When I was pre-school and in early grade school I shared a room and bed with a boy I considered to be an older brother. My father found Kenny Goldman, a runaway, hiding in a shed on my grandparent's farm. His parents had been killed in an auto accident and he was running away from a bad situation at his older sister's home, who was his closest relative.
Kenny lived with us through high school, until he joined the Navy. He stopped in once after his discharge, on his way to a job in Minneapolis. We never saw him again. My parents were heartbroken. Years later his obituary appeared in our local paper. He had become a mid-level manager for the telephone company. He died in his fifties from a heart attack.
Apparently his time with us was a part of his life he didn't want to remember.