just broken. He didn't look close enough to tell. He propped himself up again. Against his little patch of wall on his little patch of dirt.

He took the knife out, fumbling. He scoffed. Could he have defended himself if one of those guys came for his meager possessions? Probably not. He was useless. Good for nothing.

A useless lump.

The blade of the knife glinted in the moonlight. In an instant, Edward started to imagine pressing it into his skin, from his wrist to the inside of his elbow. He imagined the sting—would it be better than the bitter cold?

His blood would still be warm. The warmth would be the last thing he felt, wouldn't it?

Edward's eyes blurred with tears. He blinked them away, trying to regulate his breathing. He forced his gaze away from the blade to the hilt. He traced his finger along the familiar inscription.

Carlisle Cullen.

Jasper's father. It was Jasper's knife. Jasper's father's knife, actually. Jasper who saved his useless life.

Edward quaked for a different reason now. No. He couldn't waste Jasper's gift. The poor bastard was already dead. He needed to make it count.

Carlisle Cullen.

Did his father know Jasper was dead? Did he know how he died? That he'd died a hero? That he'd died because he was brave?

Remembering, Edward shuddered. He remembered watching through blurred vision. Watching what those two assholes had done. He'd been out of it; helpless but to watch with uncomprehending eyes.

His breath quickened, and Edward gasped. He was going to freak out if he didn't get a handle on this right now. His mind scrambled.

He could find Jasper's parents. His father. Maybe he couldn't figure out how to change his situation, but he could probably do that much. He remembered everything Jasper said about his parents. Maybe he was a pathetic waste of space, but he was still a smart man. He could find Carlisle Cullen.

A goal. An achievable goal. Something to focus his scattered brain.

Calmer somehow, Edward closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

A/N: Many thanks to Betsy, Eleanor, Packy, MoH, and Mina. Check out the gorgeous banner Mina made me. Hearts.