Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The casket was empty when we held the funeral.

It sat on stands at the front of the room, the polished mahogany wood gleaming from the rays of sunlight shining through the crystalline windows in the funeral home. I was beside my mother, who was to the right of me, brunette hair falling in her face like a curtain to shade her tears. My own heart fluttered, twinged in my chest angrily, but I wouldn't allow my tears to fall, even as the preacher spoke empty words about how brave a man he would have been, how brilliant he could've been had he been given the chance.

The words flowed in and out of my ears like a wave in the ocean, and when he was finished talking, I hadn't a clue what fell off his lips. 

I figured it didn't matter. None of it really mattered, in the end. Soon, the casket would be gone, buried six feet under the ground, sheltered by clumps of dirt, and the words the pastor preached would be a distant memory in these everyone's thoughts.

There was a crowd here. I was stupefied when they kept piling in the room, all in identical depressing obsidian like it was the only thing they had in their closet. There were tears in their eyes, some of them already caked down faces of strangers, ruining any semblance I had that this was something other than a funeral. They had given me their condolences as they passed me to their seats. I listened, but my mind had been elsewhere. 

My mother had thanked them for me.

I figured—after I finished scanning the audience—that this was how it was supposed to be. Of course, he would have a plethora of people at his funeral. He was too charismatic, too loving and joyous not to. He lightened people's day, filled their hearts with a blissful warmth just by being himself. The crowd should not have been a surprise by any means.

When the pastor finished yet another speech, we were supposed to follow the pallbearers, who were carrying the casket, out of the home. We were supposed to go to the burying. I loathed this part.

Mom tapped me on the shoulder. I took my gaze off the empty spot where the casket used to be to stare at her. Her hazel eyes were slit in pain; they seemed bigger due to the tears in them. I had to look away. She choked on a sob.

"Let's go, honey," she said, softly—kindly, like I was a child who needed to be soothed. Her best friend and our next-door neighbor, Sarah Lennox, sat beside her, but she moved and trailed behind the moving crowd while we remained stationary.

I didn't speak. My hands remained limp in my lap. I gave no reaction that I heard her. I didn't know if I could—if I was capable of one. I wanted to scream at her that I didn't want to go to the graveyard. I wanted to cry and shout that I didn't want to sit outside in freezing temperatures while the pastor uttered more meaningless words about him just so people could shed more tears before they lowered the casket in the ground for good.

Mom took my silence as a confirmation. She stood, slowly, like her bones were aching. I kept my eyes on the altar and then I jolted as she put her hands on my handlebars and started wheeling me towards the exit.

People parted like the Red Sea as we exited. I could feel their stares on my face—pity for a girl whose world was shattered, whose face was marred. I ignored them even though the skin under my salves started to itch annoyingly, let Mom and Sarah hoist me into the Tahoe. The tinted windows were like a blanket of security for me. Behind them, no one could taunt me, no one could look at me, could stare at the healing gashed littering my face. It was a breath of fresh air.

We drove to the graveyard in somber silence, and I went through the same routine as before, listening to the pastor talk as the bitter chill of January nipped at me. My nose was rubbed raw by the end of it.

As they lowered the casket in, I felt my heart drop. I felt the realness of it all. He was gone; he wasn't coming back. There would be no more days filled with laughter as we ran around the house, making up nonsense and playing pranks on each other. There would be no more days where he would come into my room and interrupt my art (or me just "browsing" the internet) for me to go on a run with him. There would be no more days where he would go to the base with our father, eager and passionate about training to be a soldier. There would be no more days where he denied his friends the right to hang out so we could go to the treehouse and read comic books all day.

Now, there would just be an empty space where he was—a dark void that chilled me to the bone, made me want to scream with the venomous bite of it.

Theodore Cambridge was a wisp in the wind, a whisper through the night. He was the person who would be remembered for how he was, not how he was going to be. He was my brother, my best friend. And he was gone.

And, for the first time since I was rolled out of the hospital, I cried. I wept for my brother; I wept for myself and my mother—for my father, who was out saving the world and could not attend his own son's funeral. The father that's been silent since his death. I wept for all the people losing a friend. I wept for the world and I wept for the absence that Theodore created.

The first fistful of dirt dropped on the casket, but the noise was hollow in my ears.

A drop of snow melted on my cheek, mixing in with warm tears.

Chapter Text

My mother worries a lot.

She worries about every little thing—whether it be if we have enough hot water or if I'm late to school. Sometimes, I'll hear her muttering to herself then I hear my name, my brother's name, a harsh whisper against her painted lips as she paces the kitchen frantically, scared and anxious because supposedly I've been withdrawn, too quiet—nothing like the girl who sings too loud and too off key or the girl who goes on bike rides on the trail near the house just because she loves the adventure it brings. She worries and worries until she has nothing to worry about, and I love her but she really needs to tone it down a bit.

I pull the phone away from my ear, her shrill voice too much for my still-asleep brain to handle. She's going on and on about how I need to set my alarm, how I should go to bed at nine every night instead of staying up just to watch that absurd show on Discovery Channel. I listen, barely, tell her that it was an accident, that it'll never happen again, but that doesn't seem to be enough for Reagan Cambridge.

Apparently, she received a call from my school that I was absent today (which is pretty unusual, considering how I promised Mom that I wouldn't miss a single day this year) and she had called me about eighteen times before I finally decided to answer—as in I woke up when it rung for the nineteenth time and answered, too tired to care who it was. Only then my mom starts yelling down the line as though I spilled something on her favorite top. She's at work, though, so I guess that's a plus. Means that I don't have to see her as she yells at me; only have to listen to the high pitch voice she reserves for when she's really irate.

Pulling a black t-shirt over my head, I throw on a random pair of jeans that may or may not have a stain on it and run down the stairs of my house, grabbing my backpack and banana on the way out.

"Eleanor Jane, are you even listening to me?" Mom sounds like she's three seconds away from disowning me as a child.

I resist the urge to groan, feel a headache coming on as a squint at the morning sun. A quick glance at my wristwatch tells me it's fifteen past ten, which means third period is about to start. Perhaps if I run to school, I can make it there in an hour.

"Mom, yes, okay." I strap my backpack on my back, feel its weight holding my back as I step onto the drive, throwing a wave over my shoulder at Sarah Lennox, my next door neighbor who is watering her peonies before she goes to work as I go. "I'm going to school right now. I swear, I didn't mean to sleep in. I had my alarm set and everything but I guess I slept through it."

"You guess you slept through it?" Mom huffs a disbelieving laugh. "You did sleep through it and now you're ruining your perfect attendance this year because of it."

I roll my eyes. "It's senior year, Mom. Perfect attendance was bound to be broken one way or another."

"But you've never gotten perfect attendance, El," Mom whines through the phone, sounding like a petulant teenager rather than a woman in her mid-thirties. "I just thought... that maybe, just maybe, this year could be different."

"I know, Mom." I can't help my lips from tilting into a frown, feel as though we've reached treacherous waters—waters that I'm still afraid to toe at. I swallow loudly, harshly, ignore the pounding in my ear, and wave at someone when I reach the inner city. They let me pass, and I jog across the street and onto the road that'll lead me to the road that'll lead me to the ever dreaded high school. "This year has been different. I'm passing all my classes—both junior and senior—and I haven't gotten a detention yet. I'd say that's a big step up."

"You've never had a detention," Mom says, laughs—but it's stilted, an emotional tilt in it as she chuckles. I know what's coming next so when she tells me, "Theo was always the rebel of the family," I go unexpectedly quiet, stop where I'm walking and just stand. Stand and look at the sapphire sky, cloudless and vibrant as it glares down at me.

I reach for my stomach, almost a reflex, feeling the rough, raised skin there like a brand.

The scar.

It starts at my belly button, a thick thing that etches all the way up until the side of my ribs, almost reaching my back, twisting and weaving like a garbled snake. It's a bright pink underneath my night colored shirt, still sensitive even though it's almost been a year since it's healed.

I let out a breath, feeling so utterly small in the giant expanse of the street, and wish Mom would have never brought it up. I can hear her on the other line, breathing shallowly like she might be holding back tears. I hate it. Wish I could do something to ease the terrible thoughts I know she must be thinking.

But I remain silent. I keep my mouth shut and I stare at the sun until my eyes water, but I don't let them fall. Won't let them fall.

On the other end, Mom sighs, as though collecting herself. 

"What's one day of school?" she says it like it's no big deal but it means a lot to me.

I laugh, and it's quiet—forced; if Mom senses anything, she says nothing.

"Thanks, Mom," I say tenderly, gratefully, feel my eyes water for totally different reasons as I head back towards the house.

Mom hums. "I love you, sweetie."

"Love you, too."

The line disconnects and suddenly it's just me, the sky and too many thoughts.

✦

He asks how I'm doing. It's a simple question—something that acquaintances ask one another if they see each other on the street—but it makes me feel queasy. I look at him, his peppered hair and glasses that are broken in the left frame, cracked and imperfect, and think of a way to answer.

I know if I tell him what I always do—that I'm fine, there's nothing to worry about—then he'll be suspicious. He's not an ignorant man, not in the slightest, and there's only so much lying I can do before he starts interrogating me about it.

I wring my hands together anyway, remain silent as though it will buy me some time—as though it will make Dr. Henderson forget his question all together. He stares at me with his dark, peering eyes, almost like he's seeing through me, and I gulp, feel my heart hammer in my chest.

"I'm doing well," I say, words heavy on my tongue.

Dr. Henderson gives me a glance over his glasses, disbelieving and calculating. The room feels too small, too cramped—like all the air's being sucked from it. I curl up in my leather chair, knees curled to my chest, avoiding his gaze as I look at all his degrees, his pictures of him with his partner, Malcolm.

"Eleanor," he starts, tilting his head in thought, eyes piercing through me like a javelin. I grimace. "For this to work, you need to be honest. I can only help if I know what the problem is. Please answer truthfully."

"I did."

He levels me with another look. I fiddle with my hair, glancing away. When he sighs, I hear his pen scrape against his clipboard. I wonder what he's writing down now. If he's saying that I still refuse to seek help, that I'm being a stubborn brat who refuses to stop being vague. I find that I don't care too much.

It was Mom's idea, anyway. She wanted me to get better, said that I couldn't hole myself up forever when I refused to go anywhere during the summer before my senior year (which was an over-exaggeration because I went places—went to physical therapy and summer school—so her theatrics weren't necessary). I had argued relentlessly, said that I didn't need to get better because I was fine, I was okay, but she didn't listen, called the therapist anyway.

And that's how I ended up in Dr. Henderson's office every Thursday afternoon (after school hours because Mom didn't want me missing, of course), lying immensely about my well being and hoping that he believes it.

He doesn't, ever. But sometimes he's lenient, lets me get away with things that I shouldn't get away with.

Today, though, he's being persistent for some reason (probably because Mom talked to him), and I don't think I'm ready to be interrogated, honestly. I try to brace myself when he gives me a dark look, speculating.

"How's your leg? Your back? Is everything doing alright?" His tone is light, easy, but there's an underlying heaviness about it. I shudder, feel my heart stop for a second. "I see your face is healing up nicely. Doesn't even seem like there's a scar from where I'm looking."

I reach up on instinct, trailing the scar that extends from my cheek, all the way down my jaw bone. Other little nicks and scratches mar my face too, but this one is the most prominent, the one that gets me the most looks. I hate it so much.

"Everything's fine," I grit out, forcing a smile even though I feel like crying. "Dr. Johnson said that my legs were healing nicely—my back, too. She said only a few more sessions and I should have at least ninety-five percent mobility. Said the pain would be the worst of it on most days. Not perfect, but..."

Dr. Henderson nods, hums, and writes something down. "And how are you? How does it make you feel? Dealing with the pain?"

I wring my fingers together and try to swallow the lump in my throat. Glancing up at the white ceiling, I contemplate, really think about his question and how to best give him what he needs while keeping the details close to me. He gives me the time I need, lets me internally struggle with myself until I finally look back.

"It's been hard," I say, voice catching. He nods, motioning for me to continue softly. "Since it's just been Mom and I, we've had no one but ourselves to lean on. But she throws herself into her work and I try to distract myself with other stuff. School, walking, anything that'll help me. But lately it's been worse."

"Worse how?"

I shrug. "I don't want to reconcile with my friends, no matter how much my mom bugs me. And it's not because I don't love them—I do. It's just that they give me these—these looks. Like they pity me and I don't—" I pause, try to get my emotions in check. There's a knot in my throat. This is the most I've said in awhile. "I don't want anyone's sympathy anymore. I got enough of that at his funeral."

"I see." Dr. Henderson nods, scribbles something else down. He pulls his glasses down, and they dangle onto his checkered shirt by a chain. "Tell me, Eleanor, why is it that you can't say his name?"

My throat closes up completely, cement clogging it like it was a hole that needed mending. I look away. I won't answer this question, won't allow myself the pain of talking about it. I remain silent, my heart pounding. I wish Mom would have never made me go to a stupid counselor. I was fine on my own—am fine on my own. I don't need anyone's help. Don't want it.

Minutes past, and I stare at a fern in the corner, refusing to be swayed into answering. Dr. Henderson sighs out and there's more pen scratching on the clipboard before he finally speaks.

"When does your dad come home?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Dunno." I shrug nonchalantly, relieved by the question. Talking about my dad is an easier pain, one that I've become accustomed to. "Mom says he should return anytime now, but she's been saying that for months, so I wouldn't count on it."

"And why is that?"

Another shrug; I fiddle with a chipped piece of coating on the chair's arm. "He's a liar. You can't trust what he says. Tells you one thing and does another. The usual."

"I see. Eleanor, the hostility towards your father is valid, and I see why you are angry. I really do, but this anger's not all there is. Perhaps there is something else—"

"There's nothing else to it," I snap, irritated, glaring at him. "I'm not angry at my father at all. I love him. I just can't trust him. He's a liar. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less." I stand, look at the clock. "It's five past, I'm leaving."

Dr. Henderson sighs as though he expected this. He waves me away. "Have a good day, Eleanor. I'll see you next Thursday."

With a nod, I walk out the door and out of the building. The evening sun beats down on my face as I head towards the direction of my house. Glistening orange mixing with the low luminescence of magenta, creating a swirl of color that makes the city seem almost mystical.

The journey's silent except for the numerous cars that bypass me, and I reach my house in a matter of fifteen minutes. Mom's Tahoe is parked in the drive, next to my own Toyota Corolla. The dark gray exterior is gathering dust, but I can't find it in myself to care as I open the gate and enter my house.

Alfonzo greets me with a lot of barks and growls, teeth snapping playfully as he runs at me. I feel my lips tug up into a grin and squat down to pat the Chihuahua on the head. His white fur is unkempt and dirty, a sign that he's been outside playing in the mud. I sigh with a fond curl of my lips as I make a mental note to bathe him later.

I can hear Mom in her study, typing away as she works on another case, overworking herself as though she didn't push herself the entire day.

"Sorry, Alfie," I apologize to my dog with another pat on his head before standing, "but duty calls."

I walk into the kitchen, get all the ingredients out for a chicken sandwich, and whip one up for Mom real quick. I supply her with some chips, too, because I know that she likes to snack while working. When I get to the study to give it to her, her hair is array, eyes wide in frenzy as she types away. I set the plate down without a sound.

She doesn't even notice me leave.

The living room's my next destination and I pull out my homework that someone (probably Willow) brought for me earlier. There's notes attached to it and all. I sigh out, willing this oncoming headache to go away so I can finish quickly and go to bed.

Alfonzo comes and curls up next to me as I start it, snuggling into my side like he always does. I am grateful for him, happy that I don't have to sit in the overbearing silence alone.

I remember, with a jolt in my heart, the noisiness of this house. There was never a dull moment. Mom would always be laughing at something Dad said, and I would would be singing, running around and playing jokes with my brother. We always ate dinner together, sitting around a small table in the dining room as we talked about our days while the news played softly in the background.

Now, I'm lucky if I can get Mom to come out of her study to talk to me for a second.

I think of the Dr. Henderson in that moment, wonder how much he would love for me to complain about my home life, wish I didn't have a home life to complain about. I'm not lonely, not by any means. I have Alfonzo, and my mom does talk to me (sometimes).

But sometimes I glance at the mute television—at all the empty spaces around me—and I wish, for a moment, that things were different.

Chapter Text

My dreams (nightmares) that night are plagued with Theo's hazel eyes that dim too quickly and thick crimson that mixes with rain and tears. It's the same dream (nightmare) that I always have. I can hear myself screaming at myself. At him, at everyone. I scream at him through the raging storms to stay awake—tell him he's going to be okay, but it's futile. We both know it.

When his eyes finally fade and the last vestige of light dims, I'm falling, soaring through a black void with nothing to hold onto. I fall and fall and fall, my voice hoarse as I scream for anyone—anything—to help. I can feel death approaching, can almost feel myself hitting the the hard ground below me.

But a hand reaches out of the void, almost lighting up the darkness that surrounds me, and it catches me, latching onto me securely.

And suddenly the black veil's lifted.

What's above me is bright and luminescent. I think it's the sun, but it's not. It's raining too hard for that, anyway, but the golden hue of it doesn't disappear. It's something real, has to be. Despite my blurry vision, my exhaustion, the blood leaking from my skin and bones, I try to grab my bearing, to make it out. But the hand is still around me and there's whirls and beeps and I don't understand because I'm supposed to be dead—was supposed to die long ago.

I can feel myself be set down and there's another whirl, another beep and an agonizing pain in my side. The last thing I can make out are eyes bluer than the sky themselves and then my screams die out and my body goes limp.

The sky's dark when I break from my dream, body damp with sweat and heart racing in my chest. I breathe in deeply, try to calm it, but it's running a mile a minute with no stopping. My stomach's in knots, so I count to ten—count the fingers on my shaking hand. When I can finally breathe a little easier, can see a little better, I sigh out, falling back into my pillows.

Alfonzo sleeps to the left of me, curled up and whimpering in his dreams. I leave him in bed, throwing the covers off me and going over to my dresser to get some clothes. I pick out a grey hoodie and some leggings, grabbing my underwear and walking into the bathroom.

It isn't even five in the morning yet, but I'm wide awake as I let the hot water scald my back. The sweat washes off of me, and I feel much better when I pull the curtain back and step out minutes later. I dry off and try not to think about the dream that I have every night, the one that's been haunting my subconscious for months now.

The nightmare starts off the same as it always does. It's me and him and we're together and we're lying there, in his truck, bloodied and bruised—dying. I scream for him but he dies and then I'm falling. Falling, falling, falling until my savior is above me. I've never seen them, can't remember who played heroics that day, but the brightness of their eyes has stuck with me since the first recollection.

Has haunted me in the dream until my body trembles enough to wake me up.

It's a never ending cycle, one that I wish would end. I want to put this all behind me, want it all gone from my system, but there's always something blocking me from moving on.

Mom isn't awake when I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen. I sigh, grab a banana from the fruit basket and take a seat in the living, letting the baritone voice of the news anchor echo through my ears as I lounge.

When she emerges from her room, dress suit crisp and clean on her slim form, she gives me a passing glance then frowns.

"Nightmare?" she asks; it sounds like pity coming from her lips.

I give a curt nod to stop myself from talking. I know if I do then my voice will do something stupid like crack. I take a bite out of my banana and look at her.

"Honey, maybe we should...," she starts off, trails off when she sees the dark glare on my face. "Eleanor, I just want to help. I worry about you." Mom walks over and takes a seat beside me, caressing my face. Her hazel eyes gaze into mine. I have to look away from the sheer resemblance they carry.

"I know, Mom," I mumble, lean into her, damp hair falling over my shoulder and onto hers as I rest my head on it. "I just don't think medication will do the trick."

Mom's been trying to get me to go on a sleeping pill for the last three months or so because I—in a foolish moment of vulnerability—told her that I was having trouble sleeping due to nightmares. I should have known then that it would not have turned out well. She told me to tell Dr. Henderson, to get some help for them, but I have not done so, and I will not be doing so in the future, no matter how much she pesters me.

She kisses my forehead and when I pull back, I can see the bags under her eyes. I feel a tinge of sorrow. She's been overworking herself for so long, trying to pay the bills even though we get a monthly check from the military for Dad's service. Sometimes I forget what an incredible woman she is.

"I know," she sighs out, "but maybe it'll help, El."

I shake my head. "I don't want medicine, Mom. Please stop."

I'm basically pleading with her, my green eyes wide as I stare at her.

"Fine," she recedes with a sigh, standing from her spot on the couch. She pulls her pencil skirt down. "I'll be off then. Make sure not to be late for school. I love you."

"I won't," I tell her, rolling my eyes. "Love you too."

Mom walks out of the room without looking back. Minutes later, I can hear the engine of her car pulling out of the drive. I flip through the channels indifferently, not really watching or caring what's on. A look to my wristwatch says that I have twenty minutes before I have to leave for school.

With a twinge of pain searing through my back, I stand, grimacing. I right myself and go up the stairs in search of Alfonzo.

Might as well try to force him to bathe since I have some time.

✦

The walk to school is boring as usual. I trek through the giant town that I know like the back of my hand, weaving around blocks and through streets as though I've been doing it my whole life. When I reach the school—after fifty-five minutes of hard labor mind you—there are students entering with their group of friends. I can see my old group of friends—Willow, Cassidy, and Justin—on the old bench by the oak tree. I duck away before they can see me.

Before, school used to be something of a joy for me to go to. I loved learning, loved making new friends and school was the perfect place for me to do that. But, now, as I walk through peers that spare me glances as I head towards my locker, I wish I could be anywhere but here. I hate the sympathetic gazes that haven't wavered, hate the fact that anyone who speaks to me does so with remorse in their voice and sorrow in their eyes. I hate it so much, feel bitterness curling up in my stomach anytime someone does it.

I hate school.

My locker opens after the fifth time, something that I've always loathed about the pastel yellow thing. No matter how many times I enter the correct code, it only ever works on the fifth time. It's a nuisance.

When I grab my things for my first three lessons, I head to the English classroom, keeping my head low, hair falling over my face to obscure anyone's view of me. I bump shoulders with a lot of people, but pay them no mind.

I'm almost to the English room when I see it.

His locker.

The school wouldn't let anyone else use this locker, even though my brother would have graduated had he come back to school last year. They said it was in honor of one of the kindest students they've ever had the privilege of teaching.

(Bullshit, but whatever.)

It sits there beside the rest of the ugly yellow lockers, empty on the inside but full of stuff on the outside. There are decorations, things saying they miss him, balloons that have run out of helium; flowers that have wilted into nothing but dead roots.

There's a picture of his face on the locker, too. It's a regular eight-by-ten but seeing it is enough to make my heart squirm. Because there he is, the same mussed up hair and bright hazel eyes. And he looks alive, looks well and it sends pang of longing through me as I stare at it longer.

Before I know it, I'm ripping the picture off angrily, tears pricking at the corner of my eyes even though I've passed the locker many times before. The nightmare's present in my mind today, a loop in my thoughts as I throw the picture in the trash can, slamming the deflated balloons in there with it. There is no more mussed up hair, nor bright hazel eyes. Now, there is only cold, lifeless eyes and hair thick with blood when I think about him.

I turn away and walk into English.

Ms. Abernathy, a plump woman with graying hair and more cats than I can count, gives me a look as I step into the classroom. I know she's expecting an excuse for my absence yesterday, but I don't have one, and even if I did, I probably wouldn't give it to her.

I take a seat in the very back of the classroom and lay my head down on the desk, exhausted. Part of me wishes I would have just stayed home and watched reruns of bad reality shows, but I know that Mom would have chewed me out if I missed yet another day.

As Ms. Abernathy drones on about Hamlet, I glance outside of the window. Clouds are gathering together, dark and threatening. With a  queasy sigh, I begrudgingly start reading the pages she instructed us to.

I hate storms.

✦

The storm's raging when the last bell rings. I get up from my desk in Señor Lopez's Spanish classroom, head pounding and heart aching. Outside, the wind's starting to pick up as rain pelts the ground, puddles already forming in the grass and the parking lot. I stuff my book in my backpack and saunter to my locker, dreading the walk to come.

When I have everything, I bring out my umbrella that I always carry around in my backpack for situations like these, gripping it tightly as I make my way towards the entrance of the school. I see Willow, Cassidy and Justin laughing about something as I pass them. Willow sees me, sends me a small wave along with a tiny grin.

I nod.

And it's not like I don't want to talk to them; I do, I really do. It's just that they always bring up the accident one way or another and one can only take so much before they snap.

It was when Justin brought it up for about the twentieth time when I had finally had enough. I had yelled, cried and just basically made a fool of myself in front of everyone in the McDonald's. But I hadn't been able to help it, too livid and hurt to really understand what I was doing until it was over.

They were all slack-jawed when I had finished, looking at me as though I were a stranger whom they just met. I had decided then that it would be best for me to just be alone.

I haven't talked to them since.

Occasionally, Willow seeks me out, waves at me when we pass each other in the hallways, but Cassidy and Justin seem perfectly fine without me. Not that I care. After all, I was the one who stopped talking to them.

No one's outside when I get there because no one wants to get caught in the onslaught of rain. I understand where they're coming from, but it beats getting in a car and being taken home. I hike my umbrella up and let it hover above my head and I step out into the stormy town.

Rain hits my umbrella as I trek up the street, and I take a deep breath to calm myself, to steel myself for the walk home. I close my eyes and tell myself that it's going to be okay, that nothing's going to happen to me. It's just a storm.

Just a storm.

I open my eyes with a sigh just in time for thunder to crack loudly in the distance. I ignore it, but my feet almost unconsciously pick up pace. And when the lightning hits down, I'm running before I know it, ignoring the pain in my back foolishly.

There's an annoying buzzing in my pocket, a signal that my mom's either texting me insistently or calling me. I don't bother with it, let my feet carry me up the steep hill to our house. By now, I'm soaked, the umbrella not protecting me from the drops of rain that are being guided by the harsh winds. I rush forward, throwing open the gate to my house when I get there and dashing onto the porch with wheezes, legs burning and back aching.

Alfonzo comes out of his doggy door, barking and yelping madly. My clothes drip on the porch, the water staining the light wood dark. I give Alfonzo a pat on the head, his fur dirty again. A sigh, fond and exasperated, escapes me. I wonder why I even try with him.

"Sometimes, I think you do this out of spite, Alfie," I scold halfheartedly, picking him up and holding him to my wet chest.

The small dog growls and barks, but I don't relent. I carry him into the house and try to be mindful that I'm dripping everywhere. There's murmuring coming from the living room, quiet and cautious and a strike of fear ignites my body. I think back to the buzzing in my pocket, wonder if Mom was calling because she was in danger.

I run into the living room, but what I see almost makes me wish that she had been in danger.

Anything would be better than what I'm looking at right now.

Because in front of me—in a camouflage uniform—sits a man with striking emerald eyes and hair a blond so dark that it could almost be brown. He sits beside Mom, and she's hugging him, crying and he's holding her tightly, burying his head into her dark brown, almost black hair with a sigh of contentment.

I stand there in the entry of the living room, dripping all over Mom's favorite rug.

Dad stares back at me.

Outside, the storm rages on.

Chapter Text

Many times my mind has wandered to the idea of what I would do when Dad came home. How I would react, what I would say, etc. I thought about it a lot, practiced what I would tell him, tried to predict how I would feel, but nothing could have prepared me for it actually happening.

I stare at him. He won't avert his gaze. There's so much in his green eyes, haunted and older than he is. My heart squeezes in my chest like an orange being smashed, my lips forming a hard frown as ice encases me. Not just physically, though the rain seeps into my clothes like a second skin of cold. I want to change, and part of me doesn't even want to see him. Doesn't want him here.

But then Mom's pulling away and turning her head to stare at me, tears falling down her face, her hazel eyes wide with relief that her husband is home safe.

"Oh, El! You're home!" She takes note of my soaking clothes and gasps. "Honey, you're dripping! Hurry along, go get changed. You can see your father when you're not flooding the house."

I take Alfonzo with me, and throw him, along with my backpack, on the bed when I get to my room. Angrily, with heavy breaths escaping me, I go to my dresser and force it open. I pull out a pair of blue leggings, trading them for my sopping wet ones. Throwing my old clothes in a hamper, I put on an old t-shirt and then sit back on my bed, sharp tears pricking my eyes. I inhale shakily.

Truthfully, I don't want to go back downstairs, do not want to see my dad or converse with him. Because that means Mom will expect me to act like everything's okay, to force a grin for him—act like he didn't stop writing to us when he did. I don't know if I have it in me. My stomach's already twisting itself into knots, tears already trying to force themselves out. I clench my teeth as Alfonzo comes over to lick at my cheeks.

When Mom calls me back downstairs, I do so begrudgingly, wishing I could just jump out of my window and head over to the Lennox's and start watching Annabelle, even though Sarah was probably still there. Her shift doesn't start until seven, after all.

Alfonzo prances beside me as I step back into the living room. Mom's busy cleaning up the water on the floor. I would have stopped her and done it myself, but I'm currently frozen in place.

Dad's standing now, his arms open, as though he's expecting me to fall straight into them. When I make no move to hug him, he furrows his eyebrows, gazing at me with a speculative glance. I narrow my eyes and swallow the bitterness I'm feeling.

"Ellie?" he asks, almost confused as if the last half a year didn't happen. As if he wasn't missing a son. "What's the matter? Aren't you going to give me a hug? I missed you, honey. It's been so long since I've seen you."

Don't I know it, I think, giving a bitter chuckle.

"El, honey," Mom speaks up when I remain silent and still, "please go give your father a hug. He just got home, sweetie."

But I don't want to, so I won't. I stare at Dad and feel irrationally angry, feel my eyes well up again and not because I'm relieved that he's alive and home (which I am) but because I'm livid that he thinks he has the right to act like everything's normal, like he didn't just leave us in our time of need.

"I see that," I tell my mom in a monotone. "Welcome home."

Dad's face morphs into one of perplexion, as if my stoicism is something he never anticipated, never would have considered.  He licks his lips and takes a step forward. "Ellie, I know how hard it must have—"

"Do you?" I snap, cutting him off. "Do you know how hard it must have been? Because I don't think you do, Dad. I don't think you understand it at all." I give a humorless laugh as if it'll stop the way it feels like water is rushing into my lungs. "And why would you, huh? It's not like you were there for any of it. You just let us handle it. Alone. Because you were off trying to play hero."

"Eleanor Jane!" Mom scolds, stopping before she gets to the couch to give me a scandalized glare.

Dad shakes his head. "It's okay, sweetheart." He looks at me with a frown. "Ellie, I know I wasn't there and I know how much it must have hurt but you have to believe me when I say—"

"The thing is, Dad, I don't care what you have to say," I tell him, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I don't care at all. You can make up some bullshit excuse about it but it doesn't excuse the fact that you left us all alone. You didn't even come to the funeral!"

By now, the tears leak down my face and I can't stop them. I'm hurt, and it swells in me like rage, my heart beating too big for my chest. My dad stares at me with the same emerald eyes we share, softened with hurt and guilt like grass in the rain.

I hate that the one thing I loved we shared I now hate.

"Ellie, I'm sorry!" he exclaims, reaching forward like he wants to embrace me.

I scoff. "I don't care! Take your empty apologies and shove off!"

"Eleanor!" Mom's sobbing again, but she's sad and disheartened now. Shame fills me. 

I hadn't meant to make her cry over this.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whisper.

Thunder cracks, closer this time. I flinch away from the noise. I can see the exact moment when Dad spots the scar on my face. He gasps quietly, reaches out like he might touch it then pulls his hand back.

He sounds choked up when he says, "Ellie." And then he starts crying, too, and I wish I could leave, wish someone would take me far away from this house. "Ellie, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know—and you were... Ellie, I'm so sorry."

I heave a bitter laugh, wiping away my tears. Staring at Dad, I see the regret, the pain swimming in his eyes, but I can't find myself to feel sorry. Looking at him, all I feeling is a stinging loathing that wraps around me like an icy blanket on the coldest night in December. 

"I have to babysit Annabelle tonight," I say quietly. Suddenly, I feel drained—exhausted.  "I'll be at the Lennox's. Don't wait up."

And before they can say another word, I walk away from my parents—from this whole situation that should be something happy, something that I can look back on and smile, but is anything but. Mom cries into her hand; I can hear my dad console her, hear him wrap her up in his arms, soothing her aching cries.

I slam the door on my way out.

The rain's still pouring when I exit the house but I pay it no mind as I make the short journey over to the Lennox's. I'm soaked again before I can even reach the house and I just sigh outwardly, knowing that I'm probably going to have a major head cold once this is all over. I can see Sarah's car in the gravel drive, but I furrow my eyes when I notice there's another vehicle accompanying hers.

The exterior's a shiny black, gleaming with droplets of rain as it's assaulted viciously. It's a truck, massive as it sits in the drive of the Lennox's. I frown, confused, wondering if maybe Sarah decided she didn't like small cars anymore. That giant, GMC trucks are her style instead. Something more secure, more threatening instead of a soft, motherly Buick.

I try to ignore it, try to ignore how uneasy the huge thing makes me feel—how it sends a familiar sense of foreboding through my body—walk straight into their house without knocking.

Baby Annabelle's crying when I enter—sopping wet, dripping all over their rugs. I feel bad about it, guilt bubbling up like a geyser as I head into the living room, my footsteps quiet. There's cooing, shushing and relieved cries coming from there that sound so familiar that I hurry. Warmth bakes through me, a complete opposite of the icy dread of seeing my father. And when I see William Lennox in the living room, cradling Sarah and Annabelle, my heart pulls, lighter than a helium balloon. 

"Uncle Will," I say, voice a breath of astonishment. My wet hair falls in my face as I stare at them. "You're home, too."

Will sends me a grin, his white teeth gleaming. He doesn't even seem to mind that I'm getting water all over his hardwood floor. Sarah takes Annabelle and gives me a smile, too.

And for the first time in awhile, I feel content as Will embraces me in his arms. It's like being hugged by another dad, someone who's been there for me since birth. He smells like cedar and pine and something familiar that's distinctly him. I wrap my arms around his waist, my eyes watering like a faucet, because I'm scared that if I let go, he'll disappear just like everyone else has. 

"Ellie," he whispers, an endearment that feels right from him but not from Dad. Not anymore. "It's been awhile."

I laugh wetly, nodding an agreement. "It has."

Thunder booms in the distant, crackling like suppressed dynamite. Faintly, I can hear the rain coming down. It isn't pounding against the roof like before. Relief shoots through me, a sigh escaping my lips as I pull away from Will. 

"Eleanor, would you like a change of clothes?" Sarah asks, grinning softly like she knows the reason I'm over here so early.

"That'd be nice, if you don't mind." I grimace at the floor, sending them both an apologetic glance. "Sorry for getting your floors wet."

Sarah waves me off, unbothered as Annabelle grabs at her braids. "Don't worry about it, sweetie. I think you left some spare things here awhile ago. They're probably in the guest room."

I nod, hurrying away from them and into the room down the hallway. For the second time today, I change my attire, slipping into an extra large t-shirt—my dad's old one—and some pajama shorts, refusing to look down at my scar-filled legs (I pray Sarah and Will do the same). Throwing my soaked hair into a tangled knot on my head, I wipe my face down in the bathroom before I go back, making sure I'm completely dry. When I return to the living room, Sarah's changed her casual clothes for work attire, Annabelle's babbling quietly in the playpen. 

Will's cleaning up the water. He chuckles when he sees me. "Goodness, Ellie. I didn't know a girl your size could carry so much water."

I grin, despite myself. "It's the hair."

"That mane's too thick for it's own good." He laughs. It sounds like stones over fire. I feel some of the cold from earlier melt away.

Will pulls Annabelle from her playpen when he's done mopping up the water (I try not to feel too guilty about making him do it), and takes a seat beside Sarah on the couch. I sit on the recliner in the corner, curling up on it. Water from my hair drips onto my face.

"When do you leave for work?" Will asks Sarah.

She frowns. "In about ten minutes. I don't want to get stuck in traffic."

"Don't look so sad. I'll still be here when you're home, you know?" Will pulls her into his side, placing a kiss on her head. I look away, feeling like an intruder on an intimate moment.

"I know," Sarah says, still frowning even in his arms, "but if I would have known you'd be home today, I would have taken the day off. It's been so long since we've had a meal together."

"How about tomorrow we make it a family day? We can wake up together, cook breakfast, lunch and dinner together. And then go to sleep together."

He waggles his eyebrows. I hold back a snort as Sarah groans, laughing softly.

"William, stop it, you oaf!"

Baby Annabelle coos. Picking at a random thread on my shirt, I allow my thoughts to wander. The pain from running earlier's starting to catch up with me. Sharp pain shoots up my back every other second and I grimace, knowing it's my fault for not exercising everyday like I'm supposed to.

(By exercise, I mean running, stretches and all that sweaty jazz because Dr. Johnson that walking—while it might be a form of exercise—is not something that works the body's muscles, especially if your body's accustomed to it.)

(I think she just secretly enjoys seeing me suffer, but whatever.)

When Sarah leaves ten minutes later on the dot, the sun's peeking in through the living room windows, a sign that the storm's finally passed. Finally, my body relaxes into the recliner, the storm's absence a weight off my shoulders. I stare at the television. Annabelle's still cooing in Will's arms, the sound like a lullaby in my ears. 

Will ruins it, of course. 

"So, Ellie," he starts. I turn to look at him. "Why are you so distressed?"

Figures he'd be the one to clock it. I shrug, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting my head on them. Will gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me. Instead of responding, I bite my lip. Certainly, he must know, right? He has to know. Him and Dad are best friends—my brother like a song to him. He has to know. 

He has to because I won't tell him.

Can't tell him.

When I remain silent, Will's eyes soften in something like understanding and then he's frowning at me, a deep sorrowful glint in his dark brown eyes as he stares at me. The scar on my face suddenly feels like it's burning.

"Ellie," he says with this knowing tone. "Ellie, I'm sorry." I see his eyes flit to the scar on my cheek. I want to turn away but his eyes hold me in place. "I'm sorry about what happened to Theodore. About what happened to you. I know you got my letter, but it wasn't enough. Nothing's ever enough for that kind of pain."

I nod, gulping. It's been so long since I've heard anyone use his fill name and my throat constricts at the sound of it. Longing and despair replace the elated relief that I had been feeling earlier. I feel foolish when my eyes water unintentionally. I'm so sick of crying. 

I look away from Will.

"Oh, god, don't cry!" he exclaims, voice panicked. "Eleanor, please don't cry! Your mom and Sarah will kill me if I make you cry."

I heave a weak laugh at that, sending him a minuscule grin. "M'not crying, Will. No one's going to maim you. Calm down."

"You don't know that. They still could." Even still, he dramatically relaxes with a too loud sigh. My eyes roll, but I quirk a small smile anyway. 

"For someone who's in the military, you're awfully scared of mundane things," I tease, feeling some of the heaviness lift.

"Mund—Mundane things?!" Will yelps, cradling Annabelle to him like he can't allow her to hear this. "Ellie, we're talking about the two women who made three sets of parents cry because some assholes pushed you down in the playground! That's six people! Six grown adults crying in broad daylight because of angry moms! I'd rather not get castrated, thanks."

A genuine laugh barks out of me at that, rusty and a little weak. My eyes crinkle shut at it, and Will seems relieved that he made me do something other than cry, so it makes me feel even better about it. 

"You've always been a wimp, Uncle."

He huffs. "I am not a wimp, Eleanor Jane! You take that back!"

"Absolutely not."

Will's outraged. "Those women have corrupted you. Corrupted. You used to be the sweetest little thing and now look at you. You're the devil's spawn."

"Ouch," I say, voice blank. "Really hurt me with that one."

"Shut up," he grumbles, leaning back on the couch and throwing Annabelle in the air. The baby yelps and hollers in excitement, clapping her chubby hands together when he catches her with a laugh. "How are you?" 

He tries to remain nonchalant but I can see that he's really curious about the answer.

"I'm fine," I reply immediately.

Will shoots me a look. "Come on, El. We both know you're not okay. Give it to me straight."

And how can I deny him the truth when he's looking at me with those honest brown eyes that I grew up with. I remember telling him everything when I was younger. There was something about him that made me automatically trust him, made me want to seek him out and share every little secret of this universe that I could. Perhaps it was the way he holds himself, or the way he speaks, so solid and earnestly, but I find myself opening up to him on more than one occasion.

"I'm managing," I tell him honestly. "It's hard, sometimes, but it's getting better. Day by day. I'm just trying to take it slow."

At least that's what I tell Dr. Henderson when I feel like answering him.

Will nods. "I get that. You deserve all the time you need, El. Going through something as traumatic as that—well, I know it wasn't a fun experience."

"Yeah," I swallow, avert my gaze, head hurting, "it wasn't a cup of tea, I'll tell you that."

"Can I—?" Will hesitates, bites his lip. "Can I ask what happened?"

"I don't... I don't remember, Uncle Will."

And I feel like crying again because it's true. I hate that's it true. Hate that I can't remember anything from that day except for skin stained crimson and cold, lifeless eyes. Whenever I try to recall the memory, a sharp pain vibrates my head, makes me see stars, and I want to scream every time.

"What do you mean you don't remember?"

I shake the pain away from my head. "The doctor, he asked me what happened that day and when I tried to remember the events that occurred, there was this sharp pain in my head, a hissing in my ears and I couldn't say anything because I was crying so bad. After my failed attempt at bringing the memory to mind, he informed me that it was a car accident, that we flipped the truck during a collision caused by a drunk driver. He said I had suffered from major head trauma, that I likely had a mild case of amnesia—mild because I remembered everything but the accident—and that the events would rush back soon enough.

"But they haven't and it's almost been a year and every freaking time I think about it, my head sears and I hear the same hissing and I still can't trigger the memories. Nothing's helped me. Dr. Henderson thinks it's because I don't want to remember, but I dunno."

My eyes are damp after I finish speaking, my face scrunched up in mute pain as my head pounds. Will nods his head in understanding, processing the information.

"Maybe you have remembered it but your brain just hasn't processed it," Will informs me. "Like, a dream or something. Have you had any nightmares?"

I nod, thinking back to the recurring one I've had for months now. The one with blank eyes and endless voids. Firm hands encasing me in safety as I plummet to my doom. Eyes as blue as a clear sky, comforting and reassuring. Nothing that could help me. I don't even understand what half of it means.

"What happens in your nightmares, El?" Will asks like he's afraid of the answer.

"The same thing," I say, swallowing, voice shattering like glass in winter. "I watch him die. Over and over again."

He takes in a deep breath but before he can say anything else, Annabelle starts crying loudly. I wonder if it's because the tension in the room has gotten worse—dark. Will tries to console her but it doesn't work. She continues wailing. I hesitantly offer my arms to him.

"I can take her," I tell him, not wanting to step on his toes, but needing to offer anyway.

"You sure?" he questions uncertainly. I don't know if it's from the fact that he's just gotten to hold his baby in his arms for the first time in a long time or the fact that he probably thinks I'm too emotionally unstable to hold a baby.

I nod.

"Alright, then." 

He hands her over to me.

Annabelle has tears streaming down her face, her deep brown eyes sad as she wails on. I cradle her in my arms and rock her back and forth, shushing her cries, humming a tune that Mom used to use on me when I was a child. I close my eyes and focus on the child in my arms, allow myself to relax, to help her relax and soon enough, her cries subside into small hiccups.

"I want to know your secrets," Will says in amazement.

I chuckle. "There is none. You just get used to handling her." When he looks crestfallen, I hold her back out to him. "Don't worry, Will. She'll know you in no time, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not," he denies, but I can see the relief on his face when Annabelle reaches for his cheeks.

My lips twitch.

The conversation from before's forgotten; I feel a sense of relief as I allow myself to curl up on the chair. I know, soon enough, that I'll probably have to return to my own house. Will's here, therefore I'm not needed for babysitting tonight. But I truly don't want to see my dad at the moment, so I teeter on the idea of asking Will to sleep over tonight.

I open my mouth to speak, to force the words out, but the front door slams open before I can even take a breath.

Dad stands at the threshold, looking annoyed and put out as he stares at Will. Will perks up instantly, handing Annabelle over to me.

"What is it, Owen?"

Dad grimaces like he doesn't want to open his mouth. Like saying it is too much trouble than what it's worth.

"We're needed at the base," he says through clenched teeth almost as if he hates he even has to say them.

Will sighs, but nods like he understands. He stands up instantly, kissing both myself and Annabelle on the forehead. "She's all yours," he tells me. "Take care of her, kid."

"I will," I respond, sitting up and letting my feet touch the ground. My back aches painfully as I do so.

"I'll be back soon," he informs me, handing me a card. "Get whatever you want. It's on me."

I nod, already thinking about the fattening things that I shouldn't eat but am going to anyway. Annabelle tries to swipe the card out of my hand but I set it on the coffee table in front of me before she can even try.

Will sighs and walks up to my dad. "Let's get this over with." 

He's the first one to leave, footsteps stomping out of the house and into the rain.

Dad stays in the threshold, emerald eyes staring straight through me. I stand, about to head to the kitchen to order some takeout from the landline because it seems I forgot my own at home. I ignore his gaze, can feel my heart racing in my chest as he just idles there, silently staring at me.

"Say something or leave," I finally snap. "You're just wasting my time—and yours—by standing there like a gaping fish."

"El—" he starts, seemingly surprised that I initiated the conversation. "Ellie, I lo—"

A honk as loud as a freight trains rattles the house, and Dad jumps up in surprise. Annabelle starts crying in my arms; I glare, wondering why Will would do something so insanely idiotic when he could have just shouted for Dad. Instead, he's bothered Annabelle and whenever she's frightened, it's a difficult task to get her to calm down.

"Tell Will that I'm going to end him when he returns," I say to Dad, a dismissal.

He frowns, but nods anyway. 

"I'll see you later, Ellie," he says, but it sounds uncertain, wobbly at the edges.

I'm silent as he leaves the house—grumbling underneath his breath the entire way out. I stand there in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room, listening to Annabelle's wails, head pounding. Outside, an engine revs angrily and gravel hits the side of the house as the truck from earlier (I'm assuming) leaves the premises.

Annabelle's cries are white noise in my ears.

Chapter Text

When I wake up, something feels off. Automatically, I know it's not going to be a good day. I slam my hand on the alarm before it can start beeping madly and pull myself out of bed, being careful to mind Alfonzo. I throw on my FoodMart uniform quickly, throwing my hair up into a ponytail.

The sky's still dark when I walk downstairs to grab my usual banana from the bowl on the island counter. Glancing at my wristwatch, I see that it's only half past one and I'm not supposed to be at work until three. I sigh, hating that no matter what, I can't sleep through a full night.

Oh well, I suppose. Beats being late to work every morning since I have to make such a long walk.

I grab my keys, shove my phone—along with my wallet—in the pockets of my khakis, and throw a jacket over my magenta FoodMart shirt, tucking my banana into one of the pockets, zipping it and waltzing through the door.

It's chilly out as I take a step off of the porch. The moon's full tonight, gleaming down at me along with a million, twinkling stars. I always loved the stars, loved the way they shined like little gems. Pausing, I allow myself a small grin, breathing in the night air, the calm atmosphere relaxing to me.

During this hour, there's no commotion—no chaos. It's serene, peaceful and you can hear the crickets chirping in the dewy grass, the coyotes howling for their packs. It's as though everything is at a stand-still, like the world has stopped turning, allowing us to revel in the magnificence the night brings us.

I open my fence, shutting it behind me. As I make my way down the hill where my house's located, I start to feel uneasy, neck prickling uncomfortably. It feels like there's a pair of eyes piercing right through me, calculating like whoever it is, is waiting to attack me.

A moment later, I hear a clatter behind me, halfway up the drive. Like someone's trying to be subtle but doesn't know the meaning of the word.

When I make the decision to look back, to glance up at the hill and see if there's anyone actually there—or if it's just my imagination playing tricks on me—I spot a dark figure standing at the Lennox's house, right beside the truck. My heart races and I hurriedly turn around, picking up my pace.

I know how this goes; I let my guard down, whoever wants to murder me makes a run for me, and then I'm killed and everyone finds my remains chopped up and scattered over the city.

Dismissing the pain in my back that has been flaring since yesterday, I let my legs pick up more speed, going into a steady jog instead of a fast walk. When I can still feel the person's presence, I start sprinting, my Converse slapping against the concrete as I bob and weave to FoodMart.

It's only when I get into the city that I notice that no one seems to be following me anymore—the looming figure and piercing gaze have suddenly disappeared—that I probably just look like a lunatic running the streets of Tacoma in the middle of the night.

I'm panting by the time I enter the air-conditioned safety of the grocery store. There's sweat trailing down my back. I take my jacket off, heading to the back room. Glancing at my watch, I find that I still have a bit more time to wait out before my shift really starts—a shocker since it takes me almost an hour to get here on a good day. I sling my jacket on the coat rack and reach for the pocket, hungry for my banana.

The pouch is empty, I find upon search. Must have fallen out when I was running. I pout. There's nothing open at this time except for a diner all the way across town and FoodMart, of course, but Jess, my supervisor, says that since I've only been working here for a little over two months that I can't snag free supplies. And I'm not going to pay three dollars for a banana that's not even that appetizing. So it looks like starving's my only option.

I throw my head back onto the couch with a groan. Jess comes in minutes later and shakes her head at me.

I hate Saturdays.

✦

FoodMart's not my dream job by any means. It's a part-time, piece of crap job that I acquired because Mom wanted me to get out more or something. And since I wasn't talking to any of my old friends, she told me to go get a job—that she wasn't going to keep giving me money when I wasn't using it for something useful.

(Which is highly offensive because National Geographic magazines are very useful, thank you very much.)

So I applied to FoodMart and they took me in right away because apparently they were low on staff and just needed someone to help them. Looks like I was that "lucky" person. Yay.

For the most part, it's okay, I suppose. I work on Mondays, Wednesdays, Sundays and Saturdays which isn't much considering the pay, but still. They don't make me do anything too strenuous—I'm in charge of stocking up on diapers and cereal for heaven's sake—and no one makes unnecessary chatter with me.

However, that could be the fact that they look at the scar on my face and deem me unsatisfactory of conversation. It happens all the time. People see one side of my face and think I'm going to be some charming girl or something, but then when I turn to face them fully, their eyes trail down to the big 'ole scar trailing down half of it, their lips puckering as though they've tasted something sour.

It's rather ridiculous, really.

Which is why, when my lunch break passes and the familiar sense of foreboding from earlier comes back, I wonder why I just didn't stay in bed this morning.

The guy who came searching for the right kind of diapers for his child finds me and I try to give him the best grin I can, but I'm running on little to no sleep and my legs and back are in so much pain.

I am crouched on the floor, stamping price reduction onto some Huggies when he says, "Excuse me, ma'am?"

"Yes, sir. How can I help you today?" I turn to gaze at him questioningly.

"Uh," he says, eyes flickering to my scar (like always) and back to my eyes. "I need some Pull-Ups."

I nod, standing. My legs ache in protest and I grit my teeth at the pain that shoots up from them and into my back. I try to send the customer a smile, but he's already grimacing like I'm some sort of deformed person and I hate it. It's a blasted scar, not a boil or something. Get over it.

"Our two most popular brands of Pull-Ups are Pampers and Huggies," I tell him over my shoulder as I walk to the diapers. "However, Huggies sells out fast, so I'm assuming that's the best bet, sir."

He nods, but he's still staring at my cheek and I find myself becoming irate with it. When he grabs the Huggies from the shelf, he thanks me, but I can see the grimace still on his face. I bite my lip.

"You know, staring at it isn't going to make it go away," I snap angrily, wringing my hands together.

The man jumps, blushes like I caught him doing something he shouldn't be doing, says, "I didn't—I just. Sorry."

I roll my eyes because I'm suddenly so sick of it. When the man walks away, Jess comes up to me no two moments later, a nasty storm brewing in her grey eyes.

"What the hell was that?" she mutters in irritation as I grab up my price gun and start slapping more reductions on some off-brand, useless diapers.

"He was staring," I point out, not really caring what'll happen to me.

Jess grabs my arm. "That doesn't matter. We do not, under any circumstances, snap at the customers! If they want to stare, they can stare. Let them."

"Whatever," I murmur, throwing her off me.

"Let that be a warning, Cambridge." She scoffs, pointing a chubby finger at my face. "If I see you speaking that way towards a customer again, you will be fired. Understood?"

"Loud and clear."

Jess walks away after that; I'm left with the price gun, stamping the diapers with much more force than necessary. My face's flushed angrily, my heart thumping wildly in my chest as I try to reign in my irritation and annoyance. I hate this whole customer policy because it isn't fair that they get to stare and make me feel so much more uncomfortable than what I already am yet I can't say anything. I should be able to say something.

But I'm supposed to sit there and let them gawk at me like I'm something weirdly spectacular, like I'm an animal at the zoo. It's what I feel like most of the time when I'm working here. Like I'm some tiger or lion and the customers are patrons at the zoo and they're staring at me and even though it makes me so, so livid, I can't break free, can't sink my claws into them for judging me, for making me a spectacle.

One day—one day, I'm going to break free, going to shatter the walls surrounding me and then I'll make sure no one ever makes me a spectacle again.

✦

I'm almost off when it happens. The day is almost over; it's almost five in the evening and I'm sore as can be but I manage it because I get off of work in ten minutes. I'm stocking up on some diapers when the person comes by, whistling a tune underneath their breath as they sift through the diapers.

Almost immediately, I can tell it's my dad. I don't even have to look at him; he always whistles the same, horrible tune.

I think maybe I can get away with ignoring him, that'll he get the stuff he needs (probably diapers for Will or something) and then be on his way.

Of course, that's exactly what doesn't happen.

He stops right behind me and there's a tense sort of silence as I wait for him to spew out some more bullshit apologies.

"Ellie," he starts quietly.

I stand and face him, plastering on the fakest smile I can muster. "Hello, sir. How can I help you?"

"Ellie, please." He's holding some Huggies and staring at me with a frown. "Just talk to me."

"There's nothing to say." I walk away, ignore the way my cheeks flush angrily and start stacking Pampers onto the shelf.

Dad grabs my arm. "El, come on. You get off soon, yeah? Let me give you a ride home. You can ride in the truck."

My whole body runs cold at the very thought of it. My heart races as I think of the giant, black GMC—the way it looked so ominous, so threatening when it was only sitting in the driveway of the Lennox's. I look at my dad in disbelief, outraged that he would actually offer me something as terrifying as that.

Doesn't he know?! Didn't Mom tell him?!

I want to scream, want to cry, but I remain stoic and stare at him. Waiting for him to pick up on it, I remain silent, but he stands there with that hopeful glint in his eyes and I hate him so much more for it.

"You're kidding me right?" I laugh in disbelief.

Dad looks shocked. "What—what's wrong? You've always liked trucks, Ellie. Your broth—"

"Don't," I say quietly. "Don't you dare, Dad."

"But Theo—"

"Enough!" I finally snap. Tears prick my eyes. God, I'm such a crybaby—at least I've felt like one these past few days. I glare at my dad. "Don't say his name! You have no right to! Just take the diapers and leave. Just go! It's what you're best—"

"Cambridge!"

It's Jess. And she does not sound happy. I turn to stare at her blankly and when she tells me I'm fired, that I need to take my things and leave, I feel nothing. Nothing but a simmering loathing for the man who caused this all.

My dad sends me a panicked look as I walk away from him, basically throwing my headset into Jess's big arms as I pass her. She gives me a glare but I snidely smile back and walk into the lounge room, ignoring my dad's shouts for me.

I think maybe it should have been more saddening—me getting fired—but all I feel is relief, somehow. I never wanted to work in the first place and I only kept the freaking job because of Mom's pleas.

Minutes later, I have all my stuff gathered in my arms. When I walk out of FoodMart, it's with a middle finger stuck towards Jess because she is the spawn of Satan, not me.

The sun's still up when I exit the building and I see my dad hop out of the black truck that's halfway across the parking lot with panic written all over his expression. I roll my eyes.

"Ellie!" he shouts. "Ellie, I didn't mean to get you fired!"

I wave a hand at him, indicating I don't care and walk in the opposite direction of him. I can hear the giant truck revving up in the back and I feel a strike of queasiness rush through me. I pick up the pace, ignoring the sharp pain resonating through my body.

"Eleanor! Please, stop walking away from me!" he demands.

I ignore him.

"Eleanor!"

There's a shout and a grunt, then I can hear my dad sighing loudly in disappointment. A truck door slams shut and then the black truck passes me as I saunter on the sidewalk, speeding off and towards the direction of my house.

A shudder passes through me and then the events from this morning are passing through my head. I wonder if Will knows that there was some creep hanging around his truck earlier today.

I pause as I ponder over it, wondering if the weirdo was back, if he was waiting for me when I got home. I fiddle with my jacket and swallow before I press on.

Murderer or not, it's not like he'll assault me in broad daylight.

✦

Evening falls when I return home, Mom's there, her Tahoe parked in the drive. Exhausted both mentally and physically, I throw myself into the house with a limp, walking over to the couch with an angry growl.

"Mom," I call, not sitting yet, "I need to talk to you!"

Because no way am I not mentioning that absolute weirdo who was outside our house this morning. Terror so vibrant I fear I had painted myself in it had surrounded me. I should have called her earlier, yes, I know, but after everything that happened at FoodMart and with Dad, that was the least of my concern.

(Should it have been? Probably not, but I almost died once, I'm sure I'll risk it again before long.)

"Coming," Mom says from her study. Moments later, I hear her footsteps pad into the room like a deer in the forest, silent and graceful. She smiles at me when she sees me. "What's up, darling?"

Anger sifts through me. I'm not angry with her, not really, but part of me wonders why she's been so... lacking in her communication with Dad? Why doesn't he know that I don't ride in vehicles? Why does he know nothing about my injuries? Why does he still think that it's okay to show up after months of nothing and pretend everything's okay?

But that's not what I focus on—no, now I'm concerned about the potential murderer that could be lurking. Especially when they shouldn't be because we live twenty minutes from town by car. So, I turn my bitter eyes to my mom, inhaling the scent of Dad's favorite meal—shepard's pie—sifting through the house.

"I almost died today," I snap, "because some weird man was in our yard. Following me."

Mom's face pinches into worried confusion, her dark brows raising. "A man? El, we live in the forest."

"Yeah, tell that to the clatter I heard followed by the heavy breathing," —an exaggeration, but oh well— "and footsteps as loud as a train! Do you know what that does to a person on their way to work?!"

"Honey, what do you mean?" Mom asks, sounding completely concerned now, trying to come over me despite me taking a step back. "You saw a man this morning? In our yard? That can't be right..."

"Well, it's as true as the night is dark," I reply, snaking a shaky hand through my hair like it'll stop the onslaught of emotions in me. "I didn't see a face but the presence was enough. We need to call the cops if there's a weirdo hanging around the truck every morning!"

"Around the... OH!"

Mom's sudden exclamation makes me flinch, the loud noise sharp against my ears. When I glance back at her, she's got a relieved expression on her face.

"You saw Ron," she breathes, throwing a hand on her chest. "I tell you, El, you can't just start a sentence with, 'I almost died.' It sends the wrong message."

"Mother," I say slowly, unsure if she's not understanding the situation, "I was chased... by a man. Down the street. Into town. How is that the wrong message?"

Mom waves a hand, unbothered. I almost gape, but figure it would be beneath me. I told myself today was going to be a bad day and look at it. Look at what I manifested. My own mother has gone crazy over someone she believes is named Ron? When I've never seen this person in my life before?

"Because, my love, it was just Ron."

"You never mentioned a Ron!" I yell, face flushing as I stare at her. "Dad just returned, and neither of you talked about anyone named Ron! So, no, Mom, I don't think it's the wrong message when it was me who he followed—not you!"

Mom backpedals, her hazel eyes widening when she realizes I am not in the mood to be lax about this. I hate when they do that, the brushing it under the rug like I'll ignore it if they do hard enough. Mom did it a lot after my brother died—either that, or she overcompensated to try and make up for it.

And now she wants me to believe that I should just trust a random figure in the night just because she does? As fucking if. She can kiss my ass if she thinks I'm going to let someone watch over me like a guard dog when I don't need any security.

"I don't need a babysitter, and I don't even want to know why he's here," I snarl before she can say anything. Before she can argue her way through this the way she does in the courtroom. "So, next time, maybe you and Dad can actually think before you decide something without me."

"Eleanor Jane, do not talk to me like that," she says softly.

"Or what? You'll sic Ron on me? He for your protection, too?" I laugh bitterly, my head thrown back. Already, I can feel my hands trembling, my heart racing in my chest as I inhale rocks instead of air. "Gonna call him in here in the dead of the night for an op, Mom?"

"Eleanor!" Mom snaps, eyes misting. "What is going on with you?"

But my day's been horrible; I know she's getting the brunt of it, but now that it's started, it won't stop.

"You wanna know, Mom?" I say, pacing as I heave in a deep breath that does nothing for me. "Wanna know? Because I'll tell you. I'll tell you it's Dad, coming home. It's you both, pretending like nothing happened. Like you didn't bury an empty casket—"

Mom gasps.

"—or have to walk your daughter through physical therapy! Or bathe me! Or anything!" Wringing my hands in my hair, I hiss out, snot dripping from my nose. "Like everything I went through meant nothing as long as you could ignore it! And you know what else?"

I stare at her, wait for her to say, "Yes, El?"

"Dad came to work today. Figured he'd call you, but I forget it's not a specialty of you two." Part of me hates that it feels so good to get this out, but the waves crashing against me are ebbing down the more I let it out. "I was fired. Because he wouldn't leave me alone. Because he pestered me until he got what he wanted—"

"El, you know he didn't want you to be fired..."

Mom's leaking tears like a leaky sink. Should I care? Probably. Do I? Not really.

Instead, rage as hot as the sun and as bright as it, too, rushes through me like a lightning strike.

"Did he not?" I ask, voice cracking with how hysterical I feel. Mom flinches from my tone. Good. Let her. "Had it been Will, I would still work there, but he knew when he came in there what he was going to try to do."

"El, your father—"

"Left us. Abandoned us when we needed him most!" I shout, throwing my hands to the sky like it'll ground me. "And you're sitting there, kissing on him like he was at the funeral. Newsflash, Mom! He wasn't! And he doesn't get to swoop in and act like he was just because he lived."

"Eleanor," she whispers, her tone hushed. She holds a hand out, like she might reach for me. Her hand halts in the air, dangling. "Eleanor, please, don't talk like that, honey. Your father loved you very much but there's—El, there are things that..."

"What?" I ask in disbelief. "What things?"

Mom shakes her head. "El..."

"What?" I can't feel my hands. My eyes are burning with salt, probably cracked red from the tears drying on my cheeks. "What are the things, Mom? Tell me, or you can't tell me I'm wrong. Tell me right now."

But Mom doesn't say anything—her mouth twisted shut like she ate a piece of lemon with salt and vinegar on it. Stomach falling, I take a step back as Alfonzo starts prancing into the room, barking with joy that I'm home.

The excitement of seeing him doesn't come. I can only imagine my dad's face when he was in the store, when he was pleading with me to talk to him. My eyes sting again. I swear, I'm going to sue myself for emotional damage at this point with how much of crybaby I am. When I glance back at Mom, I realize she really isn't going to say anything...

So, I say, "Why doesn't Dad know I don't ride in cars, Mom?"

Mom flinches like I hit her with a cinderblock and not words. Her hazel eyes narrow then widen, and it's then she knows she has no excuse. I can see it on her face, the way it crumples like skeleton with no spine. She opens her mouth and closes it multiple times, almost as if she's debating on what to say, how to say it.

When she does speak, the words are heavy.

"I had meant to, El, I promise I did, but there's— your father..."

"Mom," I say blankly, my entire body cold. Numb. My arms and legs tingle, my back screaming from working all day. I'm still in my FoodMart uniform, khakis clinging to my thighs uncomfortably. "Mom, I swear if you say something about how hard he had it, I will scream."

Because I know how hard he has it. He's in the fucking military for crying out loud! Of course, he has it hard, he's ducking under cover every time he walks outside. But that didn't mean he couldn't send one measly letter to me. Just something to show that he's there—he's alive. He remembers.

But no.

No, he couldn't even do that.

Mom shakes her head softly. I walk away from the couch, towards the stairs. Mom reaches for me again, like she might touch me for comfort, but she stops. Like she knows it wouldn't be accepted. Or worse—she knows she's in the wrong.

"I wasn't going to say that, honey," she calls to my retreating back. "El, I'm sorry, honey! Ron is harmless, though—and your father... well, I wanted to tell him, but... well, when you know maybe you'll understand."

A bitter laugh escapes me. My entire body feels like it might shut down, my lungs wrung out like a towel and my heart still but racing like I'm being revived and killed simultaneously. I don't respond to her because she didn't understand what I was trying to say.

It was never about if this mysterious man was safe or not—it was about telling me in the first place. I don't know how she isn't grasping that.

To be blindly lead is not the same as being informed of why said person was here.

Are we in danger? That's what I wanted to ask her, but the words die on my throat as soon as I hit the stairs.

"El," Mom says, footsteps hurried behind me. "El, come on. Let's talk about this."

"Are you going to tell me why this Ron guy's here?"

I don't turn around, don't face her the way I know she wants me to. Instead, I take one step up the stairs, Alfonzo waiting at the top, his white tail wagging a million miles a minute.

Mom's silent for a moment. When she speaks, I should feel dread, disappointment.

"El, just know that Ron's safe. And I'll talk to your father, get this all sorted out, okay? I'm sorry, baby... I didn't mean to make you—I didn't know Ron would do that. He's not— that's not his protocol."

I laugh. Once. Protocol? For what? A teenage girl going to garbage job that I didn't even want in the first place? What could he have possible seen in me that would have made him break protocol? And why did that thought fill me with so much unease?

I don't respond to Mom. I don't think I can. It feels like static pounding in my head, my legs shaky as I walk past her and go up the stairs without another word, hollow and alone, despite Alfie licking my nose when I get to my room.

Of course it's not his protocol. It's just my luck some military whatever-he-is decided to break the rules to follow a disabled girl to her job. And of course now she's going to talk to Dad about it. That couldn't have happened... I don't know—half a fucking year ago?!

I shower. Hard as it is with blurry eyes from pain and anger, I manage and change into shorts and hoodie before locking my door and throwing myself in bed.

Later, when Dad's home, the smell of Shepard's pie overwhelming in the house, he knocks on my door. This is when nights fallen, wind whistling through the house like an off key tune.

"Ellie," he says, and his voice is hoarse like he'd been crying all night. "I didn't know. I had no idea about why you won't... I mean, I get it, honey, I do. I'm just—I'm sorry. And I know it doesn't take it back, me asking you to get in the truck. But Eleanor—" his hand presses on the door loud enough that I hear it, hear the tremble as he shakes, "—if I had known, I would have never come in."

But you didn't, I don't say, and you didn't care to ask.

Knees to my chest, my back protests as I try to get comfortable. My eyes are swollen shut almost, exhausted and angry from crying all night. Now—now I lay, unmoving as Alfonzo snores in my ear.

Dad doesn't say anything else. I think he's looking for a response. I don't say anything.

Not even when he walks away, footsteps heavy like he's being dragged.

I try to sleep. But my head hurts, my feet ache. Clenching my eyes shut, I can only remember the hunkering silhouette of the man named Ron. Dad's own words should gnaw at me, but I'm more concerned about a stranger being so close to me. Where the hell even is he? And why was he tailing me like I'm a job he couldn't say no to?

Sleep doesn't come, and by the time morning comes, I'm already sitting at my window, looking for a glance of this "Ron." Even when it's dark, I don't see him, nor when the sun comes up and Dad and Will go to work. I don't see him at all.

And part of me wonders—where is this mysterious man with a penchant for stalking?

Unease strikes through me; I hope, for my sake, it's nowhere close.

Chapter Text

As Sunday passes, I remain on the lookout for this Ron, especially when Dad and Will return at lunch in the giant GMC. I only saw a silhouette, sure, but there's no way he won't return if Mom said he was harmless, meant to be here for whatever reason.

So, I look. I stay holed up in my room with Alfonzo, Mom at work this weekend. Dad knocks on my door every five seconds to see if I'm ready yet—if I'll please just speak to him once. Just to hear his little girl's voice.

Ugh. No.

The answer is silence, me staring outside of my window at the truck as if it'll make him appear the way he had that night. Ron, I mean. Not Dad. Dad is outside my door, banging on it like he's got nothing better to do with his life. But he's not my concern at the moment.

I want to see this Ron guy.

I have some... questions for him.

(By that, I mean I'm probably going to go off, cry a little, and make a complete fool of myself in front of military personnel.)

But he never shows. Almost like he never existed.

I wonder if Dad mentioned something, because I could hear him and Mom talking in low voices earlier this morning—right outside my door as if I wouldn't hear—and his name was mentioned.

Maybe they benched him, sent him somewhere far, far from here. If that's the way he "protects" people, then it's for the best that he's gone.

Nonetheless, the unease of him stirs within me even as I go school in a haze on Monday morning without any sighting of him. My eyes strain in the harsh lights, mind hazy in that in-between state where I'm awake but not quite present to the world. There's a test in Anatomy, and I have to write an essay in English, but overall, despite the pain in my body, it's a dull day.

On the way home, the pain in my back flares, my legs trembling as they carry me home. I was going to tell Mom about it, but now that we're not really talking—now that she's tried to leave me my favorite snacks and text me apology after apology—I'm a little wary to tell her. It's likely she'll strap me into her Tahoe and speed to the hospital before I can even comprehend that I'm in a car. For now, I'll just take some over-the-counter medicine and hope that it goes away on it's own.

Because if it doesn't, I'm screwed. I don't want to tell her—or anyone for that matter. I hate that they're even hurting again; I blame it on the Ron guy and his incessant need to be a terrorizer as his form of protection. Who even tries to protect someone from leaving their own house? Where would the danger have been? I didn't see any smoke on Saturday morning, so he should have stayed his happy ass away.

Shaking my head, I try to ignore my thoughts, arriving home earlier than expected despite my back screaming in protest. No one's there when I walk up the gravel drive, rocks crunching beneath my shoes; only my Corolla sits there, Alfonzo barking at the gate to the right of it.

"Alfie, hi," I say, cooing at him.

He yaps at me, nipping at my fingers in excitement. I pat his head over the fence as I unlock it, bending down to meet him when he stand on his hind legs to jump on me. Clawing me as though he hasn't seen me in years. His giant, watery Chihuahua eyes are gleaming as he whimpers at me like I personally victimized him for being gone so long. I snort, letting him follow at my heels as I go into the house.

My thoughts are still spiraling, but I try not to focus on Ron or anything else as I drop my backpack with a thump. Slipping out of my worn Converse, I place them beside the olive green backpack, entering the kitchen with Alfonzo still trailing like a ghost. Going to the faucet, I pour myself a cup of water, washing it down in seconds.

Weariness coats my bones like a second skin, exhaustion thick in my eyes like allergies. My limbs are heavier than a ton of rocks, weight down like I was being pulled underwater. I frown, sighing.

Gotta push through it.

Instead of sitting on the couch and rot like I want to do, I turn back to the door, walking towards my Converse and sliding them on my feet. I feel utterly idiotic for taking them off in the first place, but no one said I had common sense.

(Obviously, I don't—or I would have hounded Mom more about Ron until I received an answer. Now, I have crippling anxiety about it; it crawls through my throat like a snake with its teeth sunk in the fleshiest part of me. I just want to know if I'm in danger.)

Alfonzo yelps when I reach for his leash. I nod, say, "Yep, boy, it's time for a walk."

He barks at me. I attach the leash to his black collar. Together—him trotting with his tongue out and me watching him so I don't think about everything that's been happening—we start marching down the gravel path on the hill.

✦

The florist, Oliver, gives me that same, warm smile he always does when the bell rings to his flower shop. I try to muster the same enthusiasm, but the smile looks more like a grimace. But Oliver isn't swayed by it—he never is. It's one of the things I love most about coming here. He just sends Alfonzo a cheerful grin when the dog starts whining in anticipation.

"How's my favorite dog?" He comes out from behind the cash register with a treat, crouching down in front of Alfie and feeding it to him. "You just keep getting bigger, don't you?" He rubs at Alfonzo's head. Looks at me. "How are you, El?"

"I'm okay." I shrug and walk further into the shop. The overbearing smells of floral flows through me, the haze of them almost making me dizzy, a twist forming on my lips as I try to stop my head from spinning. "Just dig up a fresh batch of flowers?"

"Sure did." He looks excited about it, takes in a deep breath. After patting Alfonzo's head one last time, Oliver stands, walking towards me. "Pulled up some fresh carnations for you, in fact."

"You did?" I ask, touched. Oliver always tries to make sure I have fresh ones, but sometimes the truck gets here earlier than expected, the ones he grows always gone too fast for me to buy them. I'm glad he was able to get some for me this time. "Thank you, Oli."

Oliver makes his way towards the back; Alfonzo chases a stray bug as I walk further in the stop, fingers grazing the delicate petals before me. There are pink roses, beautiful snapdragons, tulips, peonies and more. I can't name them all now or I'd be here forever, but the assortment of colors illuminating my vision like I had walked into a rainbow after it had just rained.

Moments later, Oliver brings me the carnations, his footsteps heavy in the way they always are. Secure, made to be heard because one time he was too silent, and I almost didn't return the next week for my carnations because of how bad it terrified me. Not because he did anything, but because I couldn't. Now, he just makes himself know. I both hate and love it.

Instead of focusing on it, thought, I stare at the bouquet, something warm and oddly sentimental sifting through me like sand. They gleam at me, fuschia like a sunset on a beach. I press a finger to the petal, whispering, "They're beautiful."

"Aren't they?" he asks, a soft smile on his face. His voice is a breath of awe; and it makes sense, of course, since Oliver loves the flower shop more than life itself. "Here, they're yours."

He pushes them out with his arms, and I grab the bouquet, holding them delicately—terrified that if I squeeze too tightly, shake them too roughly, they'll wither and I'll be left with the dead stems and nothing to take home with me but my own shame and disappointment.

It's a quiet, quick, transaction and then I exit the shop with Oliver calling his farewells to me with a bright grin. Attempting to grin back, I let Alfonzo bark at him once more in goodbye before we walk into the evening light. The sun shines an orange glow on us, hot and sweltering in the summer heat. I hold a hand over my eyes to shield myself from the sun, keeping the carnations covered so they don't wilt.

Ugh. I hate the heat. I'll be relieved when fall comes and the moon replaces the sun at three in the morning.

The trek back to my house isn't as long as the one to school since the flower shop is located near the graveyard close to our house, but the journey feels like an eternity when my heart starts racing in my chest. I'm winded, wondering once again why Dad and Will had to have their homes right beside each other in the most secluded part of Tacoma. Though I don't hate it as much as I used to when I was a kid, right now—with my legs burning and Alfonzo trying to chase a squirrel up a tree—it's the worst experience of my life.

I'm sweating through my shirt by the time I make it to the house, walking up the drive. I notice the black GMC in the grass, right between the little patch of yard that the Lennoxes and us share. Why? I have no clue. Maybe it's the fact there was a man standing just beside it the night that I was followed to work.

(Maybe it's the fact it's looming and ominous—reminds me of rain and sleet and wind ripping through my hair. That or it's because I don't know who it even belongs to.

Well, okay, so it's Ron, but I don't know him. Just the way he stood like a sentinel in the yard and then moved like shadows in the night—like something of nightmares, stealthy and silent until they're right up on you.

So, yeah, Mom can take that excuse about protection and not following protocol and shove it up her rear.)

I try to ignore the fear crawling over my skin, all damp and cold like I've been dunked into an ice bath. My sweat chills to my back. Tugging Alfonzo away from trying to hike his leg on the tire, I pull his leash towards the east side of the property, where the forest is denser—the trees bigger. Carnations grasped tightly in my right hand, I walk past towering oak trees and gorgeous flowers grazing my ankles.

Fallen branches make the journey harder, the sun pounding on my back as tears prick my eyes. I know what I'm doing—I do it every week—but the ten minute walk to the giant trees I always go to never gets easier when I'm doing it alone.

When I reach it, I stare at the small tree house, the wood worn and faded from years of wear and tear from storms. It sits, built between two those towering oak trees that loom over me like sentinels. The treehouse itself is quaint, cozy with three windows letting the sunshine in through the stained glass of my favorite anime character. It bleeds blues and pinks and browns into the treehouse, planks of wood running along the side of the oak trees, leading to an opening in the house.

On the far left side, I can still make out the angry graffiti my brother created when he was nine and angry because Milly Nuñez called him a derelict; and even though he didn't know what that meant, he took his vengeance out with neon blue and pink paint that reads: NO GIRLS ALLOWED (EXCEPT ELLIE ON A GOOD DAY). It's a little faded from the years it's sat there, but the message still makes my lips twitch, even if my eyes prick with uncomfortable tears.

Alfonzo yelps to be let off his leash, and I release him with a sigh, trying to hold back the annoying pressure behind my eyes. As he chases a butterfly, I carefully hold the carnations in my right arm, stepping to the ladder leading up to the house. My back protests as I make my ascent, and I wonder how many more times I can do this before I'm left unable to anymore.

The thought almost makes me weep, but I hold it back.

The inside of the treehouse is as lived in as the outside was. While the outside looks like it hasn't been used as much as the inside, the inside is an explosion of memorabilia and trinkets that make it home to me. There are two bean bag chairs in the corner, stuffed in between two windows. One's pink and one's olive green—my brother's and my favorite colors respectively. Comic books and old books that we used to read while we were up here are thrown about—some torn, some open like a picture frozen in time.

Holding the carnations in my hand, I'm suddenly grateful for the high ceilings since it suddenly feels like I'm enclosed in a glass box that's only growing smaller. I glance at the pictures that we've taken over the years—some of just him, some of the family together, some of us visiting our grandparents in Florida.

We looked happy, I note.

My smile's bitter. Tears well up in my eyes, the overbearing need to let them fall crushing me like an anvil. I hold them in due to sheer willpower, continuing to the last picture in the other corner of the treehouse. It's polished, clean—stares at me when I squat in front of it.

A tear falls. And then another—and another until I'm crying, salty tears burning my cheeks. My jeans absorb the ones that fall, but I don't care; I'm focused on what's in front of me.

Because it's my brother, smiling so wide I fear he might have split his lips in half that day. His hazel eyes, the same ones I have to stare at when I look at my mom everyday, are crinkled shut in bliss. The photo was taken when he first got his truck—a 2006 GMC Sierra—and he demanded that I take a picture of him at the dealership.

He's patting the hood of the black Sierra; as I stare at it, tears dripping and snot leaking, I wish I could go back to that moment. To when he laughed so loud in the cabin of the truck on the way home like nothing could touch us.

Invincible.

Until that day.

Seeing him in the picture, immortalized at seventeen kills me. My hands tremble around the frame, my lungs stuttering angrily as sobs escape my throat, broken and raw.

He'd saved for that truck; some kids think that he bought it with Dad's military money, but they don't know that my brother always worked for what he wanted. He would rather eat nails than have Dad pay for his dream truck—said it wouldn't have felt like his if Dad's greasy signature was all over it (even though it was Mom's name on the title because he was a minor). It was something that I would never forget.

Something I can't forget.

Because now that truck was gone. Just like him.

Setting the flowers down, I try to stop a sob with the crook of my elbow as I squat. It doesn't work, but I feel like the attempt's necessary, especially seeing the pink carnations sit in front of the newly-placed photo. Carnations have always been his favorites; he said it was because of the meaning behind them, but I think it was the fact that Mom used to always tear up when he gave her a bouquet for Mother's Day—pink for a mother's undying love.

("And because it's the best color, El," he'd said once, after Mom had cried into his shoulder for fifteen minutes. He had a tear puddle forming on his shirt. "Don't let anyone tell you pink's not a manly color. It means they have a small—")

(I never let him finish either, the deviant.)

Tears flow freely and my stomach curls in on itself. No, I think, but that's not right because I do it to myself. I hate referring to him in past tense—hate that whatever the fuck happened that night took away someone so strong, so wickedly brilliant so soon. My hands claw at the wooden floors, my head pounding from the force of my tears. I clench my first together with a noise erupting from me like a wail and a squeak, hoping to calm some of this—this ache.

Through my body, it runs like a river of magma, clenching at my bones—my nerves and blood—and turning it to ash. Soot. I want it to stop, want this fiery ache out of me.

I want to be happy, I do, but I want him here more and he's not. He's not here because the life left his eyes half a year ago and I have yet to stop seeing them wherever I go.

The scream erupts from my throat like a volcano exploding, stars dotting my vision when I clench my jaw closed after, eyes squeezed shut.

My throat's raw but I try to breathe, to inhale some more.

In, out.

In, out.

That's what they say, but it never works. It's never enough to stop the phantom shot that echoes through like a gun going off that hadn't been loaded. The sounds of my cries make my body tremble.

In, out.

I inhale.

I can't exhale.

Please. Clenching my eyes shut, I hold my stomach, trying to rock back and forth. Please. Why did you take him? Why him?

Why wasn't he here? He would have known what to do with Mom and Dad's leniencies; he's always hated when they tried to brush things under the rug. He would have called them out about the man following me, would have demanded that Dad write at least one letter—even if that meant physically finding Dad and making him do it. He would have done that...

He would have done anything for me.

And I couldn't even—

I shake my head with another broken sob, the hazel eyes in the picture stale instead of blown with life the more I look at them—as if I'm seeing them dim in real time.

As if I'm back there—wherever it was—screaming for him, yelling at him to get up. He had to. Had to. It wasn't meant to end like that. It wasn't meant to end at all.

And yet I'm staring at an immortalized photo of a young man with a smile too big for this world and a heart of mischievous gold. Because I can't stare at him anymore. Because he's dead.

Maybe it's the fact that I've been holding onto this for months—months of physical therapy, surgeries, everything you could think of to help me recover—while nothing changed. Mother went to work, unhappy and lonely. We both came home to a quiet home, Alfonzo whining every other day like he knew something was wrong—something was missing.

Months of smiling like people asking about my brother's death was as simple as talking about the weather. Months of lying about my pain, my well-being—the fact that nothing I ever do seems to make the ache any duller—were catching up to me.

Caught up with the fact that something fishy's going down at the house, I try to rationalize it, but my breath comes out in shaky gasps, so I can't focus much on anything else but the absence of my brother and how I need him now more than ever.

My back screams as I plop on the ground without grace, the scar on my stomach like a fresh wound. Like I'm hearing the wind in my ears, weightless as I feel into the abyss.

I close my arms around my knees, rocking.

Outside, Alfonzo howls. Together, we sing our own lament for him, for the one piece missing in this puzzle of life.

✦

I never hang around the treehouse for longer than I have to; I enter, set the flowers down, talk for a moment and then I leave. There's no point in sticking around a house haunted by the bones of a ghost. No point in looking at the stray books that haven't been read in years. No point in messing with anything but the photo. It feels like it would be wrong to do so—like I was living happily without him here.

When I get back to the house, I'm flushed, face splotchy like I was a bleached rag. My eyes are swollen—not shut but tired. Exhausted. Tears dry on the neck of my t-shirt, my flannel tied around my waist due to the heat. Alfonzo walks beside me without a leash. We walk past the giant oak tree we first passed when we went in, and automatically, I can hear the sound of laughter.

Happy laughter.

Joyful laughter.

The kind of laughter that sends a sting through my chest, despite me trying to think rationally. How can they laugh when the first smile I had given in a long, long time had been to Uncle Will? They seem to be having a nice time, the smell of meat and seasoned vegetables assaulting my senses.

When I get closer, I can see that they're on the back porch—my parents and the Lennoxes. There's no Ron with them, despite the fact that my mother informed me he was on the premises at all times.

Whatever that meant.

I call Alfonzo away from trying to urinate on the GMC, shaking my head at him, though a frown's forming on my face. Dread encases me; part of me wants to go talk to the Lennoxes, but the rest of me doesn't want to interact with a soul.

It takes a moment to make a choice, but when I do, I walk hurriedly past the truck and into the front door of the house, sneaking in like I'm coming home from a party and not from my brother's memorial. Ironic because I've never had to sneak around—have never wanted to. Felt like I needed to, just to escape the heaviness of their light.

Alfonzo follows me as quietly as he can, and for that, I'm grateful. Say what you want about Chihuahuas, but Alfonzo can sure read my emotions as though he were literate and I was his favorite book.

Inside of the house, it's serenity. No laughter, just the bones of the house settling and... and—is that a coo?

I step further into the house, Alfonzo at my heels, never straying unless I tell him to. As I do, I notice that yes, it's a coo, followed by a round of laughter that most definitely belongs to Annabelle.

My eyebrows furrow, the sun catching in my tired eyes as I walk towards the living room. Will and Sarah would never leave her unattended, especially now that Will's home, so why's she inside? Laughing like she's having the greatest time of her life?

The answer comes to me when someone grunts.

Terror shoots through me. I stop just shy of it, not able to see but knowing something's wrong because that's not Will. Or Dad—or even Mom or Sarah. That's... that's new. Deep and strong.

And it's followed by, "Hold still, you foolish child!"

Unease, sharp as blade, strikes through me. Adrenaline courses through my body as if I stuck a spoon on a live wire. 

Should I get Will? Sarah? Do they even know there's a man in the living room sitting with their child? 

I hurry around the corner as fast as my protesting back will allow me, my heart racing like a car that can't stop. When I get there, my breath catches in my throat. I stop. Stare. I don't know what else to do, because Annabelle is laughing, grabbing at a black-haired man like he's a new toy she wants to play with. 

She making grabby hands at him. Grabby hands. As if he isn't the thing that literally creeps into nightmares. 

My eyes widen ever so slightly, but I can't process much about the scene without wanting to scream—not that I'd have the time to because the man turns around like he felt my presence rather than heard it. 

Or maybe it was both. He is military personnel after all; it's probably in his training to be alert at all times or something. I don't know—I don't give a shit about the military. Never have. (Except Will and Epps. I love them.) 

But this man... this man felt my presences. He's broad, his shirt clinging to his chest like he couldn't find a bigger size. He's decked out in all black like colors disgust him, a frown on his face. He looks angry, bitter, and something about it makes me take a step back, my mind racing back to Saturday morning. 

Not that I had seen that man's face, but this air? This weight—like he's waiting for the next threat to appear so he can vaporize it with his giant, strong arms? It has to be the same.

Well, I assume they're as strong as his tree trunk legs that followed me down the path when it was dark out. And because he's a soldier. Soldiers have to have sturdy bones and big arms that look like they could crush poor Annabelle easily. 

But nothing compares to his eyes. 

His eyes—which are glaring at me as if I personally offended him by coming in the living room to see this spectacle of Annabelle's Anarchy, her hands squishing his cheeks and making him look even scarier—are blue. 

One might think—blue? Okay, sure. Nice color, very mild. 

But it's not... it's an almost glowing, translucent blue. They're framed by thick, black eyebrows and eyelashes that are longer than mine. It adds to the eerie, almost soft glow of them, the hue sending the sharpest pain through my head. 

Wind whistling in my ear... falling into nothingness. 

Gone, gone, gone. 

Shaking my head with vigor, I take another step back, even though anger is starting to rise within me; I know, without a doubt, this is the one Mom was talking about. 

Ron. 

I gulp, about to turn away and book it even though his eyes are making me feel like a deer in headlights, but Annabelle coos at me and Alfonzo takes as his cue to run over and make himself known. 

Fear grips me. I want to scream, to shout at this man and ask him why the hell he thought he needed to follow me, but my first instinct's protecting my dog from him. 

(And yes, I know he has Annabelle in his arms. Yes, I know he's not hurting her. But you never know. Some people hate dogs.) 

"Alfonzo, no!" I yell, but it's too late. 

It's too late, and Alfonzo's licking Annabelle before he yaps once at the man I know is Ron before he starts licking the man's arm. The picture would be nice—if the man didn't glare at Alfonzo with an evil frown on his face. 

"Shoo, you slaggin' rodent." He pushes at Alfonzo, the action a lot gentler than I was anticipating. "I will terminate you." 

Okay, well that wasn't gentle. 

I hurry forward, throat in my heart—heart in my throat, I don't know the saying right now, my body is shaking like a building in an earthquake. My back burns as I grab Alfonzo, Annabelle clapping her hands like this is her favorite form of entertainment. 

When Alfonzo is in my arms, safe and sound and away from men who threaten termination, I turn to the man. 

His eyes are already on me, bright as a star blinking in the distance. "Perhaps you should invest in an exterminator. It seems there's some unwanted vermin in this household." 

Crashing, falling, debris in my lungs—cutting into my skin like I'm paper. 

I grit my teeth—both in anger (Alfonzo is anything but unwanted vermin) and to ward off the thoughts in my head. Why his eyes would make me think of my nightmares? I have no clue, but my head is burning with the onslaught of nightmarish images rushing in my head. 

"I might," I say, clenching my jaw. Alfonzo squirms in my arms, but I hold him tightly, trying to glare at the man's face without looking him in the eyes. "Or, you know, you could just leave? Wouldn't have to waste my time with an exterminator then, would I?" 

It's rude. I know it's rude, but this is the same man who followed me without a warning. The same man who appeared from nowhere like he spawned in a game. The same man who's clenching his jaw. When I finally flick my eyes up to him, I ignore the burn, focusing on the irritation swirling in his. 

"You always this rude?" he asks, a tick in his brow. 

"Only to men who like to follow me in the middle of the night like some creep." I smile sweetly though I'm far from being kind. "That was you, right? Ron." 

The one I was told not to worry about, that my mother told me to ignore because even though he wasn't following protocol—at least he was protecting me, right?! 

"My orders—" 

"Didn't ask," I tell him, my face blanking. I don't want to hear it unless someone tells me what the threat it. Another country? Another world war (imagine that)? And by the looks on Ron's face, I don't think he's going to be so forthcoming with the information, either. "I just want to know why Mom seems to think you're some kind of saint when you follow girls like it's your birthright." 

Ron's illuminating eyes sharpen into anger. His snorts through his nose, a puff of breath that does little to intimidate me. And yes, that might be a lie to myself to make me feel better about taking another step back when he stands up, towering over me. 

What is he, eight feet tall? 

I'm exaggerating but he's at least over six. Six-four, six-five—has to be. His physique's even crazier when he's standing, his legs straining against his cargo pants, his boots as big as two heads. I swear. 

When he moves past me, I rush to get out of his way so quickly that I hiss. My back screams from the pressure—from the pain rushing down my nerves and through my muscles. Legs trembling, I watch as he pauses, just briefly like a breath being held, before he carries Annabelle out by her armpits. His footsteps shake the frame of the house. 

He heads towards the back door. I watch his back, feeling unease stir in me like an old friend. I don't care what Mom says, I don't trust him. Just because he might be a saint in their book doesn't mean that I have to make nice with him when he wasn't even kind to me. 

Like, okay, Mom—great idea getting an antisocial military man to come live at a house (I assume he must live somewhere) where your fear-ridden daughter lives. Truly terrific. 

Rolling my eyes at my thought, I rub at my eye, finally putting Alfonzo down when the pressure on my spine becomes too much. The hiss from earlier comes back, but it's not that bugging me. It's the way Ron had hesitated, his eyes flicking towards my legs before he walked away. I can still make out his heavy, giant strides, his hand on the screen door before he pauses. 

Again.

Alfonzo doesn't go to him this time, but Ron does incline his head towards me, Annabelle more comfortable in his arms as she pulls at his ear. It would be comical had his glare not been icy, even with the sliver of his eye that I can see. 

"You know," he snarls, voice like gravel in the sun, "if I had it my way, I wouldn't even know your name, punk." 

I wince. It doesn't hurt my feelings, exactly, but the way his voice cuts through me does. Like—the sound of it. It feels like an echo in my chest, like I'm feeling the intent behind them. I believe every word he said. 

Instead of flinching from them, I only scoff. "Yeah, well maybe if you didn't walk around like an NPC when you're not supposed to, I don't think you'd need to, gramps." 

There's a moment of silence where we both just stand there, Ron's face doing something a rotten orange would do—tightens into a shriveled up confusion like he doesn't know what the hell I just said. Annabelle coos in his arms, and I can hear Mom call her confusion from outside, wondering if Ron's okay—a breeze shifting his black hair like it was shades of night personified on a person. 

Like his hair color's from a box labeled Galactic Void—dark enough that it inhales the colors around it like a blackhole with no end in sight. It's both terrifying and beautiful. I hate it. 

"What on this Primus forsaken...?" Ron shakes his head, grunting like a man lifting two cars. "Nevermind. I don't want to know. You're not worth it." 

And with that, he turns towards the screen door with a, "Hmph," under his breath, Annabelle cooing at him like he said something profound and didn't insult me. I don't even have time to react before he slams the door open and walks out, leaving me with a growling Alfonzo.\

(What the hell? Does he just exude a threatening aura no matter where he goes? In the yard at three in the morning and in the house when the sun filters through the blinds like a kiss of light. Ron's just... scary.)

I don't even comment on what he said—not because I didn't want to, but because I'm scared I'll start rage crying if I do. And I hate angry tears.

Instead, I ignore him leaving—ignore my family's laughter when they see Ron with baby Annabelle, her giggles ringing out, echoing through the screen door as a breeze flies in, whipping some strands of sweat-slick hair from my face. 

I pay it no mind; my mind's circling back to what he said. You're not worth it.

The words don't sting. They don't. But the intent behind them, the way he snarled them at me, makes me pause. Am I so horrible now that my parents can't trust me with news they might have shared had the accident not happened? Am I so despicable that even a stranger doesn't want to meet me? 

A stranger. One who stalked and creeped on me during the night for whatever reason, as if going to my job was a crime against his conscience. Like he needed to stop it—or hurry it along. I couldn't tell. Not even after meeting him. 

Tears prick my eyes. My brother would have gotten along with him, I'm sure of it. He could talk to a serial killer and come back from it. He would have made Ron see that he needed to approach someone before he thought they needed protection without angering him. 

Me? I had my friends, my brother, but they left, too—as soon as these scars marred my body like I was a canvas of pain and risen skin. 

It's like every social cue I had went out the window. Like everything I ever worked for fell from my hands like I was clutching sand with slick fingers. I became the social pariah, the outcast among school. My brother wouldn't have. He would have learned how to get over his grief, to sit with it instead of let it consume him. 

I take a step back, Alfonzo whining at my heels. Wiping at my eye with a rough flannel sleeve, I hiss when it hits my sensitive scar. Outside, I can hear Mom talking to Ron, asking if I was in there. The door outside was left open by Ron, the screen door allowing a breeze as well as their voices to drift in. 

Wiping at my traitorous tears, I listen as Mom asks if he saw me in there. What I was doing? How I was doing? As if he would know that from one second of meeting me. Like his one stunt in the yard made him the expert on all things Eleanor. 

Ron mutters something under his breath, and then I hear Mom call for me—irritated by trying. A groan almost escapes my lips, but my throat's lodged with tears that won't fall, so I remain silent as she asks me to come outside—to bring my Dad and Will a beer while I'm at it. 

At least she hasn't come in to check on me; I feel like that would have been worse. She would have seen that I'm holding onto the wall, face splotchy, heart racing like I was kicked off a cliff. My back's screaming in pain, my legs trembling as I lean on my arm, walking slowly towards the kitchen, debating on if I actually want to go out there and face them. 

After all, they still won't tell me why Ron's here. Just say I have to trust in them, if no one else. Sighing, I enter the kitchen, hobbling over to the fridge where the beers are. Grabbing two by the necks, stars shoot through my eyes as I stand back up. Using the wall as support, I take a shuddering breath when I make it to the entryway of the kitchen. 

"El," Mom calls and fuck—she's at the screen door now. Not coming in, but looming as a shadow I can see out of the corner of my eye. "El, you okay, hon?" 

"Mhm!" I hum it loudly so she can hear me, afraid that if I talk too loud, my voice might do something horrible and crack. "Coming." 

The word's grit out through clenched teeth, but I'm lucky Mom doesn't call it out. She only says, "Okay, honey, I made you some food for dinner in the stove if you want it." 

I don't touch the food in the stove, if only because I don't think I would be able to carry all of it outside. Instead, I just hold tightly to the two beers in one hand, using the wall as a guide with my right one. With a sigh, I make a mental note to cal Dr. Johnson to make a house visit soon; the ibuprofen and exercises aren't working for me anymore, and it's becoming a problem. 

Alfonzo waits patiently as I basically stumble to the backdoor like a derelict heathen on the streets of Old England. When I get close to the screen door, I attempt to straighten my posture, but my back screams when I do. Fuck. 

I bite my lip, slamming the door open harder than necessary. Sue me. It's because my back screamed in protest and I almost fell over before righting myself. When I step outside into the heat, Mom's already looking at me, her brown hair thrown up in a bun—one of Dad's t-shirts billowing behind her as she stands, hurrying over to me in concern. 

"Eleanor, oh honey, have you been crying?!" she asks, checking over me for bruises and holding my face like I'm a fragile doll when she's done. "Why have you been crying? What happened?"

Hell. I forgot about the whole splotchy face debacle. Instead of responding to her, I set the beers on the wooden table, watching as Alfonzo runs through the high grass instead of looking Mom directly into her eyes. Her words from Saturday still echo in my mind, and I pull myself out of her grasp softer than she deserves, shaking my head as a sudden, absolutely unbearable thought crosses my mind.

Because shit—Ron saw me like that, too, fresh from bawling my eyes out in the treehouse. The fact that he didn't mention it relieves me and pisses me off. Not only does he not care—not that I want him to—but he chose not to bring attention to it, treating me like he would an annoying fly rather than a human being. Ugh. I hate him.

"It's Monday, Mom," I say shortly, placing the beers down on the table. Will gives me a grateful smile for his, despite his worried eyes. I try to return it, not even looking at Dad to see what he wants to say. I just turn back to Mom. "Or maybe you forgot all that while you were singing Ron's praises?" 

Mom's eyes narrow at me, but they're soft with guilt and hurt. Ron grunts from his spot at the other table—sitting like a cryptid at the table me and my brother usually occupy when we have cookouts like this—like I said something offensive and not completely true. 

When Mom realizes why I finally said the day of the week, her eyes widen. "Oh. Oh. It is that day. I must have forgotten with all the chaos, honey. I'm sorry."

Chaos. Right. That's what she calls it.  

Nodding, I just sigh, watching Alfonzo bark at a butterfly. The sun's setting in the distance, bathing the world in soft oranges and pinks that would have made me smile if I was anywhere but here. Dad looks up from gnawing on a fat piece of steak, blood leaking out of it so slowly that I have to glance away, even as he asks, "What's her crying have to do with it being Monday?" 

And of course he doesn't know. Of course, Mom didn't tell him. Why would she? If it's something she needs to talk about, she won't. 

I scoff, grabbing a napkin to wipe the condensation off my hands. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Mom tenses in front of me, placing a hand on my shoulder and trying to direct me to the table where Ron's sitting as if I couldn't squeeze in under the table with them. Anything's better than being near him; I don't know why she thinks I want to be around him, when I've clearly stated that I'd rather eat chalk. 

Will looks at me, concerned, but Sarah knows all about Mondays. Hell, sometimes her and Mom would go up to the treehouse with me and leave their own flowers and notes. They're still scattered about somewhere in there, strewn across the room after a particularly bad Monday up there. 

It's just the fact that no one's told Dad or Will that bothers me.

I don't comment on it, even as she tries to guide me to sit across from Ron. I want to refuse, but also don't want to look like a brat in front of the Lennoxes, so I sit, begrudgingly as it is. Might as well stay if I don't have a choice. My back protests when I do so, but I hide my wince so Mom won't catch it when she sits beside me. I don't need her freaking out and trying to fix it right now. 

Ron grunts again as I get comfortable; I think that's all he knows how to do, the caveman. He doesn't look at me, as if my very presence disgusts him. 

(You're not worth it.

Yeah, well neither are you, gramps.)

"Eleanor, come on," Dad says, bringing me out of my thoughts. I look in his general direction, not quite making eye contact when he continues. "I'm trying here. I even made you a steak like you like. Remember? It's your favorite?" 

My eyes widen in disbelief, my mouth parting with a humorless laugh. "Guess this is just another thing dearest Mother never told you. Not that you'd wanna know anyway." 

Dad's eyes go all wide and sad like a horrible rendition of a stricken puppy. "That's not fair, Eleanor." He lays his utensils down, wiping his mouth. "What wasn't I informed of?" 

He's looking at Mom now, confusion and betray warring within him. Mom won't meet either of ours eyes. I laugh at the both of them, uncaring now if I seem crazy. 

"You guys are ridiculous," I snap at the both of them. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you didn't write her either." 

"I—" Dad's face shutters off, slack with guilt. 

Fury rushes through me, as burning as dry ice and just as fast to freeze. I want to scream, to bash him into the ground for not writing his own wife, but Mom only places a hand on my shoulder. 

"Honey, there was a lot... this wasn't a regular tour. It was more dangerous than even you could comprehend." 

Her voice is soft like honey, but her words are sour as a lemon. More dangerous than even you could comprehend. I'm sorry, what? What kind of excuse was that? What does she think? I'll accept it like a pretty lie dressed up as a truth? 

"Go figure," I say blankly, rolling my eyes and picking at a splintered piece of wood on the table. I answer Dad with, "I don't eat meat." 

And Dad looks like his whole world was shattered out beneath his feet. "What? Since when? Why?" 

Shrugging, I don't answer. Or—maybe it's the fact that I can't. That my throat's lodged with the reason, and it's hard to stomach. Because how can I tell my family that I see dripping crimson swirling in oily water whenever I so much as glance at a rare steak? How can I tell him I think of my brother every time an inkling of blood even drips from a hamburger bun? That my stomach churns every time—like I'm a sinkhole devouring myself from the inside out?

He looks defeated when I just sit there, feeling oddly like a bug under a microscope with everyone's eyes on me. 

Mom tries to steer the conversation elsewhere. "So, El, I think you've met Ron by now, right?" 

She asks it cheerfully, gesturing to the stoic, stock still man—who's staring off into the woods like brooding's all he does for a living—as if he didn't just shadow me in the night like some CIA operative looking for a clue to a serial murder case. She even pats my thigh when she does it, dutifully ignoring the way Ron sighs a breath through his nose, like this is all beneath him.

"Against my will," I mutter. 

Ron scoffs, turning back to the table, his hand on it clenching into a fist. "Yours and mine both, punk." 

"Hm, well maybe you could just leave then. I know I'll forget that boring face of yours in no time..." I grin with venom, trying to ignore the way my entire skin prickles, head pounding as he makes eye contact with me. His eyes are angry, bitter. They burn like tide pools under the moon's glow. "Not that I'd remember it now." 

"Hm," he hums, the sound somewhere between static and a growl, "and you think yourself so memorable?" 

"Memorable enough that you had to follow me," I snap. 

Mom says, "Eleanor, please." 

"No, why is he here?" Throwing a hand on the table, it lands with a thump, brash and final in the setting air. "No one asked for protection—especially not me—and yet I'm to believe a man who speaks through stalking's here for that very reason?"

"Who's to say I want to protect you?" Ron interjects before Mom can reply, his tone sharp but smug. Like he knows how ominous it sounds—how threatening. Asshole. "Maybe the goal was to scare." 

"Ron, don't spook her," Dad chides, taking a sip of his beer. "She's gone through enough already."

But Ron's looking only at me, raising a brow like he dares me to question him. Heart ticking in my chest like dynamite about to go off, I clench my jaw so hard my teeth grind. Mom's hand continues resting on my thigh, Alfonzo barking at the bats in the sky now as if he has nothing better to do. It all feels faraway, because I can't stop looking into the illuminating hue of Ron's eyes. 

The pain comes, but I don't look away. If I did, I would lose. And I refuse to admit defeat to a stoic, brooding soldier who doesn't care about anyone but themselves. 

"She's stronger than you think, Cambridge," Ron says, still glancing at me with those ugly, hurting eyes. "Took her longer to run away from me than I had anticipated." 

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug, old man," I snarl lowly, carefully taking Mom's hand off of my thigh. I don't want the grounding touch right, even if I can forgive her for some of the things she didn't tell dad—not because she didn't want to but because he never wrote her either. 

"And so is fear," he replies, crossing his arms and leaning forward on them. "But you've become rather acquainted with that one, haven't you? Grief, too. That one's carved you up, hasn't it?" 

I hate him. I hate his smug expression, the way he's stoic but infuriating. The way his own jaw ticks like he's one second from forming me into a ball and tossing me into the sun. I hate that he's calling me out in front of my family like it's his God-given right. As if he can read me after having seen me one time. 

"You don't know me," I snap, hating that my voice comes out shaky. "You don't know shit about me, you actual piece of shit." 

I stand faster than I should have been allowed to. Ron's gaze makes me uneasy, something akin to fear swirling through me like oil in water. He shouldn't be scary, not really, since Dad and Will are soldiers too, but he holds himself like he's the threat and the reckoning wrapped in one, musclebound man. Like someone who has seen more than even Dad and Will have—like he's older than their age. 

When his face morphs into literal anger, so vicious it feels like I'm intermingled with it, I flinch. Red flashes through my mind again—a flash then gone. For a moment, it almost looked like Ron's eyes resembled whatever I just saw, but people's eyes don't turn red. This isn't some glittery story about vampires where eyes glow and people fall in love with their stalkers. 

So why—why did it look like his turned red? Just for that moment. 

"Ellie," Will says, having stood to come over and place a hand on Ron's shoulder to keep him from retaliating. "You'll have to pardon Ron's behavior. He's not really used to interacting outside of the base. If you'll believe it, he's actually better with weapons than socializing." 

Heaving a bitter laugh, legs quaking slightly beneath me, I snap, "Oh, I believe it." 

"Watch your tone, brat," Ron snaps, voice hard with his rage. "It's my weapons that saved your puny—" 

He cuts off when Will clenches his shoulder, an angry grunt escaping him like the gesture forces it out. 

"What Ron meant to say... why don't we all get along for everyone's sake?" Will asks, dropping his hand from Ron's shoulder. He comes over to me, towering (but not as much as Ron had earlier) over me with a smile that looks like a grimace. "Since it's looking like Ron's going to be here for the foreseeable future." 

"Get along?" I echo, voice coming out as a disbelieving tremble. 

Will nods. 

I laugh like it's the most absurd joke he's ever said. "As if, Uncle Will. Old man over there ruined that when he—" 

I cut off, his words from earlier coming back. Not worth it, he said. Well, that's how I feel about him. He's not worth my patience, my kindness. He doesn't deserve it when no one will tell me why I have to trust him. No one ever talked about a Ron on the special ops team and I know I would have remembered him if I ever saw him; his features are too distinct from everyone else's on the team. 

"Doesn't matter," I say, shaking my head. "Just keep your secrets. I'm sure they're worth it." 

I whistle once for Alfonzo, who comes bounding over with his tongue lolling out. Ron's eyes follow me like a shadow. Only his feel that heavy despite just meeting him. 

Mom, her voice catching like a butterfly wing on a trap, says, "Honey, he protected your father and Will from dying in action. Is that not enough to sway your suspicions?" 

Suspicions. The man just told me that he had meant to scare me. And she's telling me to trust him just because he saved my dad and Will? Like that should be enough. Like that should make everything okay. 

"From what?" I ask, unsure why it comes out but knowing I need it to. I already looked at the news after they returned home, and there was nothing about what they fought for. Nothing about the brave special ops winning against the enemy. "Who? I mean—who are we fighting?" 

Dad and Will are looking at me oddly, Mom staring at her glass of wine like it'll give her the answers to questions she never asked. But it's Ron who looks at me as if I just said something profound—if not disconcerting.

"What do you mean, "From what?'" Ron asks, but it comes out more as a snarl, his voice way too dark to be repeating my question back to him. "We saved your foolish, ungrateful aft and you think you—" 

"Ron," Dad admonishes, still staring at me oddly. Mom tries to reach for my hand again, but I dodge it easily, taking another step back as Annabelle babbles in Sarah's arms. "Don't. She's been through enough, already." 

"But she just said—" 

"And she corrected herself," Dad says like he's explaining something to a five-year-old that doesn't know social cues yet. "She didn't mean it like that." 

I definitely did, though I can't discern why that is. But the red still flashes through my mind; I wonder if it's from the blood I can't scrub from my mind no matter how hard I try. 

"I think she did, Colonel," Ron says, eyes still locked on me like I'm the south end of his north sided magnet. His hand clenches on the table, Will's hand moving from his shoulder. "I think she meant it as is." 

His eyes on me are suspicious—like he thinks I'm the one who's hiding something. 

As if. 

"I think you're off you're rocker, old man," I snarl, and this time I turn, try to take hurried steps towards the house. White dots erupt in my vision as I do; I bite my lip hard enough to nick the skin open, the iron taste unpleasant in my mouth. "And if no one's going to tell me anything, I'm leaving. I have homework and no time for riddles." 

Another step almost brings me to my knees. Mom catches that one. "El, are you okay?" 

She stands, trying to come over to me, but I'm okay enough that I can easily evade her advances. Alfonzo sticks close to my heel, whining. I curse him internally for being so invested in my emotions, wish he was one of those dogs that just gnawed on my ankles like a gremlin. Instead of shushing him, I take three quick steps to show Mom that, yes, I am okay. 

"Fine," I say shortly, not that angry at her but still rubbed raw from her secrets. "I'm going to do homework. Don't wait up." 

"Are you going to eat, at least?" she tries, still wanting to reach for me. 

I shake my head. "Not hungry." 

Turning again, I give Sarah and Will, blowing a kiss at baby Annabelle with a grin. "Goodnight guys, sorry for the family drama. Maybe one day I'll get a seat at the adults' table—or at least the secrets that come with it." Even though I'm already eighteen, legally an adult. But whatever. They could keep their secrets. Mom couldn't even tell Dad I'm a vegetarian, why am I expecting them to tell me something that needs military clearance? "For now, hope whatever Saint Ron protected you from was worth secrecy." 

"It is," Ron says in a low voice, something deep that sends a shiver down my spine. "You'd do well to keep your nicknames to yourself, too, kid." 

"Or what?" I glance back with a snarky scoff. "You'll stalk me again? Newsflash, big man, you're as scary as my dad." 

That was a lie because there's something about Ron that makes me pause, shrink into myself. Like he's so large that I couldn't fit into his narrative—even if I wanted to. Luckily, I don't, but the ominous way he looms behind me makes my skin crawl with something like dread. My heart always stops in my chest, like I've been caught under a microscope, and he's the mad scientist observing me. 

"Hm," he grunts, lips curling into something in between a smirk and grimace, "or perhaps you've faced something far more terrifying than a hardened soldier? Right... Eleanor?" 

And that makes everyone stop—especially me. 

I hate the way he said my name, hate the way it turned dark and smoky on his tongue like he was testing it for the first time just to see how it tasted coming out. But his words... it's the words he said that make me pause, eyes already pricking uncomfortably like I'd just been stripped bare right in front of him. Like he knew—not only about the accident, but about the after. 

The pain, the aches—legs that didn't work. Care that felt like suffocation and relief all at once. The way I would wander down to my brother's room in the dead of the night and curl up on his floor just to feel closer to him. The doctor's visits, the scars—which Ron's trailing scrutinizing eyes over. 

Not pitying like Willow's had always been—or even mean like Alejandro from Spanish class's own glare. No, this one was clinical, observing. Taking it in and filing it away from later. They make my head ache in the worst way. Standing before them feels like I'm one of his weapons Will said he liked so much. Just another thing for him to figure out. 

Replying feels like defeat to me, so I don't say anything, even as Will knocks Ron on the shoulder and gestures for them to go have a talk—away from prying eyes. 

"No need, I'm leaving," I say shortly, refusing to let a tear fall before the screen door shuts behind me. Mom calls my name once, like I might come back, but I continue on, his words cycling in my head like a spool of thread being unraveled. 

Something more terrifying than a hardened soldier. What does he know? He wasn't there when I had the accident which means he doesn't get to guess how I got these scars.  

Alfonzo yelps at my back as I close the heavy backdoor with a grunt. He'll be happy when we're in bed, but it's a matter of getting there that stops me. My legs are still acting like they've got a glitch in them, my back a fire that only the darkest pits of hell could maintain. 

Outside, I can still disctintly hear their voices, muffled by the walls. I take another step. Then another, letting the tears fall as I do so. 

Emotions that I can't sift through strike through me like the Reaper had come with the scythe. I blink my eyes, worn with exhaustion and just as swollen, holding the way as if it'll stop the shakiness of my breath when it comes out. 

I can't make it to my room; this fact should bother me, but I'm mostly tired. So, so tired. Of Mondays, of going to the treehouse and having no one to come home to. Of seeing Ron in the light of day and not when he's breaking protocol for whatever reason. Of Mom and Dad always acting like I'm one step over the edge—which is the reason I know they won't tell me why Ron's here. They think I truly can't handle it. 

Fine by me. Keep your secrets—and more importantly keep Ron. 

Far, far away from me, if possible. 

Because whoever that Ron guy is... I'm certain that I don't want to know him—especially if he thinks he already knows me.

Chapter Text

Something about Dr. Henderson: he didn't want to be a therapist.

He claims—whenever I veer off the subject of myself and focus on him—that he's always wanted to be an astronaut. That he wanted to explore the endless depths in a giant rocket like the ones in the movies. He tells me he was close to achieving that dream, too. Had almost graduated with a scholarship to the best college for STEM, a requirement before he could be accepted into the program, before his mother killed herself.

It was sudden, he explained once, a bitter grin on his face in morbid grief. Dr. Henderson had come home to her laying in the tub, water flooding the entire bathroom as she lay there peacefully—almost as if she were sleeping.

That's all he said about it, though, and I wasn't going to pry into a wound that obviously was never going to close. He did say it was an eye opener for him. That he never wanted anyone to go through the same pain he did. So, he changed his degree and became a therapist. Said it like he was stating the weather—as if it's as easy as that.

Today, I think of that moment—maybe because I need the calm of his chaos after what happened Monday during the cookout—ponder over how open he's been with me since we started and how I haven't given him anything to work with.

I'm sitting in my regular armchair, the cushion soft and pliant under me. Dr. Henderson's patiently waiting, as he always does, for me to start talking. He does this when he knows I have something to say, like he can read me too.

Ron's blue eyes pop in my head; I shake the thought away, ignoring his voice in my head saying all that shit about grief and something about a hardened soldier. Something about seeing something worse than that. I shake the thoughts away; he's not needed here.

Not wanted.

But it give me something to think about, at least for Dr. Henderson.

"I wanted to major in astronomy, too."

There's no reason for me to say it, but the words flow out like the river falling into a waterfall. Our conversation from long ago's just resting in my head, as if waiting for me to add to it. And—I feel like sharing. I don't know why; maybe it was going to my brother's treehouse Monday; maybe it was meeting Ron and knowing there's something... different about him.

Maybe I just want someone to talk to.

"When I was young," I continue, his full attention on me now, "I wished on a shooting start. I asked it to bring Dad home safely from war. He was home the next day." My lips curl in a rueful smile. "I was hooked from then on. Who wouldn't be? Every night, I went out and stared at the stars, wondering what it would be like to grabs one and pull it down with me. For me. I thought that if nothing on Earth could bring me happiness—as least I could find it with the stars that brought my father home."

He's silent for a moment, almost absorbing the words like a sponge. Seconds later, he looks at me with his glasses glaring in the sun coming through the window. "You speak about it as if you've given up on the dream entirely, Eleanor. Why is that, you think?"

He asks it, not hesitantly, but with care I hadn't been expecting. Not because Dr. Henderson's mean—but because he's always done with my shit. And I get it... I'm done with it, too, in a way. My back's been hurting more than ever, my eyes never dry when I wake up every morning, a stutter in my heart as I clutch the sheets, red blurring in my vision.

So, I'm trying something... trying to see if the nightmares disappear with talking. If maybe it'll help me.

But I heave a sour laugh, shrugging—bitter despite my candor. "I don't know. Maybe I didn't, maybe I did. I guess—I guess I thought it was silly dream when you're smacked in the face with reality. It's a lot more brutal; when I realized that, I felt like it was pointless to think that the starts could bring me happiness."

Especially if there's no one to share it with...

I don't say this part, but Dr. Henderson's eyes soften as if he understands completely.

"Is this about the accident?"

Though I'm grateful each time he brings up the accident without naming my brother aloud, I don't answer right away. Because it's not just that; it's Ron telling me I'm not worth it, that if he had it his way, he wouldn't know I existed. It's my parents secrecy and the fact that even though Will, the one person who reminds me of my brother in the best way possible, is in on it. I thought, out of everyone, he would be the one to give me a crumb and not leave me famished for the truth.

But no—instead, I get a scarred soldier who thinks it's his right to look at me like he knows me, like he's seen every bit of my grief and decided that it wasn't worth the time. 

I hate this, hate that my lips stop when the words curl in my mouth—when I want to tell him that no, it's not just the accident, it's what came after it. The pity, the people that don't take me seriously because I'm disabled. The way Ron did, despite the scar on my face or my shaking legs.

Though I despise him, there's something about how he looked at me that day that both terrifies me and...

I don't allow myself to think it, to even touch the thought.

Shaking my head, I tell Dr. Henderson, "Everyone thought I was reaching for something I could never touch." I turn my eyes to the fern behind him, the green leaves loosening the knot in my throat. "And it's not just that, but he was the one who thought I wasn't crazy for going for something I might never reach. He supported me, got me a new charm for my necklace every year on my birthday. Told me that since I couldn't quite reach the stars yet, the little charms he bought would have to do."

Dr. Henderson looks at my neck, glancing at the necklace I fiddle with, the constellation charms on them glinting a prism on the dark table between us. "That the one you're wearing now?"

Nodding, it feels heavy on my chest—like it's a tub full of water and not a necklace my brother gave me on my tenth birthday.

"It's beautiful, Eleanor," Dr. Henderson says, and I nod, but my throat's too tight to give him my gratitude.

"But the thing about stars, Dr. Henderson, is that they always burn out," I say, voice thick as my hand clutches the constellation of Aquila like a lifeline. "And now I don't get another charm this year. I won't get another charm—ever."

Grief weighs on me and I try to force it down, Ron's words haunting me even here. I hate that it's him—that it's not even the echo of my brother's, drowning me in guilt. Just Ron's, saying I've been carved open by grief like he read me like a book.

Forcing it down, I try to get a grip, to choke my tears down like I would a rather large boulder. The necklace weights heavy on my neck, the silver charms glinting with an assortment of greens, blues, and purples swirling through the constellations like tiny, crystalline stars.

The necklace itself is a bit kitschy—looks like something a child would wear and grow into, the charms quite juvenile when he first bought it for me only to mature into serious constellations once he grew up. I haven't taken it off since he gave it to me when I was ten, and I won't take it off.

Not even when I die.

Dr. Henderson doesn't say anything after that. Not for a minute. He writes something in his notebook, looking up at me through his lashes like he's drawing me through the grief written on the pad.

When he does speak, it's to say, "That doesn't mean you can't get a charm this year, Eleanor." He takes his glasses and places them on the cushion beside him. His eyes are lined with exhaustion, but he tries for a tired smile. "Do you think... Maybe—if possible... Would you be open to buying yourself a charm this year? For — for The—"

"I don't need a new one," I snap, voice cracking like porcelain on steel. Tears leak out of my eyes, body tensing like I'm bracing for impact. My breath comes out as a stutter. "Don't you get it? It's not—"

I break off, thinking of my nightmare last night where my brother screamed and screamed and screamed until my ears bled and I clenched my eyes like that would silence it. Not a memory but the worst of what could have happened. My mind's been showing me that recently—different versions of the accident. As though the drunk driver story the doctor told me was.. off.

Wrong.

The necklace's warm in my grip, but I feel like I'm made of ice. How can I tell him that getting a charm isn't going to fix anything? He'll still be dead, and I'll be left with some knockoff charm that doesn't even match the mismatched set.

"Not the necklace but what it means," Dr. Henderson says, finishing my untold statement with a nod. He writes something down, but he doesn't seem upset when he flits his eyes back to me. "I get that, Eleanor. I won't ask again. You're not ready. That's okay."

I nod. It's all I can manage. Nothing I say will be able to stop the knot from forming in my chest or the tears from falling down my face, leaving angry streaks behind.

He sets his elbows on his knees, steeples his hands and then rests his chin on the pointed fingers. His face is worn, but he looks hopeful when he glances at me. "How about we move onto something else? Anything interesting happening recently?"

Biting my lip, I awkwardly curl my legs up in the chair, the movement painful due to my spine burning. I use my hand to wipe quietly under my eyes, shrugging.

"Nothing really," I say, but bright sapphire flashes in my mind like a pool of bioluminescent light. It's Ron, of course, because for some reason—I can't get him off my mind. Not in the way I used to think about Caleb Vance in sophomore year; his eyes were the color of honey and he laughed like the moon shined for him.

But Ron... Ron's a different breed. Not only is he a soldier that my dad and Will picked up like a stray pup on the side of the street, but he—he looks at me. Peers right at me as though he knows everything I've gone through. Talks to me as if he's a relic, like he wasn't taught normal human behaviors and makes small talk by mentioning the worst thing that's ever happened to a person.

"There's..." I chew on the words, taste them in my mouth. Debate on if I want to talk about them. But Tuesday and Wednesday passed with Ron and I talking very little but to exchange hostilities; and for some reason, the thought of that pisses me off as much as it makes me think about him. And I told myself I would open up... would talk. Even if it was painful. "Well... I mean—there's this guy..."

"A guy?" Dr. Henderson asks, almost curious in the way that therapists are. "What do you mean?"

"Well—first he followed me," I respond, wondering how I could phrase this without sounding crazy to him the way I did to Mom when I mentioned it. "Like, during the night... It was like three in the morning and I felt a presence—like he was some poltergeist!" I throw my hands up, eyes wide with the motion. "And then, when I mentioned it to Mom, she was like, 'Oh, yeah, honey, that's just Ron,' and I'm wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do with that!"

I huff a breath, heart racing in my chest as Dr. Henderson writes something on his notepad, his eyes wide with what must be genuine surprise now. I don't think he was expecting me to actually answer him with honesty. Maybe he thought I'd lie, but the words continue spilling out as if I oil leaking from a hole in the car.

"And then—then he acts like he knows." I laugh bitterly, eyes darting to the fern by Dr. Henderson's head like I always do when the words become knives slashing my throat. "Knows what? I don't even know. But the way he looked at me... it was like I was under a scope. Like I was something fascinating yet the most boring thing he'd ever seen!" I throw my hands up. "What's a person to say to that?!

"Let's not even mention the fact that he's living there like some in-house security that we don't need." Blue flashes through my mind, mingling with a blip of red that makes me wince. I don't tell Dr. Henderson about that, about how his eyes make me hurt, but I continue, "Mom won't even give me an explanation because she thinks it's better this way! Yeah, whatever, like men who get triggered easily are the answers to our problems!"

Scoffing, I clench my fingers together as if it'll stop the drum pounding in my head. My back is scorching, as hot as pavement on a summer's day. Dr. Henderson doesn't say anything for a long moment, and that makes me pause, inhaling a deep, shaky breath as if it might stop my tears from blurring or my throat from catching on a hiss.

"You don't have to just sit there," I murmur angrily into my shoulder, cheeks wetting my jacket. "You can say it, too—that I should trust him, that it's, I dunno, safer..." My voices cracks as I hide a sob in the dark fabric of it.

Anger rushes hot through me; I haven't cried in front of anyone since the funeral. Excluding Mom, since she had to take care of me majority of the time. I clench my eyes shut, breaths short, hand on necklace as I try to calm the static rushing through my head.

But Dr. Henderson doesn't respond right away. Doesn't fill the air with half-hearted comfort or even speak in platitudes that don't mean much.

Instead, he shifts in his seat and says, quietly, like a mouse that might be spooked, "Your mother tells me..."

I tense. Here it comes. Mom never says anything unless she thinks it's helping.

"...that your neighbor and father have found a close comrade during their time away." He regards me with even eyes. "Ron, you said?"

"Yep," I mutter, wiping the tears from my face as if it'll smear the emotions warring within me. "That's him."

His eyes flash through my eyes, followed by the enormous way he carried himself. Pushing them away with a sniffling snarl, I look at Dr. Henderson, flitting my eyes down when he meets my gaze steadily.

"And?"

"And?" I repeat, annoyance in my tone. "There's nothing else to it. Will and Dad brought  a stray with too much PTSD. That's it."

He jots something else down on his notepad, the one he thinks that'll get me to continue talking before he has to reply to me. He even adds that stupid, calm nod that I hate so much.

Which's why I'm not shocked when he says, "How does that make you feel, Eleanor?"

"I don't really care," I lie, shrugging hard, feet falling to the floor as the position becomes unbearable. "They can bring home as many strays as they want. Doesn't mean I'll like them."

"Why's that, do you think?"

Because why do I need to make friends with a grown man who looks like he might either pummel me or rip me a new one with words alone? Why do I have to look at someone that's never been on their team and trust him?

It doesn't work like that, especially not when said soldier talks like he's thirteen centuries behind (yes, I'm exaggerating; no, I won't explain myself). What the hell even is a Primus—some sort of curse for him?

"I don't think I need to," I explain, kicking my foot out. It sends a shock of pain through my spine, but I ignore it. "The way they don't think they need to tell me anything."

"I understand that completely," Dr. Henderson says, like he really means it. I flit my eyes up to him, weary hope churning in my stomach. "They don't tell you anything, why should you trust him? But you said something... you mentioned he looked at you like you were fascinating."

"No, no, no." I sit up straighter, crossing my arms in front of me like it will ward off the evil he's thinking. "I also—notice how I said also, Doctor—said most boring. Like he could crush me under his boot if given the moment. And I think he was waiting for it, if I'm honest."

"Well, now, Eleanor, was he really that hostile?"

"He's the one who threatened Alfie!" I say, feeling a little hysterical to have to. "He told me that had he had it his way—he'd have never known of my existence." I scoff, as if what I'm about to say next's unbelievable. "And then... then he had the nerve to say I wasn't worth his time. Well—newsflash, old man! You're not worth mine, either!"

A puff of breath escapes me like a blimp losing air. I don't look at Dr. Henderson, now, feeling like a child who's had her pigtails pulled in playground. Sinking into my seat, I listen to him hum, his pen scratching against paper.

"You know, Eleanor," Dr. Henderson says, like his words are about to be the heaviest lesson I've been taught, "sometimes—sometimes, I wonder... Do you think it's possible... do you think that this is you, shutting someone down again? Like you did with your friends?"

Scoffing, I almost snap that this is nothing like them—that Willow and them... yeah, I pushed them away but that's because they kept asking about the accident. Ron doesn't even know about it and yet, he thinks he knows exactly what happened to me that Monday afternoon.

But I snap my mouth shut quickly, biting my lip as I truly think about his question. Ron had been nothing but antagonistic since I've met him—and he did follow me when no one asked him to—but maybe I also... am not as friendly as I once had been.

I used to meet strangers with smiles, no matter who they were (within reason, of course). It was once easy for me to laugh with one of Dad's comrades, but ever since the accident—ever since I woke up and had no memory except my brother's cries and pleas—it's been shuttered off, like someone had shut down the part of me that knows how to exist that way. That knows how to grin when needed, to smile at even the quietest of soldiers; I once made friends with Angel, their most stoic one.

And now I can't even talk to Ron without feeling prickly.

Or getting a headache... or getting angry. Really, I'm a wreck when it comes to him and I don't know why. It's because of that I'm so angry—so pissed off.

But I shake my head anyway, even though it might be a lie. I believe it, thought, and Dr. Henderson hums like he doesn't but wants me to think he does anyway.

"Very well, Eleanor, that ends our session today. It's five past," he comments, something smug in his tone that has me standing abruptly. "You may leave if you wish."

With a nod, I wipe at my eyes, turning to the door and opening it. When I walk outside, the weather is crisper than yesterday—a chill rushing in the breeze as I walk towards my house. Pulling my jacket around me for warmth, I hiss when the thin thing does little to protect me from the wind blowing my thick, brown hair back. I grit my teeth. Looks like autumn's coming earlier than expected.

I try to keep my thoughts from wandering as I trek the twenty minute hike to my house—I have homework in Econ and World History; Alfonzo probably needs another bath—but by the time I'm almost home, I'm winded from the day and the trek alone. 

Oh well. Hopefully there's no black truck in the drive.

I strain the rest of the way up the hill and of course—of course, the truck's sitting right where I don't want it. My luck is horrible on a good day, abysmal on a bad. And I haven't been having many good days recently. As Alfonzo runs out to me, I'm sniffling, nose red from the chill. Snot runs down my nose, and I have to use my jacket sleeve to wipe it off, sending Alfonzo a small grin when he jumps up on his hind legs.

I do wonder why Dad and Will alternate where they park the giant truck. Most nights, it sits in Will's drive, idling there threateningly without even being on. But, for the past two days (since the barbecue, which makes me think it's pointed at me), it's been occupying our already small drive.

Right behind my Corolla—right behind where my brother's truck would have sat had it been here. Absolute assholes.

I wouldn't say I hate it, but that's be a lie not even I could tell with conviction.

When I walk into the house, worn from therapy and the day's longevity, I hear muttered chatter coming from the living room—voices too deep to be a woman's. A moment later, I can hear Mom typing in her study, Alfonzo yelping as he runs in after me and towards where the talking's originating from, happily barking at the guests once he gets there.

Gripping my strap, I take a deep breathing, figuring I have to greet them or else have the wrath of both Will and Dad on me. I really don't feel like dealing with their pestering today, so I walk in the living room like this had been the plan all along, the eggshell walls reflecting the setting light coming in. The TV plays in the background, but it looks like no one's paying it any mind. 

"Hey," I say upon arrival. Dad's in the armchair by the television, Ron and Will on the couch. I frown, hating that the soldier's here again while I'm unable to have a say in it. I dutifully don't look at him, even though I can feel his peering gaze like a brand on my icy skin.

Dad grins at me like he won the lottery—as if I'm not coming in here only to keep him off my back. "Ellie! Welcome home, angel!" 

Ergh. He's still trying. I roll my eyes with a grimace. 

Will laughs at the expression. "Hey, Eleanor. Long day?" 

"You have no idea," I say with a long-suffering sigh, one pointed both at how exhausting today was and at Alfonzo, who is enthusiastically licking a stock still Ron. He honestly looks like he might throw the poor dog across the room, so I sigh, saying, "Alfonzo, that's enough." 

The Chihuahua whines like I told him he would never eat again, but I shake my head, reaffirming the order until he gets down. When he obeys and runs off to the kitchen, Ron lets out a grunt that I ignore for my own sanity, turning back to Dad, who asks, "So, what're you up to?" 

I raise a brow. "Literally just walked in the door." 

Will waves a hand. "Semantics and all that." He tosses his beer back before he continues, liquid dribbling down his chin in an unflattering way. "'What are your plans for the night,' is what he meant."

I know what he meant. Part of me doesn't care what Dad meant, not when I waited months for him to give me a semblance of the relationship we used to have. I don't tell Will this though, adjusting my stance when my legs start burning. 

I shrug instead. "Homework. Shower. Bed. In that order." 

"You need to get out more, Ellie." Dad frowns, as if my antisocial behavior's starting to concern him. As if Mom hasn't been the one letting me be this antisocial. I raise an eyebrow at him, scratching my arm. "No, I'm serious. What about your friends? Willow? Justing? Cassidy? How are they doing?" 

"I guess they're doing fine," I say blankly, about to turn around and walk away before he can spew something stupid—

"Invite them over. It's been so long since I've seen them." 

And there it is. The idiotic thing I had been waiting on since coming into the living room. The pale walls stare at me like an old friend, but the off-white color of them is less than comforting with all the eyes on me. 

"You're kidding me, right?" 

"No?" Dad asks, like he's confused but still standing firm in his decision. He must not understand why my body's shaking like a leaf about to blow away in the wind. Must not understand the looks on my friends' faces when I walked away from them in McDonald's. "I think inviting Willow and them over might be good for you. Can't be fun being by yourself all the time." 

For a moment, I take in my dad, sitting in the armchair like it's his throne. He's nursing his own beer, his dark blond hair tousled from the day's work on his head. He looks like my dad yet doesn't feel like him—at all. My dad would have known—would have been there while it all happened. 

This man feels like a stranger. 

"I don't talk to them," I say slowly, as if talking to a child and not a grown man. Part of me wants to seek solace in my room, away from Ron's prying eyes; I don't want him to see the part that he probably knows is true—I don't have friends. I am alone. And it is my fault. 

Dad chokes on his surprise, coughing abruptly. "What, really?! Since when?" 

Will sighs through his nose as if Dad's the densest man he knows. I can't argue with him. My dad has never been known to be smarter than... well, anyone. It adds up that emotional maturity's on that list. 

Unwillingly, almost as if he was earth and I the moon stuck in his orbit, my eyes flit to Ron—just a glance like I can't help it despite everything. When I see that he looks like he, too, wants to be impaled by the sharpest piece of shrapnel, I almost nod in solidarity. 

At least there's one thing we can agree on. 

"Owen, drop it," Will advises, throwing another chug back. 

Dad huffs, but doesn't question it. He only asks, "At least sit with us, then? I can't—in good conscience—let you leave to go be by yourself." 

The television plays on a low volume in front of us as I ponder the merits of his suggestion. Now, I could leave and isolate myself even further—which is what I want to do, if I'm honest with myself—but I think about Dr. Henderson's question. If it's just me pushing people away or if it's Ron... 

Guess there's only one way to find out. 

Hesitantly, I walk further into the living room, not answering Dad outright, but giving him his confirmation anyway. I don't add that I'm also only staying because my back and legs have just stopped aching and walking up the stairs would trigger the burning again; I would much rather force myself to be around Ron than deal with that tormenting pain once more. 

(I make a mental note to tell Dr. Henderson at our next appointment, though. He's going to have a field day with t his.)

The recliner's the only seat left; Dad's in the armchair, Will and Ron on the couch, Ron looking like a toy right out of the box with how stiff he is. I take a seat in the dark leather, putting my bag beside of it. I can practically feel the happiness radiating off my dad like he's a radiator of emotion. 

When I reach for my bad to start pulling out all the homework I have, Dad cuts his eyes to me.

"Homework?" he asks, like he's intrigued. Like he remembers when he used to help me with my Spanish conjugations and math equations. 

Like he wants in on it now. 

"Just the usual," I say blandly. "Nothing you'd be interested in." 

The news says something about an explosion three states away, but it sounds muffled by Dad's, "Ellie, I'm trying." 

A scoff almost escapes my mouth, but Ron's here, and I don't want him to see how much it bothers me—Dad's absence. The soldier doesn't deserve to see me unravel more than I already have in front of him. 

"And you had that chance, too," I say just as softly, scribbling in a notebook absentmindedly. "Just didn't want to take it." 

I don't look back at him, but I imagine he's giving me that soft, hurt look he always gets in those green eyes—like he can't bear the thought of his little girl being mad at him. It happened once when I was fourteen and he caught me Ezekiel Vance, my first crush's brother, in the closet. He looked at me the same because he screamed and demanded that he go home. I hadn't talked to him for three days afterwards. 

He doesn't say anything else. For a long while, there's only the scratch of pencil on paper and the meteorologist informing us about the upcoming weather for the week. I'm starting on my assignment, very carefully not thinking of anything but my homework when Mom yells out from her study. 

"El, are you home?!" 

I don't stop writing about. "Yeah!" 

"Good. Can. you go outside and grab something for me?" she replies, like Dad's not right there. 

I don't groan, but it's a close thing. 

"Sure," I call back, setting my book on the coffee table and standing slowly so no one will see how much is hurts, the pain shooting up my back like tiny needles. "Where's it at?" 

Please say your car, please say the Tahoe, I beg on everything holy and good and—

"I think your father left it in the bed of Ironhide," she calls, as if that phrase didn't automatically make me pause. "It's just some groceries. He stopped by the store for me. Couldn't bring it in though. He did get that dragonfruit you like, though." 

She laughs, Dad's apparent laziness amusing her poor, sleep-addled mind. I don't find anything funny, especially upon hearing where the hell the stuff is. 

"Ironhide?" I ask, turning to the men as if they'll have the answers for that inane statement. "Tell me she didn't mean the truck." 

"Would it be so bad if she did, kid?" 

The voice is Ron's, and he sounds angry at the tone in my voice—which, to be fair, was pretty judgmental. Not because of the name, per se, but because the thought of even going out to the truck of doom makes me squirm with fear. 

"Nope," I reply, glaring at him despite the pain it sends through my head. I'm going to have to tell someone about that soon, I think... There's no way that's normal. "Just wondering whose ego you're trying to deflate?" 

Ron stares at me, dark brows furrowing. His blue eyes gleam in the darkening light. "What are you talking about now, punk?" 

"Ironhide?" I ask like that explains it all. Throwing a hand on my hip, I throw a hand out, gesticulating. "I mean—it's in the name. Hide of iron. Like you're straight telling everyone the truck is superior." 

"The truck is superior to everyone else's," Ron snaps, scoffing. He glares at me like I'm the dirt underneath his fingernails. "None of those petty fleshlings would stand a chance against it—battle or otherwise." 

I stare at him for a moment. "Dude, it's a truck." 

Ron crosses his arms, snorting a breath from his nose. "And yet you are the one so bothered by it's existence." 

"Yeah, I wonder why that is." I pointedly glare at him, hoping he gets the point. When he continues looking at me like he's awaiting a response, I continue, "Maybe because it came with unwelcome baggage." 

A laugh, surprised and mean, echoes from his mouth. I don't step back since it doesn't sound... cruel. Just mean—like Ron is. 

"Ron," Will warns. 

"Hm," Ron says, inclining his strong jaw just enough that it looks intimidating. "I was only going to say that this unwelcome baggage is the reason you're still alive—" 

"Definitely the wrong thing to say," Dad mutters, but it's all muted because what? "Anyway, Ellie, why don't you...?"

What does he mean he's the reason I'm alive? How can he say that when he sends aches of pain through my head with his eyes alone? Does he—does he actually know about the accident? Does he even mean the accident? And if he doesn't... what the ever-loving fuck does he mean by that cryptic statement? 

"Maybe the reason I have nightmares," I shoot back before I can think of it. "You and that ugly truck you drive." 

"Ugly?!" Ron snarls, his voice like heat on pavement, imprinting on my skin. "The truck's ten times as powerful—" 

"I said ugly not strong," I cut him off, smirking when his eyes widen in anger. Molten rage that reminds me of a boiling tide pool. "Don't think your truck's any different than anyone else's. It can still be keyed." 

"Keyed?" Ron sounds like I told him I might kill him. Like I was going to perform a lobotomy on him. "You think—you think a measly key would dent my truck?" 

Against my better judgment, I raise my brows at him. "Was that an invitation to try it, gramps?" 

"More like a threat." 

He sounds like he means it—like any attempt to touch the car will result with me losing a limb. And... for some reason, that makes me giddy, makes my scarred lip twitch up. For so long, people have walked on eggshells around me, afraid to say the wrong thing since they thought i was still recuperating from the accident. To hear Ron threaten me without caring he might 'hurt my injuries further' or 'disrespect me' due to an 'unfair advantage' changed the entire way I saw him. 

Sure, he called me out—sure, he said he would rather not know I exist...

But he was also him when he did that. He never showed me a front that others did—never brought himself down to two because his hundred was too much for me. No, this man has been at one hundred since he followed me into the night on Saturday, and he has not dialed it back since. 

It's only now that I'm starting to respect it. 

And it feels like a breath of fresh air, of resurfacing after so many months of forcing myself under the icy depths. The feeling rushes through me, foreign but not unwelcome. 

Before I know it, ignoring the pain that doesn't feel like it's there, my legs carry me outside after I grab my keys from the shelf by the door. Mischief swirls through me as I head towards the truck, trying to be quick despite my fluttering heart as I approach it. I don't want Ron to actually decide to end me while I'm in pursuit. 

The truck looms over me when I reach it, but my keys are in my shaking hand already. I ignore the way metal crunches in my ears, too playful to let the anxiety wash over me. 

The key swipes over the polished exterior. A laugh bubbles in my throat. I know I'll regret this after I do it, but the consequences don't matter right now. Not when I feel the way I did when my brother and I egged Casey McLaughin's house in his sophomore year and she called him a slur because he liked her brother. It feels like freedom—like being a bird so high in the air that not even being flattened by a plane would bring down this high. 

I don't make it large. It's barely even there, just a faint, white mark that drags against the bed of the truck. When I'm done, I laugh so hard, genuine and light, like a feather falling to the ground. I'm weightless with euphoria, gone on the way I can almost hear my brother's laugh with me, telling me to make a shape—any man who gets that worked up over a truck deserves a heart on it. 

I'm euphoric with the feeling, like I could stand on the top of the world and be invincible. The feeling remains even as I maneuver myself on the tire to grab the groceries. I'm grinning when my feet land moments later, catching my breath from the laughter. I clutch the plastic bags in my hand, grinning as I pat the bed of the truck twice. 

"Not too shabby, Ironhide," I say to it the way I would my brother's truck in the past. It's cold to the touch, unmoving against my shaking fingers, but I don't find it too scary right now. Maybe that's the elation talking, but I look at the sleek black exterior and feel like I accomplished something. I don't know what that is, but the feeling is welcome, anyway.  "Sorry for the collateral, had to teach an old soldier a new lesson." 

When I turn, Ron's already halfway out of the house, his eyes wide, mouth gaping as he looks at the small white line on his truck. 

I can't even hide my smirk. "My point has been made." 

"You—you keyed it," he breathes, voice deeper than the oceans. "You really did it. You insolent punk. Have you no will to live?" 

"Maybe not. You can punch my lights out, whatever you gotta do, gramps." I shrug, handing him the bags with a newfound confidence. "But what can I say... I love a challenge." 

Ron stares at me for a few moments, eyes flickering over my face as if he can't believe someone like me exists (and not in a good way). The bags, which he accepted in slack surprise, hand loosely off his arms, arms flexing when he tests the weight.

A moment later, that gaze... softens—as much as an icy gaze can soften. 

"You're a strange human, Eleanor Cambridge," he comments, dropping the bags into his fists with a grunt. "Fighting grief, fear and literal soldiers. You might be the most fearless human I know. Either that or you're just stupid." 

"I consider myself multitalented," I say, smirking as I flourish by him, pain forgotten in favor of the euphoria rushing through my system. Dr. Henderson's words come back to me, the talk we had. "Helps with college applications." 

Ron huffs at me, but when his eyes widen as he looks at me, I realize it was a laughed. 

Ron laughed. 

"Yeah," he says, "just stupid." 

I pause on my retort because, when I look at him, his lips are quirked in what I think could be considered a small grin. It's barely there—a ghost of a smile—but I catch it before it disappears. The action makes me hide my own grin when I turn around to the door again, the sun almost behind the trees now. 

Burnt orange reflects off the panel in the door when I say, "And what does that make you, Ron?" 

His voice follows me in the house. 

"Perhaps the most foolish 'bo—man there was." 

And it feels like he was going to say something else besides man, but when I turn around again, Ron's gazing at me like he's reassessing his first assumptions of me, the blue in them less intense and more comforting now. I can't help but feel the same. 

I grin. "Glad we can agree on something, old timer."

I walk into the house, Ron a few steps behind me the whole way.

✦

(The next day, when Dad, Will, and Ron return from the base, I can still make out the scratch in the truck.)

Chapter Text

When I wake on Wednesday, it's raining. The sky outside's dark, and I can hear the patter of rain falling against the metal roof even over my heaving breaths. 

In. Out.

In and out, trying to calm the present storm stirring in me. 

Tonight's nightmare was different from the others I've had. Same scene—me watching the light die out of my brother's eyes as he screamed, falling into a pitless void, a hand capturing me in its warm grasp, and eyes as bright as the morning sky—but there was more to is this time, sinister and darker than anything I could have imagined. 

Metal. I heard metal, deafeningly loud and echoey, even in a dream. A hissing followed right behind, just before the car clammed into us, and then I could make out something faintly red. Like the color of spilled blood, but more lustrous. 

That's what glared down on us right before we flew. 

And even now—sweat drenching my clothes, scars burning like I had just been cut open—I still can't make out what it was.

My head pounds angrily, though, and tears fall on my cheeks from the force of the headache. I bring my hand up to my mouth to muffle the noise, sneaking a peek at the digital clock beside my bed. 12:49. Four hours tonight. Must be a new record, yay.

Alfonzo sleeps next to me, curled up in the covers. I try not to wake him as I get out of bed. The rain continues pouring as I walk into the bathroom, running the faucet and washing my face off. I try to calm myself as I do so, try to bring myself to the present and not slingshot myself back to the nightmare. 

But I can't stop thinking about it.

If I had to guess, I would say that the crimson in my dream were eyes. It had to be a pair of them with the way they looked down on us—like we were scum, useless parasites getting in whatever it was's way. I couldn't tell what they were connected to, though; I only say the pair of eyes and then I flew across the freeway like a ragdoll, the entire thing fuzzy after the blackness overcame me in the nightmare. 

Inhaling deeply, I turn the faucet off, glancing at my reflection. I'm pale, my eyes spiderwebbed with exhausted and dripping with tears. My cheeks are blotchy, the nasty scar that haunts me every time I look at it burning in the horrible lighting of the bathroom. I reach a trembling hand up, touching it hesitantly. 

Another tear falls. 

Once, before the accident, there was time where someone would look at me and call me radiant. Not cute or beautiful—but radiant. I stare at my face, and I wonder where they got that. Because now I can't even look at myself for more than three seconds without flinching. 

And it's because of that I try to wonder what it would be like—to be free of all these tainted thoughts and broken dreams. Wonder what it would be like to think of my brother and not imagine shrapnel in his chest or roaring winds drowning out his screams. Wonder what it would be like to think of him and feel my heart soar instead of clench in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Hard to do anything but cry. 

But I know—as I stare at the ugly scar marring my once-complimented face;—that no matter how hard I try to escape, I'll always be a prisoner of this never-ending nightmare. 

✦

Without anything better to do, I go outside. My eyes are tired, my legs sore from waking up tense, but there's a slight chill in the air that relieves me as I take a seat on the porch swing outside. 

It creaks underneath my weight, old and rusty as it swings, but I yawn, too used to it. Tugging my sweater sleeves down over my hands to give me more warmth, I listen to the rain sliding down the roof of the house, staring at the black truck in the drive—right behind my Corolla where it has normally parked the last week. 

It's idling in the gravel, quiet and still as rain beats on it, metallic clanks both soothing and grating on my ears. The scratch from last Thursday is still prominent, and I give a tiny grin even though I probably shouldn't revel in the fact that I assaulted a military vehicle.

Whatever, I think, Ron's small smile warming my mind as I do so, they can just buff it out if they want to. It's barely a surface wound.

Surface wound's giving it credit for something that it's not. I barely scratched the truck, but by Ron's reaction, you'd think I slashed all his tires. Granted, he wasn't as mad as he could have been—and the interaction has allowed us to be more cordial (I use this term lightly) with one another—but the indignation over a truck the military could spend a few thousands buffing out? Unnecessary if a bit amusing. 

And they still haven't buffed it out. I don't know why, but it makes me happy. Ron's smile hadn't been forgiving, but it had been one that felt... natural. Like I finally earned something—not out of pity or grief, but something real. 

Like maybe I'm not walking grief. Like maybe I can still be who I was, even without my brother here. 

Dr. Henderson said I was pushing people away in the last session, and I can't help but think he was right. Sitting underneath the awning, the wind picking up, I find that it was easier to challenge Ron than it was to shy away from him like one wrong move might shatter me into a thousand knives I use to hurt those around me. 

Maybe that's because Ron doesn't know, not really; I doubt Dad informed him of what happened, and if he did, Ron's detached enough that he doesn't care. And I didn't realize how much I needed that until Ron showed me. 

I hate him even more for it. Hate that I'm starting to respect him for it, too. 

Rain blows on my face as the breeze kicks into gear. I curl up on the swing, knees bent to my chest, arms crossed around them to hug the warmth of my thoughts and the night to me. My head rests of my forearm, eyelids growing heavy as the comforting thoughts (yeah, I'm surprised, too) of Ron trickle through my mind like a gutter leaking. It's better than the nightmare. 

The red—were they eyes or a figment of my imagination?—from my nightmare still haunts me, but it's lessened now. More a throbbing bruise than a cutting wound. 

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed, kid?"

I jump, gasping, wide awake as I clutch at my chest—in hopes that it'll quell the beating of my pounding heart. My hair curtains my fall like a bad shield, and I would have been on the wooden, porch floor had I not gripped the chains on the swing like a lifeline. I glare at the assailant, but Ron doesn't seem all apologetic about his intrusion. 

He stands five feet in front of me, teetering off the edge of the porch—underneath the roof so he's protected from the rain. His hair's slightly damp and I can see droplets sliding down his tan skin. Even now, he wears tactical gear like war waits for no man and he must be prepared at all costs. 

"Ah," I say, nodding like it all made sense, "the old man awakens." 

He grunts. "Do not try to evade the question, Eleanor. You are supposed to be slumbering, are you not?"

"Sure," I tell him, shrugging.

Ron narrows his eyes. "Then how come I have discovered you on the porch—not sleeping as you should be?"

"What, no, 'Good morning?'" I ask, giving him a once over. "And do you sleep in your gear? What—expecting the apocalypse?" 

Ron's lip curls unpleasantly. "One can never be too prepared." 

"Like that's not ominous or anything." I roll my eyes, raising a brow. 

Earlier, I said Ron and I were "cordial"—but really I meant he hasn't killed me yet. He still looks at me like he wants to rub me into the dirt with his boot, but he hasn't been fully malicious since they came back from base with the scratch still on the bed of the truck. And I haven't been trying to anger him anymore... mainly because I'm starting to value my life, and I don't want him to be the one to end my life. So, there's this silent agreement we have: stay out of each other's way. And it's worked. 

So far. 

I wonder what it means that he's here now, without my Dad or Will present. Is it like that first night? A break against protocol? 

Is he even supposed to be out here? 

...and where did he come from? 

"Ominous saying or not," Ron says before I can question him about spawning like an NPC of a video game, "you still deflect my question? Why are you awake at this hour?" 

He says it with a frown, but I just shrug again, ignoring the fact that he's disobeying the silent agreement by being out here right now. I'd call it unjust, his presence, but I find that the company isn't as unwelcome as I had imagined. His voice sounds like water falling on rocks, a deep, rushing baritone that washes out the storm in my head. 

So, I say, "Can't sleep. Too many thoughts. Why are you awake?"

Ron furrows his eyebrows, taking another step forwards before stopping. I spot him glancing towards the swing for a brief moment before he turns his head to gaze at something beyond my shoulder. 

He shrugs a shoulder, an oddly awkward gesture for the stoic soldier. "I do not require many hours of recharge, is all."

So vague. I've noticed that Ron speaks like he's from a different world or something. It happened when we first met—I will never forget when he said Primus, okay?—and it happened every time since then. Not enough for me too call him out on it, but enough for it to be weird. Plus, if I dwelled on it or mentioned it, he'd probably punch me three ways to Friday.

"Must be nice," I comment, instead of asking why he didn't just say 'sleep' like a normal person would. I pat the space beside me before my mind can process the action. "Might as well take a seat if you've got nothing better to do than creep on me in the night. It's becoming a regular occurrence, Ron, I might start thinking it's personal." 

Ron grunts, but he takes heavy steps over to the swing. "I was merely curious as to why you disregarded the obvious need for slumber in turn for sittin' in this slaggin' rain." 

He takes a seat beside me, jostling the seat enough that I have to hold onto the chain to stay steady. Glaring at his unapologetic face, I dutifully ignore the phrase he used; if I started thinking about what the hell slaggin' meant, I think I would lose my mind on this porch. I've already have enough questions for myself—I don't need to ask him any when we weren't even friends. 

"Rain's nice," I say instead, a humored grin on my face. I pull my knees to my chest again, resting my head on it. "It's peaceful." 

Ron hums. "You do not seem to peaceful right now." 

Ah, military men. Can't hide anything from them. Too observant. I hate that about them. 

I clench my knees, shrugging. "I dunno. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." 

It's hard to tell with my scar still burning like the metal and glass was still in me. Like it's not phantom aches. Which makes me think this is a different dream—something more. Not only did I wake up in pain... but those eyes. That color. Whatever it was I saw in my dreams tonight burns in the forefront of my mind like a movie being looped. 

"What happened?"

Since it's already on my mind, it's not hard to picture the crimson eyes, scalding and so hateful as they glared at me. My heart clenches in my chest as I glance at Ron. He's a stranger to me, someone who irked me and pierced me with his words; someone who questioned me when no one else would; someone who looks like they could hurt me without lifting a finger. 

Ron still scares me. There's a hesitant part of me that screams not to trust him—not to allow him close to me because it'll end badly. 

But he's let me key his truck without hurting me. And he's here now, probably breaking protocol to bring the crazy girl down from the ledge. 

Plus, I need to get this off my chest; who cares if it's Ron who hears it? 

"When I go to sleep," I start slowly, tasting the words on my tongue the way I would a dish I've never eaten before, "I have these dreams. They're vivid and usually the same thing, but tonight's—tonight's was different." I gulp, pick at a thread on my sweater, very aware of Ron's eyes on my face even as I refuse to look at him. "I know this is crazy and that you'll probably tell my mom I'm a lunatic—but I could have swore, that there were eyes looking down on me in my dream." I hold my own hand, sighing out, trying to ignore the shudder of fear that reverberated through me. "And they w-were—they were a bright red."

There's a moment of silence where I bite my lip, awaiting the judgment. He doesn't ask about the specifics of the dreams; I'm grateful for that. The quiet, to my surprise, isn't unpleasant as we sit on the swing together, rocking softly as rain showers down. 

He's tense, though, shoulders drawn up, and I wonder what that's about. Maybe he's regretting the decision to talk to an emotionally unstable eighteen-year-old girl when he has better things to be doing—like patrol. 

Or brooding threateningly in the darkness. 

Maybe he's debating whether or not he should answer me or call my parents so Mom can have something else to worry about. 

"Dreams such as those are never good for the mind," Ron responds slowly, an awkwardness to his tone like he's never comforted anyone before. "I'm... sorry you're having them." 

He says it as though talking to a spooked deer in the woods, refusing to look at me the whole time. His words are tilted, choppy in their clumsiness, but the sincerity of them overpowers them. 

I chuckle lightheartedly, already looking at him from my peripheral. "Nightmares aren't uncommon." He turns to me, staring down at me with those almost-glowing eyes—the pain in my head fleeting but present as I swivel away. "Everyone gets them once in awhile, Ron." 

"But your mother—she said to your father that these nightmares have been haunting you for a couple months now." Ron furrows his brow, like something isn't connecting in his mind. "I feel like that's something that doesn't happen often. Is it?" 

The genuine curiosity in his tone makes me wonder if he's ever experienced a nightmare. He's a soldier—they've seen death. It would be normal for him to have nightmares from his time on the field. The fact that he sounds sincere about his confused interest.

 My face scrunches in confusion anyhow. "Nightmares after something traumatizing happen all the time. It's a common symptom of PTSD."

Ron looks at me like I spoke a foreign tongue. "PTSD?" 

"Post-traumatic stress disorder?" I ask, uncertain if maybe I should have just kept my mouth closed. "Do you... Do you know what that is? I feel like you should know about something like this?" 

My eyes roam over him, the way his jaw clenches when he hears the confusion in my voice. Maybe I'm missing some piece of crucial information, but don't they usually talk about this in training? I could be wrong, but I remember Dad talking about the new recruits once and am assuming off that one piece of information I have. 

After a moment where I debate on if Ron's actually a spy for some foreign country, he nods like he's seen the light. 

"Ah, yes. PTSD. I understand now." His eyes find mine, unrelenting and unapologetic in their stoic sincerity. "You dream of when your brother perished, do you not? That's the nightmare you were explaining, kid?" 

For a moment, I can't speak. My heart clenches at the bluntness of his question. No one's ever said it so abruptly before. Usually, people skirt around the idea that my brother's dead... 

I'm not sure which one I'd rather have—not sure if Ron's short explanation was better than Willow's own denial of the accident. 

"I—yes." I want to curl into myself until I'm nothing but an empty space, but one look at Ron catches my breath. Stops the thought before it can finish. I hate that even more. My throat's tight when I say, "Yeah, I—I dream about the a-accident." 

Ron grunts. He doesn't say anything for a moment, and when he does speak again, it's softer than the soldier usually speaks—almost unheard in the patter of rain. 

"During battle, I lost a comrade," he tells me. "Designation Jazz. He thought he could take on someone bigger than him." Ron gives a humorless chuckle, deep and gravelly. "Two kliks later, he was terminated." 

"I—" 

I don't comment on the odd word, mainly because I don't know what to say, not really. What does one say when a man (whom I thought was a hard ass and colder than the arctic) opens up, even as minuscule as it was? I know it's his own way of opening up—of sharing something that could related to my nightmares, even if he isn't experiencing the visions I am in his grief—but my own empathy has been blunted since the accident. 

I try for, "I'm sorry," because I am. Sorry that he lost a companion in battle. Sorry that he didn't get to mourn him the way it seems like he wants to, if his rigid stance is anything to go by. And he had to experience it first hand? With the memory intact? 

It's times like this I'm grateful that the nightmares I have are ever-changing. I know it's torment, but I'd rather not know what happened on that fateful day if I can stop it. I'd rather be ignorant and unhappy if it meant I never had to deal with what happened to my brother. If it meant whatever happened to him was an accident and not something caused by crimson eyes and a hatred so vicious it felt like fire. 

Ron grumbles, "Do not apologize for something that you had no control of."

"You literally just did the same thing." I raise an eyebrow, heavy with more than just a primary color in my head. "Can't exactly call the kettle black, pot." 

"I—well." Ron looks thrown for a moment, both at my words and the way I threw his own sympathies back in his face. I suppress a small grin. "I supposed I did, didn't I?" 

I nod, face growing solemn as the heaviness of the moment hits me. "What did you do? To get past the death of your friend?" 

The atmosphere's thick with a newfound tension. I almost regret asking the question, but the need for answers wins. I need some help on how to get past these nightmares and the entire accident. Nothing's worked so far, and I'm about three more sleepless nights away from giving up on slumber entirely. From leading a life of veiny eyes and exhaustion. 

When Ron looks at me again, it's in thought. His brows are furrowed, eyes shining in the dark of the night like two stars glimmering. I fidget under his gaze, resting my head on my knees like that'll stop him from peering at me like he sees more than what I'm showing him. I stare at a chipped piece of wood on the house's exterior. 

"Losing comrades and friends is a common part of war," he finally confesses, the words drawn from him like it costs him something to admit. "After so many years, you learn to become accustomed to the fact that anyone could perish any day. And while I did mourn for Jazz, I have adapted quickly. I am a warrior first—a friend second."

I frown. "That doesn't—how do you live like that?!"

A bubble of emotions swells in me like a geyser about to burst. My eyes well up, breath shallow as I think of how much death this man must have face to consider himself a weapon rather than a man. I feel sorry for Ron; to live a life so cold and lonely must be exhausting. 

Must be so, so sad. 

So lonely. 

I barely could live with my brother dying, but he speaks about this Jazz person like they were just a name in a long list of people he's lost. Like the graveyard in his mind has been full for a long, long time, but he continued to fill it every day. 

As I'm sniffling into my knees like an idiot who's never learned how to be human, a hand falls on my head—secure and warm if a bit awkward, like the person doing it doesn't understand comfort. 

"Don't weep for me, punk." His hand squeezes on my head, making me stutter out another breath. "I'm sorry for speaking so bluntly. I was inconsiderate of your feelings regarding what loss means, but don't feel sorry for me. This has been my life for many, many vorns. It's nothing to shed tears over." 

"I don't—" I swipe angrily at my leaking eyes, hating that the hand's grounding me to his words, to the comfort in them and lack of malice in his tone. "I'm not crying, you asshole." 

I am. Crying steadily as if the floodgates opened and drowned the town that only I reside at. I hate the fact that I am—hate even more that I'm crying in front of Ron. To him, I probably look like a pathetic teenager; he's probably only comforting me out of shameless pity. 

And that feels even worse because before... before he hadn't cared about my grief. Before, he wouldn't have rested his hand on my head like a baseball cap. Now, it feels like he does, but I don't want his pity. Not now, not ever. I would rather go back to him hating me if that were the case. 

Ron's smile's so ghostly, it's almost nonexistent, but the act of it pulls me back from the brink.

"Sure, kid. And I'm an alien." He removes the hand from my head.

"Sure could be," I shoot back, letting my breathing even out as I stare up at him—mind reeling back to before. "What the hell is a 'vorn'?" 

Ron tenses like he's been caught sticking his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. I narrow my eyes in suspicion. This time, he avoids my gaze, sighing through his nose as he mumbles something that I can't quite catch. 

In short, clipped words, he says, "Military slang." 

"Military slang?" I repeat, raising my brow. Didn't sound like military slang when he said it—sounded like conviction in that one syllable. Like it was his native tongue. 

Ron nods, not answering. 

"So," I say, testing the waters as I lean back, hands resting on the top of my knees, "say I ask my dad abotu this so-called 'vorn...' Will he know what it means?" 

"Obviously." Ron finally turns his attention to me, making a point to show me rolling his eyes. "Unless your father has suddenly caught a case of amnesia." 

"The hostility isn't needed." I point a finger at him, stretching my arms afterwards as my eyelids start growing heavy. "I was merely asking a question." 

"You believed me to be lying." 

Okay, he's got a point there. I shrug. "Okay, sure. But you say a lot of weird things, Ron." 

I glance at him from the side of my eyes to reaffirm that I'm not about to be kicked eight ways to Sunday. 

But he only grunts. "There's nothing wrong in how I word my sentences." 

I shake my head vigously, heart stuttering as I try to appease the defensiveness in his tone. "No, no, of course not. Just some oddities in some phrases, is all." 

Enough to make me question. 

I don't say that part, because then I really do think he'll forego the truce we've silently agreed upon and beat the everliving daylights out of me. Do I think he would actually harm me? Probably not. Is it still a thing I fear? Every single day. 

And it's not because he's a soldier—Will and Dad and Epps can attest to that—it's because he's Ron. He's proven on more than one account that his reasonings for being here are muddled in gray at best—shrouded in black at worst. I don't know why he's here, don't know what he wants from the family, but his actions up until now have suggested that he didn't have anyone's best interest at heart. 

Then again, neither did I. I was just trying to get him out of the house as quick as possible. 

Now, he's sitting beside me, his thigh tucked snuggly against my own—a rock against my pale, squishy thigh. 

"I'm not wasting my breath on something that has little substance to me." 

He huffs, the action reminding me of Justin when he didn't want to talk about why he was missing our hangouts so much (he was seeing someone he didn't want us to know about). It's odd on a hardened soldier such as himself, but it makes me wave him off with a roll of my own eyes. 

"Calm down, old man. I won't mention it again. Jeez." 

But that doesn't mean I don't tuck it away for later. No one gets that defensive over something unless they're hiding something. It could be military slang, sure, but it also could be something else that he doesn't want to discuss right now. 

For now, I let it ebb away like the rain falling of the roof, my eyes heavier the longer I listen to the rackety sound of the swing rocking. Ron doesn't say anything else, placated by my dismissal, but the silence isn't awkward like I had feared. It's loaded, sure, but it's the kind of tension that feels like charged with unspoken things. 

When I first came outside, it was initially to have a good cry while no one was listening—to let everything go. The crimson that feels more like a memory and less like a dream, the whistling winds from the storm that's present in every dream, rushes through my mind, but they don't pull me under the way they would have had I been in my room. 

I can't help but think that it's because Ron's using his boots to rock the swing back and forth, almost unconsciously. Exhaustion starts to slip into my veins, making me loose with lethargy and gratitude I would have normally never shown. 

"You're a good listener, Ron," I say, the admission falling from my lips easily. I lay my head on my knees once more, content to fall asleep in the early morning—rain dripping like a lullaby around me.

"And you need to get inside, Eleanor," he retaliates, pushing at my shoulder in an attempt to get me up. "I'm certain your bed would be more comfortable than this wooden swing." 

"You don't understand," I murmur, eyes already fluttering shut—too far gone to fully comprehend most of what he said besides 'bed' and 'inside.' "Alfonzo will wake up and bark. He doesn't mind when I leave, but he hates when I come back." 

I hadn't realized how tired I was; the words come out slurred and sluggish. I don't worry about it, mind too relaxed to even worry about why it's relaxed. 

Ron curses quietly, but the sound's distant in my ears. I'm warm, my eyes closed as I listen to the rain fall. Ron's pressed against my side, and I don't have time to process how that's aiding the comfort of the rocking swing. I sigh, content. 

The rain fades into silence as slumber greets me like an old friend. 

And I'm not greeted with the cryptic red from before. 

No, for once, I fall into a dreamless sleep, Ron sturdy by my curled up side.

Chapter Text

Birds are chirping the next time my eyes flutter open, sunlight streaming through the window. I'm warm, oddly enough, as I snuggle deeper into my bed—sighing contently as I wake up. My face rubs deeper into my pillow, the soothing leather soft on my skin.

I pause. Leather?

My eyes snap open in an instant, a panic eating away at me when I realize that I'm not, in fact, laying in bed. Instead, I'm curled up in the cabin of a truck—the truck, Ironhide. The backseat's huge and dark with black leather for the seats, but it feels cramped as I swallow, trying to get my hands to shaking.

I reach for the door handle, movements jerky, shaky, throwing myself out of the truck hurriedly.

Hitting the pavement with an angry thud, I ignore the burning on my knees. My heart beats irregularly in my chest, my chest burning as I try to take in a deep breath. I crawl as far away from the death machine as I can, the sun brighter outside; my stomach sinks when I realize it was the tint of the windows blocking the light from entering the cabin. It's early morning as far as I can see, a mist layering the air like a thin blanket.

I don't care about that right now. Can't.

I can't breathe, my lungs too small for my body with no air coming in or going out as I crouch in the dew, heaving.

How did I get here? My mind reels as I think of it; I wonder what I did to be put in the backseat of a death machine.

Head burning from the intensity of whatever's attacking me, I close my eyes. A wall blacks the images trying to force themselves to the front of my mind, slamming up against my head as if they were a mallet.

Who? Who put me in the truck? Who forced me into a machine so cold and horrible and allowed me to sleep in there knowing that I wished never to step foot in a vehicle again?

Faintly, I hear footsteps rush towards me. A moment later, arms encase me—strong yet gentle as the assailant picks me up from the damp ground.

I thrash, bitter and angry in the arms, as tears run down my scarred face. I know what they're going to do—they're going to take me back to that two-ton death trap.

Well, I won't. I don't want to go back, don't want to be strapped down. I'll fight—and if I actually die here, at least it'll be on my own terms.

"Eleanor, stop your struggling," the attacker grumbles, voice gruff with annoyance.

It was Ron.

Immediately, I stop, the night before rushing through my mind like a damn broken. My foggy mind returns to clarity, the last vestiges of sleep vaporizing when I felt his arms around me. Last night, Ron had found me outsides; we had talked in the rain, a comforting thing I hadn't known I needed until my sleep was dreamless, and I had fallen asleep on the wooden swing—content to remain there the entire night under his weary, watchful gaze.

Which meant... the only way I could have moved was if someone moved me—if he moved me.

Suddenly, the night feels like barbed wire around my throat.

"Let me go!" I shout, voice cracking as I struggle tenfold, flailing my legs like my limbs don't work. When that doesn't work, I try going limp, too. "Put me down! Put me down, Ron! Now!"

A moment later, he slowly lets me go, his warm hands still resting on my waist.

My feet touch the ground, the morning air crisp enough to cool the sweat on the back of my neck as I swivel around, hand forming a fist to punch him in the stomach with.

I don't know why I do it—have no clue why it's my first reaction—but the action lessens the static in my head, the burning in my head. The metal crunching in my head. Ron grunts, but I can't care. I don't care. Everything that had been forming last night—gone. I hate him in that moment. Hate that I ever met him. Hate that Dad brought him home like he was going to singlehandedly save the world and his daughter in one.

The warmth of his eyes? Replaced with clinical disdain as I look at them, his arm clutching his stomach as if my hit hurt him. I don't roll my wet eyes, but I doubt I did much but bruise his ego.

"Slag," he heaves, like he's suffering and my hand isn't throbbing right now. "What's the matter with you, kid?"

"The matter with me?!" I ask, laughing without humor as I wipe angrily at my eyes. "You dragged me off to sleep in the truck! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ron's eyebrows pinch down, confused for the first time since grabbing me off the ground. My legs tremble as I put more space between us.

"You needed shelter," he says—like the answer's obvious. "I provided you with it."

"Yeah, a two-ton death machine seems like the perfect place to help shelter someone."

I scoff, rubbing my throbbing head. I'm being irrational. Dr. Henderson talked about this once when I came crying to him about how Willow wouldn't walk anywhere with me—that she just wanted to drive and couldn't understand why I wouldn't. Not really. She understood, but not enough to want to walk in the rain to the movies from my house. I understand it, now, but I don't get why Ron did it.

I know I didn't tell him, but Mom told him about my nightmares... she would have mentioned this as well, I'm sure of it.

"Excuse me?" Ron says, voice dark and offended. "You were—and are—safer in the truck than your own home, punk. Be grateful I didn't let you freeze in the rain. It was an option."

"Then you should have chosen smart!" I snap angrily, throwing my hands up in hysteria as more breaths heave out of me. I can still feel the leather on my skin, feel the way it was slick with water and blood like I was pulled back to when my brother flew out of the truck. I clench my eyes shut. "I would have rather frozen than set foot in that heap of junk!"

His sapphire eyes look almost aquamarine in their rage. I've angered him. Good.

On any other day, I would have felt upset, but now I want him to stew. Want him to see his truck for the pile of scrap it could be when met with—

What? Met with what?

The red from my nightmares's still hazy, a watercolor painting that won't stop swirling in my mind. I can't tell if maybe my imagination had run wild in it, but the fear was visceral when I woke up that night.

And it's on the forefront of my mind now, that crimson stain of hatred, but I don't bring it up, especially when Ron growls, mouth turned down, "You dwell too much on the past, Eleanor." He takes a step towards me, glaring. "The accident happened. It has been over with for some time now. You must remember that refusing to get in a vehicle isn't going to bring your brother back."

For a moment, I stare at him, mouth parted like a scream night escape—both at the face that he's more spot on than I'd like to admit and the fact that he even said something like that in the firstt place.

Then, I bunch up my fist again—before my mind can catch up—and punch him.

In the jaw.

My right arm vibrates with the punch, a stinging sensation running through my hand. I wince when I see that it seems to have done nothing except aid in making him angrier than I've ever seen him. Against my will (I don't want him to see me cry), I have to wipe tears away using my left sleeve, turning away before he can say anything else.

My legs carry me up the stoop and into the house as quickly as I can manage, breaths coming out stuttered as the blue of his eyes mingles in with the red of my nightmare. Both hurt my head in different ways, and both piss me off in the same way.

I run—what I consider running—up the stairs, trying not to think about how Ron angry feels like the hue of red in my dream. Cold, cynical. Absolutely volatile in their rage.

I don't think about the comfort he brought me, but the way he forced me into the truck without me even asking him...

Mortification dawns on me as I reach my room, Alfonzo perking up from his position on my bed when I walk in. Ron had to get me to the truck, and there was only one way to do that. He had to carry me. All the way to the vehicle.

I know I said that Alfonzo would wake up—know that he probably didn't want to disturb Mom or Dad, who slept lightly now from his time in the military—but I'd rather he tossed me on the roof than put me in that metal curse.

Outside, I can hear the Topkick kicking up gravel as it flies out of the drive. Good riddance. It echoes as I rush into the bathroom, hands trembling as I grab my toothbrush, ignoring the pain I know'll follow once the adrenaline wears off. Harshly, I brush my teeth—as if it'll get rid of the rage and boiling hurt in my body—then stomp back into my room. I throw on random clothes, too bothered to care that I'm wearing blue leggings with a yellow top.

I take a quick look at the clock beside my bed. 6:45 A.M. School starts in an hour. I grab my backpack with my left hand, slinging it over my shoulder. Alfonzo follows me out of the door a moment later, my eyes swollen, face blotchy and right hand throbbing, now. Faintly.

I don't look at it.

When I get downstairs, Ron's words are repeating in my head. You must remember that refusing to get in a vehicle's not going to bring your brother back.

Asshole. What did he know anyway? He doesn't know how wrong he is, even though he's right, too. Even though it's not part of the truth I've allowed myself to say. Mainly, my reasoning for not getting in the truck is because I've seen what damage does to metal, how it bends it like it's water and not material. I've seen how it crushes, how it hurts.

It's not safe; it's the most dangerous thing in the world.

And he put me in there, as if I was someone who needed a nudge in the right direction. As if one small mistake will erase everything I've been through.

When I get downstairs, Dad's standing in the kitchen, eating orange slices and reading the paper. I obtain my usual banana, Alfonzo rushing through the open door, and roughly peel it open, taking a big munch out of it.

"Whoa, kiddo," Dad says, a short laugh escaping him. His hair's a mess on his head, lines on his face from sleep, but he seems happy that I'm down here before he has to leave today. "Take it easy—the banana's not going anywhere."

I don't respond, too angry to form a complete sentence. My ears ring, jaw clenched so tightly that I can hear my teeth grind. This amount of rage has never consumed me before; I don't know what to do with it—how to react or respond to all the fire burning within me.

It even thrums in the hand that I punched Ron with, as though it's all pent-up in that tiny appendage, waiting to erupt.

I finish the banana and throw the peel in the trash can just as Dad eats his last slice of orange. Mom comes out moments later, looking disheveled as she kisses us both on the cheek and hurries out the door, claiming that she's running late. I send her a wave, Dad smiling fondly at her. Disgusting.

Two seconds later, the door pops open, Will calling a bye to Mom as he comes down the hall to the kitchen.

When he gets to the entry, he leans against the frame, raising a brow. "Anyone wanna tell me why Ron's gone?"

My teeth clench when both men turn to stare at me. I remain silent, going over to grab a glass, right hand trembling even as I grabbed it with the left hand.

"Ellie?" Dad asks hesitantly, like he's talking to a walking time bomb. "What happened?"

It's really insulting that he would automatically assume I had something to do with Ron's dramatic exit. I glare at him, rolling my eyes and walking over to the sink—while the both of them continue staring. As if I'm the only culprit.

"You guys know him better than I do," I grumble when they stare like manikins in the store. "After all, you brought the psychotic man home."

Will sighs. "He's not psychotic, El."

"We prefer to use the term trigger-happy," Dad says brightly, no doubt trying to diffuse the ever-growing tension.

I place my right forearm on the counter as I fill up my glass of water. "Somehow, that does nothing to ease my terror."

My voice is sarcastic. Dad catches it, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Ellie," he warns. "What did you do?"

I grit my teeth, both against his accusations and the newfound ache in my right hand. "I punched him, alright? Threw my fist right in his ugly face!"

And when I glance down at the hand, my stomach almost chucks up the banana from how intense the pain is—the kind of pain that makes you want to cry until you're purple in the face. Almost all my fingers are swollen.

It begs the question: How hard did I punch him?

My eyes water unwillingly. I hate myself for looking at it because now it hurts even more, and I'm almost positive it's fractured. I try to move it and—nope, definitely fractured. Must have been hidden by the anger and adrenaline flooding my system.

Fuck.

Dad and Will automatically surround me, concerned, but I'm too busy focusing on the blazing agony in my hand to really give them the time of day. Gasping, I cry out, holding my hand away from them when they try to get closer.

"Ellie, show us the hand," Dad demands, his authoritative tone in full swing as he gives me a stern glare. "We need to see if anything is broken."

He reaches for me again but I dodge him, hissing as I curl my hand up to my chest.

Will asks, "What on earth made you decide to take a swing at Ron, Eleanor?"

He only uses my name when he's really mad. Great.

"I didn't want to—" I cut off as a wave of pain shoots through me, sniffling through it to try and regain some composture. "He put me in the truck. I didn't want to go in the truck. I can't—don't wanna step f-foot in a vehicle. N-Not after—what happened."

The sob I let out is loud, shattered like glass on the ground. My body wracks with the force of it, a raspy, broken cough erupting from me.

A moment later, arms wrap around me. Unlike when Ron had his hands around me outside, I lean into these—let my dad embrace me. He's warm, soothing, with that parental aura that helps calm my never-ending tears. He shushes me and I feel like I'm ten, in his lap and fiddling with my charm necklace as I cried then, too.

Then, he had been comforting me upon his return from war. Now, he's comforting me during my own internal battle, my hand throbbing in his hold. He runs a hand over my head, smoothing the stray hairs with a hum.

Will finally manages to grab my hand. When he sees the swollen fingers, the bruise blooming underneath the skin, he whistles low. "Definitely fractured, at least. Might even be broken. We need to get her to the hospital."

I clutch dad tighter with my left hand, eyes widening in panic. Going to the hospital means getting in a car. Getting in a car means more crimson, more wind whistling in my ear. It means death and terror and nothing good.

My breathing hollows out, coming out in gasps as more tears fall from my face.

"Not a chance." Dad pulls me snug against him, shushing me. "It's alright Ellie, we're not going to force you to do something you're not ready to do." To Will, he says, "Maybe we can get Ratchet to come."

I don't know who Ratchet it (or what kind of codenames they have in the military), but if it means that I don't have to go anywhere, I'm all for meeting this man. But Will sighs like he expected Dad to suggest this—only he doesn't fully agree.

"Ratchet might be busy," Will says hesitantly.

"I'm sure Ron's told him what happened," Dad says airily, waving a hand through the air. "Call him."

"Are you sure?" Will asks, sparing me a concerned glance.

Dad nods, the movement jerking his body and jostling me. "Yes. She won't get in a car, and we need a ride to base anyway. Call him."

Will groans like he's in pain, but pulls out his phone and calls Ratchet.

✦

Ratchet's a swell-looking guy. He's got warm, tan skin and sandy brown hair that somehow looks neat even though it's shaggy on his head. He'a wearing a lab coat, an air surrounding him—one that makes me think I'll get along better with him than Ron.

Except, he opens his mouth... and suddenly, everything I thought I knew is a lie.

"Why the frag would you do something as foolish as punch Ron?" Ratchet hounds on me like a wolf to prey, his sharp blue eyes—the same, illuminating color as Ron's, startling enough; they send a wave of hurt through my head just looking at them—attentive as he holds my swollen hand in his own, inspecting it.

I flinch when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. "Dunno. He's got this 'punch me' face, I guess."

It's a l ie, but I'm past the point of sharing anything with anyone else. I did with Ron and look where that got me?

But Ratchet laughs unexpectedly. "I can't disagree there, young one." He furrows his brows, smile wavering as he grows clinical again. "But it was dangerous, you know?"

I know it was, but I don't respond. I know what I did was foolish, perhaps scatterbrained,  but that doesn't explain the fact that I punched a man in the face and my hand's barely living to tell the tale. And the way Ratchet said that... my stomach rolls.

I try not to dwell on the implications of my actions (or Ron) being too dangerous.

Dad and Will stand off to the side, murmuring in low voices and sparing me concerned looks every now and then. Weird. Considering they were oddly persistent about staying away from Ratchet when he worked his magic, their presence here now both confuses and annoys me. The third time they look at me, I roll my eyes with a warning look in their direction. Ratchet continues fiddling with my hand.

"So, I know this is probably inconsiderate, but what's with the names in the military now?" I ask, the pain cutting off my brain-to-mouth filter. "First, there's Jazz—now Ratchet? Y'all get new callsigns?"

Ratchet stiffens momentarily before his features smooth out. "Yes, new callsigns. My name's actually Remington, but everyone on base gave me this nickname during the wars." The words are said slowly, like he's testing them before he lets them come, but I can't call him out on it, especially since he doesn't look like a Remington. (Not that it's a matter of looking like your name; maybe I don't even look like an "Eleanor.") He continues fidgeting with my hand, wrapping a kind of hard-plastered cast on it. "Jazz's name was Jazz, though. How do you know about him?"

I don't respond to that, cheeks flushing with an unwanted blush. Ron told me last night when he was sitting on the porch with me, but if I tell them that—they'll think me punching him was unjustified.

But, Ellie, he opened up to you... tried to help... what do you mean you punched him?

Literally, exactly what happened. He opened up, sure, but that was after I admitted how much my nightmares bother me—how much I see my brother in a drop of blood. It means nothing now. Less than, if I'm honest with myself.

Ratchet gives me a knowing look anyway. I wonder how well he knows Ron. I wonder if he knows he and Ron have the same shade of eye colors; and if he does, does he know how odd that is?

Not that I'd tell him, because it would mean admitting that I pay more attention to their eyes because of the sharp pain it shoots through my head. And I don't need Dad or Mom to figure out there's something I'm scared that happened during the accident—something that I can't explain with all the muddled memories in my head.

Ratchet pats my hand twice. "There. All done."

My hand's almost fully wrapped in some kind of cast. It's olive green—a color Ratchet asked me to pick out earlier—and covers my middle, ring, and pinkie fingers before expanding down, stopping at the beginning of my wrist. My thumb and index finger are still swollen, but I assume there was no permanent damage to them since they're the only two appendages bare.

Dad takes a step forward, boots clicking on wood. "So, what's the verdict?"

"Minor fractures in the middle, ring and pink fingers. Curious, considering most of the impact hit her thumb and knuckles," Ratchet says, closing his medical bag with all his tools in it. "They're bruised all to hell, though—which just means they thankfully absorbed some of the force." He shoots Dad a deadpan look. "She'll need the cast for four weeks, tops. Make sure it's dry. If it gets wet or damaged, call me immediately and I'll come back."

Ratchet turns those blue eyes towards me. I hide a flinch in a fake sneeze. "Are we clear, Miss Cambridge?"

"As crystal as water, doc." I nod with a small grin.

My hand still throbs, but the pain's more bearable with the cast on. Tears have dried on my cheek, and, as I lean back on my bed, a sudden wave of exhaustion overwhelms me. I yawn to fight it off, but it only makes my eyelids heavier—as if the events of today are catching up with my body and it's about to shut down from them.

"Tired?" Will asks with a tight smile.

He's not mad at me—neither's Dad. They just think it's foolish I would punch a soldier in the face. I didn't tell them that I could barely process my decisions when I was outside. That the only thing I could think of was my lungs struggling to breathe as I came to in the hospital, my back screaming when I tried to move my paralyzed legs.

I figured it wouldn't really matter. I still punched Ron—that's still bad in their eyes.

"Yeah," I answer Will, yawning again as I rest my back on the headboard.

A moment later, something smacks me square in the chest. It rattles when I pick it up. Pills.

Ratchet threw them.

"Here," he explains sternly. "For the pain in your hand should it flare. Only take one."

He points a tanned finger at me like a misbehaving child.

I nod obediently, not wanting his ire. "Sure, sure. Only one." I glance at Dad. "Is school on the agenda for today?"

I say a silent prayer that it's not, and when Dad shakes his head, I want to cry in relief.

"Nah," he says, coming over to me to give me a kiss on the forehead. I try not to cringe too much, unused to touching anyone but Mom in the last few months,  but by the way he leans back quickly, I can tell I didn't succeed. "You stay in bed, alright? You look like you could use a couple more hours."

Dad fluffs the pillow behind me, Will opening the door to a whining Alfozno. I'm relieved I came upstairs before Ratchet came, glad to already be in bed rather than downstairs with my trembling legs. Ratchet's about to follow Will downstairs, both of them muttering into each other's space as if they were in a private room and now currently in a grief-ridden girl's bedroom.

I turn to Ratchet, catching his attention.

"Thank you," I tell him—as earnest as I can be. He helped me, after all, and therefore doesn't deserve my wrath. Ratchet turns to me, blue eyes still startling—even in their unwavering surprise at me gratitude. "Sorry to pull you from base. But thank you... for helping with my hand."

I limply hold up the broken part like it's proof, a sheepish grin on my face as the silence drones on, Ratchet standing there. Staring—ominously, just like Ron does.

(Are these men okay?)

His face slackens into one of thoughtfulness though, which's a hard difference from Ron's look of constipation and anger. Ratchet snaps out of it when he shakes his head, smiling wanly.

"It's no trouble, young one," he tells me, voice soft but stern. "Do get some rest and try not to punch anymore soldiers."

"You got it." I wave at them. "See you guys later. Nice meeting you, Mister Remington."

Will's laugh echoes down the stairs, loud and mocking. I hear Ratchet mutter something to him on his way down, but it's too faint to make out. I hope he doesn't mind that his excuse sounds plausible, but suspiciously wrong. I know Ron's Ron, but Jazz... and now Ratchet?

Add that with Ron's odd lingo and the way Ratchet said 'frag' earlier and something about their story doesn't add up. I push it away to the back of my mind, curling up in bed, my leg tucked underneath the other, arm under my pillow. The curtains are drawn, blocking out the sun and any lingering tension from before.

Not that it's gone just... pushed aside until I can make sense of what to do with them. I fiddle with my charm necklace, trying to push Ron out of my mind. My hand pulses quietly, but I ignore it, closing my eyes, hoping the sigh that escapes me releases all of my problems with it.

It doesn't work, but I feel a little better afterwards, and sleep comes easier with it.

But there's no peace like the night before.

Instead, Ron's voice haunts me—a warped lullaby of grief, speaking of someone named Jazz in a way I had envisioned was real.

It should have meant something.

Hell, it did mean something. But he ruined it.

Or maybe I did.

But it's gone now, and that's what kills me—the shred of intimacy being ripped away from me like it was never mine to hold in the first place.

Chapter Text

The truck was as bulky as a bulldog, but it moved through the onslaught of cars with the swiftness of a gazelle. The radio blasted Green Day, and we sang along to the lyrics, the heat warming us through the vents. I was in the passenger seat, sipping on hot chocolate we'd grabbed from a random gas station a few cities back, the liquid warm but cooling as I drank it.

My brother turned to me with that thousand-watt smile. "Excited, El?"

I grinned. Soon, we'd be at the biggest space convention in the country, and it was all thanks to my brother that we're going. I could feel the excitement like a bubbling kettle—it warmed me more than the hot chocolate ever could—as I thought about the NASA technicians and astrophysicists I would get to meet. All the stations I would get to visit... the people I would get to meet.

"Of course, I am." I nudged his shoulder with my free hand. "This is the best thing to happen to me."

Theo's eyes warmed with pleasure, the hazel in them twinkling as he turned down Linkin Park. "I"m glad. You deserve something like this. Especially since I'm going to be enlisting soon and we won't have any time..."

He trailed off; I bit my lip. Talking about the military was a sore subject. He's always spewed on about how being in the military was his calling, his civic duty to the people of the nation. I understood—and supported it—but that didn't make it any easier to hear about. I knew he always had a hero complex (always beating up the bullies in school and saving girls from aggressive jocks), but now it's growing as he readies himself up to enlist after graduation next year.

"Doesn't matter," I told him, brushing off the terror in favor of the comfort this moment brings. "We'll make it the best trip ever, then. Something we'll never forget." I smiled at him jokingly. "Not even when we're old and senile and our kids throw us out because we've shit everywhere."

Theo laughed, a melodic sound that lightened up the cloudy skies outside. I chuckled with him, the subject from before dissipating into a tender atmosphere.

"And who knows?" he asked with a shrug. "Maybe I'll meet my future spouse."

I snorted. "Doubt it."

Theo was about as good with his love interests as he was at drawing. Which was to say—horrendous. He absolutely fumbled it with Sophia from Chem—and don't even mention what happened with Ezekiel McLaughlin after we egged his house because of his sister's words lest he spontaneously combusted. Between those two incidents, he was downright hopeless when it came to matters of the heart.

Not that I'm any better.

"You know," Theo said, rolling his eyes, "you always crush my dreams, El. I'm starting to find it a little uncool—pardon my french."

I hated him. "It's payback for all the times you shooed boys away from me."

It's easier to blame both our failed love lives on him rather than realize that we're both as hopeless as Dad had been. Had it not been for Mom cornering him during their college years, he said he would have never been able to make a move on her. And unfortunately, Theo and I shared the same disadvantage when it came to our own lives—like it was some Cambridge curse.

"But those guys were all assholes, sis," he replied, whining—throwing his head back and all. "Remember Tyler? He was a real dick." Theo scoffed, and I winced because yeah... Tyler had been a dick. "When you find the right man—notice my choice of words there, oh wise sister—then I might approve."

"Yeah." I rolled my eyes. Tyler had been in my freshman year. I was about to be a senior, and I didn't want that stress anymore. But Theo's warning bemuses me. "I'm sure that'll happen."

Theo turned offended eyes to me, slowing down to let a Camry pass. "I'm serious, dude. If you bring me the right man, I will pass judgement."

"What are you—a walking prophet?" I shook my head, snorting with my lips quirked.

"Oh, a two-for-one special!" he exclaimed, laughing like the jab pleased him. "They'll call me: Theo, Moral Compass for all those willing."

"As if you would be a leading example of someone with a moral compass." I laughed, almost choking on my sip of hot chocolate. I wiped my lip, turning back to him. "More like Deranged Brother for one unwilling girl."

"I'm taking that to heart," he said, hand on his chest because he's dramatic and just like our dad. "When they find me dead and beaten in a ravine, I'll be sure to tell them it was you who did it."

"Shut up." I push his shoulder, placing my cup back in the holder at the console, the black screen lighting up with green letters. The radio played an Evanescence song next. "When they find you beaten in the ravine, it'll be of your own shortcomings, dumbass. You're the one trying to be Cupid. Problem is—you're neither cute nor a baby."

"Cupid could so be someone strapping like me." Theo took both hands off the wheel to slap his bicep like the meathead he was. "You forget, with that tiny little pea brain of yours," —he wiggled his pointer finger at my head— "that I am the King of Love. Now... am I good king? To be determined. But I'm a king, nonetheless."

"Ruling over a nation of one lunatic," I muttered under my breath.

"Whatever, hater." He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, eyes focusing on the road as his lips twitch. "You'll thank me later for saving your poor, poor love life."

"Sure, sure," I responded, leaning back and glancing at the rain starting to fall from the dense clouds. "Is this before or after they find you in the ravine?"

Theo was silent for a moment. "...also to be determined."

"You're insane." I shook my head, smiling. "An absolute nutter."

"And you'll thank me later, El. I'm just doing my brotherly duties and keeping the weirdos away from you."

I highly doubted that since he was basically taking away my rights as a teenage girl. Movies can say all they fucking want about big brothers being overprotective, but the reality wasn't better than the cinema. If anything, it's worse. So, don't believe what anyone tells you about them, because Theo had sent glares to any guy that ever spared me a glance after Tyler broke my heart in freshman year. And with his wide frame and even wilder eyes, the boys never bother sticking around to fend off my very large guard dog. Talk about agonizing.

The silence lulled into comfortable neutrality. Theo hummed along with the Nickelback song playing in the background. I rested my head on the window, the occasional jostle from the road soothing. The glass was cool on my head as we drove down the interstate.

When we turned off the road, pulling off into a more secluded route that would lead us south—to Colorado. Apparently, it's the back way, and Theo thought we should take it since I-84 was getting backed up with the merry travelers driving to their families for whatever holiday they celebrated.

Rain started trickling slowly, the trees and mountains snowcapped before winter's officially begun. I watched them pass by, the weather growing increasingly more difficult to see through as we continued on. Thunder boomed around us like a god stomping his foot, lightning cracking through the sky like vines stretching across the jungle.

Theo had to turn the wipers on full force to stop the rain pelting the windshield. A new rock band echoed through the speakers. I fiddled with my phone in one hand, pinching my necklace with the other—sending a text to Mom and my friends to let them know the drives going well despite the newfound storm.

The rain crescendoed to a torrent as I did so, a frown marring my face as I watched it. Theo could barely see out of the windshield already with the way he was rubbing his tired eyes every few seconds; it was a wonder he could see at all.

Luckily, there hadn't been any other cars on this route besides us. I knew it was a busy one from Theo's declaration that a lot of people used the backroads (I didn't think he actually knew that for a fact), but seeing it so barren—not even a car on the other side, coming towards us—pinched at me uneasily.

Where were the people?

It was the holidays, after all.

"El, next point, you're driving," Theo said, turning to me.

Because I could see he was exhausted, I only nodded. "Sure, Theodore Nott. You got it."

"Rather be him than Draco," Theo muttered at me, flicking the windshield wipers again before remembering they're already at max power. "Are we serious with this rain?"

"It'd appear to be so," I said solemnly.

"You know, sometimes you don't have to open your mouth."

"And leave you to spew hot air at nothing? Theo, you wound me." I mocked his gesture from earlier, hand dropping the phone on the large console to hold it to my chest. "What would you do without me?"

"Thrive."

But he handed me my hot chocolate anyway when my seatbelt got caught trying to reach for it. I sipped it as he turned up the radio, the conversation dying as we continued driving down the road.

It was moments later when I heard the roar from what sounded like an ancient engine. When I turned, there was an old, busted up Camaro with black racing stripes zooming behind us. It was going faster than the speed limit—maybe one hundred miles per hour if not more—and in seconds was racing past us, diverting to the left lane to maneuver around the Sierra.

Theo honked angrily, grumbling about idiots and how they were going to get us killed.

"Ah," I said, laughing nervously as I watch the car swerve back into our lane, still speeding, "but remember... you're gonna be in the bottom a ravine."

"Yeah, thanks to that goober!"

"Are you actually twelve?" I rolled my eyes with a snort to hide the unease swirling through me. Why was that car driving so fast? "He passed you, so what?"

"Double yellow lines, El—you don't disrespect them." Theo shook his head, slapping the beat of the song into the steering wheel. "And anyway, it's fucking raining cats and dogs in this bitch, Eleanor! No one should be driving like that!"

Which... okay, he had a point. I thought it earlier, but the route was partially flat and easy to maneuver on. The rain was what made it slick with oil and other debris—nothing ideal for a sports car to be driving through, no matter how good the traction was. Either the driver was a daredevil with a death wish... or they were in trouble.

I prayed for the former, unsure of why the second thought came to be.

Theo drove carefully, the cabin silent except for the wipers and the engine of the car speeding away from us. It was still loud despite being almost half a mile in front of us. He continued mumbling curses under his breath like that might make the driver of the car turn around and come apologize to him. I was too busy texting Willow back, telling her about the cool Mars exhibit they're going to have at the convention to care about his tired, annoyed words.

"Fucking assholes, I mean who even drives antique cars anymore?" he asked, throwing his hands up, one hand wringing through his head.

I gazed at him sideways. "Oddly bothered by one car, bro."

But Theo didn't retort in the way I thought he would. He only said, "I don't know, El, I got a funny feeling."

My stomach sank. Funny feeling? I knew Theo had instincts that could get him out of the most inane trouble, but if he's having that same instinctual fear—the same fear he had when Mom got a phone call that turned out to be about her dying mother—then it definitely mean that something was wrong.

Something was really, really wrong.

When we started passing over the bridge, I tensed in my seat, staring at the roaring waters below—choppy and unforgiving as they swallowed a fallen log. My heart was in my throat. Theo was driving with both hands on the wheel, his eyes narrowing as the Camaro made a hard break, its lights the only visible thing in all the rain.

A moment later, I heard a hiss.

At first, it didn't bother me—military jets flew overhead all the time. I heard them at home too, the base some towns over from my house, but this one sounded close...

Almost like it was right on us.

Theo spared it a concerned look, eyes watching as the Camaro backed up. Horror dredged up in me, but I took a deep breath.

It didn't mean anything. Nothing at all. It was just a coincidence that the Camaro stopped as soon as the jet appeared. Just a happy little accident.

"Hey, Theo," I asked, voice shaky with nerves I refuse to acknowledge. I gripped the seatbelt tightly. "Why's a jet so close to the ground?"

Theo looked at me then, his eyes like a grave left cold in the winter. "I don't... I don't really know, El."

I frowned, staring ahead at the miles of bridge we still had left to cross. There, we would have stopped and filled up the truck; I would have driven.

But the jet descended at that moment, screeching as it sped up—catching up with the Camaro that was, in fact, still driving backwards.

Theo drove slower than he was, making sure to keep distance from the Camaro and the jet that seemed to... want it? My heart hammered in my chest as I fiddled nervously with my hands, phone fallen to the floor in my haste to get a sense of my surroundings.

The sound was maddening, like bones crunching together in a paper shredder.

I hated it.

Hated even more when it—when it stopped and hovered there for one second. Just one.

Then, it transformed.

That was all I could think of when watching the sleek jet curl inward. It transformed, the sharp metallic noise drowning out my screams and Theo's frantic yells—"What in the ever-loving fuck? What the hell is that?"

The jet's clunky noises morphed into something different—dents and scratches all in the armor of whatever it was, the plating on it tarnished as if it had been through something.

My breathing came out in stutters. Another question: what did it want?

The jet rose a good twenty or more feet, eclipsing our escaping truck even more than it already was.

Theo slammed on the brakes—hard.

It wasn't enough. I clenched my eyes, teeth grinding as we circled on the bridge's slippery surface. My scream cut off in my throat, ears ringing from a hiss of echoing laughter, Theo's arm coming to rest on my chest so I didn't go flying through the windshield.

A moment later, the impact rattled me to my core. We smacked the giant foot, yellow and silver blurring in my vision for one vicious second before I shouted in terror.

Because, for that one single moment—right before we crashed—it turned towards us with a menacingly slow pace.

It's red eyes gleamed.

I didn't have time to scream before pain seared through my body.

✦

I wake with a start.

Sweat clings to me like a second skin. My good hand curls around my shoulder, my right one throbbing with pain as tears drip down my face.

I count to three.

It does nothing.

I clench my left fist, crescent moons red on my palms when my fingers release.

A breath escapes like a sob. It doesn't help.

My mind whirls. I can't see. It feels like rain's clotting my vision—tears as thick as tar and just as rough.

The night's quiet, but moments later, through my pounding heart, I hear a quiet whistle from the corner of the room.

I hiss, body tensing. No. No, no, no—not here. Please not here.

But when I turn—when I'm halfway off the bed like I need to flee—I see it's the vent spewing out cool air.

Of course.

Dad sleeps cold. How could I forget?

Of course—it's the vent. What else would it be?

A cruel smile. Crimson eyes that were so alive in their hatred that I felt like I had met Satan himself...

I close my eyes. Stop. Wasn't real, can't be.

But I can still hear my brother's laugh bouncing around in my head like a knife in a bounce house.

The sheets are moist with sweat underneath my bent knee. I'm stuttering a breath, right leg trembling where it holds me up—left arm braced on the bed to keep me steady.

Spittle dribbles out of my mouth with another cry. I count to three, horns blaring in my ears like a train about to barrel through me.

I'm not in the truck. I'm not there.

It's not here. Stop panicking.

Stop.

Please, please, please—

It's no use.

My chest pricks. I can feel the red as if it washed over me like a baptism.

Like it's here with me.

I breathe in. Out.

Another attempt to calm the hurricane swirling in my sternum.

Nothing. No luck. 

My tears fall like the rain from the dream, dreary clouds like omens in my mind. I remember the way my brother had looked in the dream—alive, peaceful.

Then, the pain.

Stars dot my vision as I try to inhale chalky air.

It tastes stale on my tongue. I inhale more until I'm gasping, hands bracing me—right hand screaming like I sent it to war.

Air's not coming. Why isn't it coming?

I'm up. Awake. I'm not there.

I'm not, I tell myself, biting my lip so hard it bleeds into my spit. I'm not—it's not... it can't be.

It wasn't real.

A scream's muffled into my warm sheets, the sound hoarse like dried barley being burned.

I curl my knees on the bed, a child's pose that sends aches down my spine. Gritting my teeth, my breath shudders out.

The night bathes me in silver light, but it feels dark in the room. Oppressing—like the walls are closing in at an alarming rate. I wish Mom would come in—need her to wrap her arms around me and say, "It's okay, El. It wasn't real, okay? You're awake, baby, it's okay."

But it doesn't feel okay because my arms are burning from lying on them. My eyes scream with exhaustion—terror freezes them open.

I sniffle, writhing on the bed like it'll make the world dissolve around me.

I couldn't have seen it, I reason with myself, bright crimson rushing around my thoughts like a broken carousel. Couldn't have. Didn't. It must have been a fluke. Yeah—yeah, a fluke.

I nod into the comforter, hair knotting as I heave out.

It had to be a trick of my brain. That's all it was. Mom would tell me the same thing—would sit me down and tell me there was no way I witnessed a military jet transforming into a twenty-foot monster with—

I cut myself off, a gnarled whine escaping my throat. I can't finish that sentence. Won't.

Because it means that the dream—which is usually fragmented like a puzzle I don't remember buying—was real.

My brother's laughter. The banter. The convention we were headed too... it was as real as the Camaro that sped toward us.

Like the danger was enticing.

I shiver, but my mind's on the monster that had grinned down on us like a villain. What was that thing?

And why does it still feel real? Real enough that my scars burn on clammy skin.

Real enough that Alfonzo trembles beside me, whining—unsure how to approach my trembling form.

I can't move.

The hissing in the vents doesn't stop. Alfonzo comes over a moment later, curling beside me as I try to calm my breathing.

I blink once. Twice. It should be comforting, him being here, even, but dread creeps in my bone like a disease. I bite my lip, thinking about what I saw in the dream.

Those burned out eyes—the color of spilled blood—are all I have. Those little flashes of delusion made way too real.

But was it my imagination like the others?

Like the ones where the driver was drunk and in a minivan? The ones where no driver hit us—but my brother screamed until his voice disappeared with his last breath?

What does that say about them if I'm imagining something that not even my wildest dreams could create?

What does that mean for Theo?

They said—I inhale shakily at the thought—that he was never found. His body must have fallen in the river during the accident. And even though they searched, nothing came up. He was gone.

Said so clinically that I didn't speak for two weeks after the police told me.

But this... this is something else entirely.

There's a chance that the towering monster that glared down at us—with its rusted plating and steaming hisses overheard even in the rain—wasn't like the technology we have today (if it was even real). No computer can recreate an expression as devoid of emotion like that; and no computer would look down on humans with such disdain.

Not in this timeline.

Right?

I groan, clutch my hair—the heel of my palm smacking against my skull. Like that'll get the morbid thoughts out of my mind.

I don't know what's real or what's fabricated. I can't trust myself. Not with this.

Not when I can't even recall the memory I had with my brother. It feels like an impostor's brand, planted in my own mind to try and keep me guessing.

Like my brother's death wasn't torment enough.

The vent blows out cool air, my body burning like a furnace.

I inhale shakily—try to count to ten this time.

But my breath stutters like an untuned trumpet, the action mutilated as if I had been stabbed with shrapnel again.

I close my eyes—a door slamming shut.

I pray to anyone that the haunting images playing through my brain were a figment of my overreactive imagination.

I mean, sure—sure, I like space. Sure I like the way the stars blink in the sky like eyes that never dull.

Sure I like the idea of life on other planets... but that wasn't life. That was a creature so devoid of anything light that it felt like being sucked into a blackhole.

Alfonzo licks my cheek, his tongue warm and scratching against my burning skin. A startled laugh escapes me as I reach for the coarse, white fur like I would a rope from the very cliff I'd fallen from.

I close my eyes, inhaling slowly as he wiggles between my shoulder and neck, snuffling playfully enough that the rope's in my hand, a lifeline in all the storms raging around me.

I lean into it. It helps, even if it's just a little.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm here," I say, unsure if my hoarse voice is trying to soothe him or me. Coughing, I plant my forehead against his small temple, breath as shaky as a machine off-kilter. "I'm here."

I don't know who I'm telling—him or me. The words fall from my lips like a chant the choir forgot to end.

I'm here... Not there. It wasn't real... unless it very much was.

There was a time, I remember—as faintly as if it were a drawing made with crayon—where a couple months ago, Mom hid something from me.

I don't know why I'm thinking about it now, don't know why it's rushing through my head like water down a well, but the way she was talking on the phone to her friend Malcom had disturbed me.

Her eyes had been abundant with tears she never let fall, but she never told me what happened to her dear friend on his trip to Mission City—only that he would be okay in due time. That it was thank to a very special someone that he was even alive in the first place.

Whatever that meant—since all we know that happened in Mission City was a faulty explosion from—

From a rogue military jet.

That's what they said.

It's all I can think about. The hissing, the way the jet transformed right in front of our eyes. I know, realistically, it's not the same jet—that some jets have faulty engines and controls—but the crimson eyes come back to haunt me, my stomach churning with terror as if it stands behind me, looming over my shoulder like a nightmare I never asked for.

And because I can't get it out—because it's festering inside of me like a wound left to rot—I crawl towards my desk.

My legs scream in protest. Alfonzo whines from the bed, like he knows this isn't a good idea but can't stop me anyway. My casted hand aches as I haul myself into the worn desk chair, a sweaty groan tumbling from my mouth. I shove wet strands from my forehead, pulling out my sketchbook.

My breathing has calmed, but when I glance at the time, the red of the digital clock flashes me back to stormy skies. 3:35 A.M., it reads, but I am surrounded by whistling vents and angry faces that seem human but aren't.

Hand shaking, I open the sketchbook carefully, grabbing a regular pencil as well as some colored ones.

Then, I start to draw.

It's hard without my dominant hand, but I make it work, despite how messy it is. It's not about getting it perfect, but having something real to look at. To know that even if it was a memory, it's on paper and that means—in some way, shape and form—it existed.

Even if that's just in the recesses of my wild imagination.

Mom always told me artistry ran in the family (from her side, not Dad's), but I can't look at it like that, not when the lines are crooked and the shading's off. Despite that, however, the realism of the painting grows worse as I continue on.

Not that it's good, just that it looks like it. In a monstrous, evil way.

Each scratch of pencil drags a breath out of me I didn't know I was holding. At some point, a tear falls down my face, mixing with the charcoal in the pencil.

It drips down the page, down the giant creature's hand—like blood spilling from a blade it never had to swing.

It takes me a long time to finish the creation, the sun bleeding orange and red between the trees as I set the pencil down. I'm not tired, but a yawn escapes me as though I ran three miles without stopping. When I glance down, heart heavy, the sketch stares back at me.

The robot's (is that what I can even call it?) taking the same stance as it did in my dream—one leg facing our truck, the other turn towards the other direction like it was about to sprint somewhere. Probably after the busted up, yellow Camaro that had been rushing back towards it.

There are little chinks in the its silver armor. They gleam like little stars in the low light of my desk lamp, a reminder of when they flashed during lightning strikes. Its long, slim fingers—that were the size of me in the dream—are reaching for the reversing Camaro.

It's other hand reached for us—out on the page as if grabbing for the viewer.

I swallow, hating that even though it's not a good drawing—I can see the horror it brings. I can feel the monster staring down at me as if I were a bug and it the exterminator sent to kill me.

That's not right, I tell myself, shaking my head with a choked snarl. It's not true. That wasn't real.

But the details of it are realistic enough to make me believe that it was something.

And it's the eyes—those gleaming red eyes—that shoot unease through me. They glare back at me on the page, not as vibrant as their owner's but just as deadly. There's no emotion but hatred in them, as if it was coded into its very being and that was all it knew. It's enough to make my stomach churn, looking at just the painting, so I close the sketchbook with a shaky sigh.

Shaking my left hand out, I stand from my desk, glancing out of the window in front of it. The sun's now trying to bleed behind the morning fog, but my eye catches my Corolla sitting in the drive.

There's nothing significant about that, but it's the absence of Ron's truck—or the military's, I don't know whose truck that is anymore—that makes me pause. This isn't a surprising fact, but what does shock me is the way my chest gets all hollow. My hand throbs in its cast, as if I had thrown the punch in tandem with reliving whatever nightmare I just had.

The truck hasn't even been around for over a week now. What does it matter that it's not here now? Dad and Will have been forced to go in my car to the base. And that's fine, I don't care—it's not like it's getting much use from me—but it's not like they don't talk.

They think I don't hear, but they talk like two baboons yelling at each other. When I get home, it's all I hear. Something about Ron... something about the truck. Like it's absence is something to be worried about.

Like Ron didn't throw his daughter in it for no reason other than to save his own skin. He could've woken me up—you know, like any sane human would? Hell, he could have tossed me into the wet yard and I would have woken up happier than I would have in the truck.

But instead, he decided to...? I'm still unsure as to his reasons for putting me in the truck, but I don't think they're logical when the only reasoning he could give me for putting me in there was: "You must remember that refusing to get in a vehicle isn't going to bring your brother back."

Like I was the one being unreasonable.

Ugh! I pinch the bridge of my nose with a sigh. Taking a deep breath, I push it out of my mind. It's better that the truck's not here. No death machines. No Ron.

A win-win, really.

Mom doesn't think the same, of course. She keeps coming to me with these sad eyes, telling me I should try to 'make nice' with Ron—to apologize for what happened. As if I was the one who broke his hand and carried him somewhere he didn't want to be. When I tell her this, she gives me a look like she knows but with a weight that tells me there's something else beneath it. Like the story's there—she just doesn't want to tell me.

In the end, she still urges me to try and make amends with him, like Ron shouldn't be faulted for anything that happens to other people. Ever.

I don't know how to tell her that even if my actions were uncalled for—very much so—I don't really want Ron to return. Without him around, there's less headaches and questions.

Really, it's easier for us all—especially if my parents won't tell me anything.

I grab the sketchbook in my left hand, crouching by my bed awkwardly and shoving it in the deepest parts of my mattress. I shove Ron and the dream out of my mind, heading to the bathroom with the intent of washing the sweat and thoughts from me before school. My head still pounds like a war drum; when I switch the water on, the scar running along my stomach burns like it had been ripped open.

I try not to think about it too much and hop in the shower.

✦

School's a bore these days. Since I have no one who I talk to, I keep to myself—either with a novel in my hand or headphones in my ears. No one really bothers me, probably too afraid to detonate a bomb that's been on zero since my brother's death. A lot of them don't like my scar, either—something I never understood, but nothing that's starting to bother me less and less. Only my old group of friends h ave tried talking to me, and that's a rarity in its own.

But Willow almost lost it last Thursday with my hand wrapped in a plaster, olive green cast. She's forgotten that we don't really talk in favor of fussing over me while demanding to know what happened. I told her—almost shocked into honesty because she was talking to me—and she had sighed. Like she expected it but wasn't pleased. Justin had given me a look of admiration, holding his hand out for a fist bump. Cassidy just rolled her eyes, her typical reaction to when I did something stupid.

For that moment, it had been normal. I had smiled so big I thought my cheeks were going to split. I hadn't realized how much I missed them until that day.

Now, though, I walk through the school hallways alone. Even though Willow fussed over me that one day it doesn't change anything. Not really. Our friendship's strained and awkward, probably broken beyond repair, and I think that she knows that. She just had a moment of weakness. It's good now. Willow walks with Cassidy and Justin.

I walk alone.

Just like how it should be.

I go through the usual routine, writing essays and avoiding gazes in the hallways. My teachers don't even spare a glance at the cast anymore. Before, they fussed over it and demanded that I should give them a doctor's note for missing the day before. Ratchet had to fax one to the school.

When the bell rings and signals the end of the day, I saunter out of the school and make my usual walk to Dr. Henderson's office. His usual framed glasses are perched on his face when I enter, his peppered hair gelled back neatly on his head. Turning to me, he gives me a grin.

"Eleanor, good afternoon. You're early," he comments but not unhappily.

I shrug and throw my bag down. "Made all the crosswalks when they were crossing."

Dr. Henderson graces me with a chuckle. I sit in the cool leather seat of his office, the air conditioner running on low fan behind us. There's a moment when that hiss reminds me of the air conditioner at home—which flashes me back to the dream I had. The drawing on my desk.

I push it away, focusing on the light questions Dr. Henderson asks. But, after we get through the small talk, him telling me his partner, was still recovering from something that happened long ago, he sits up straighter. I don't like the look on his face, so I fidget with my fingers as his dark eyes peer into my own.

"Eleanor," he starts softly, "you look like you have something on your mind today."

And red flashes to my mind again, but I'm not sure if I should tell him. What if it wasn't real? What if it was something my mind conjured up—a trick of the imagination after too much chocolate? If all it had been was an overreactive brain, then I'll be sent somewhere. Mom's already talked about medicine—who knows what she'd say if she heard about the monster in my dream.

But I nod anyway. I've been holding it in since I woke up this morning—since I went downstairs and Dad tried to talk to me like it was all normal again and I left him to walk to school early—and it would be nice to tell someone about it. Even if it's my therapist.

So, I tell him about the dream I had last night, about how it came out in a sketch. How those crimson eyes glared down at us like we were scum. The way the rain pelted on the window.

How I'm not sure if it's even real.

The words come out like a hose spewing out water, almost slurring together. Dr. Henderson only nods at the right times, like every word I'm saying makes sense. Even as he writes, his eyes never leave mine.

My cheeks flush as I finish, a deep breath exhaling roughly. I don't look at him, and the silence afterwards is worse than if he'd laughed.

When the silence almost chokes me, he says, "This dream, Eleanor... you say you don't know if it's a memory, right?"

"No, I—" I clutch my necklace in my hand, pressing my fingers to the corners of my eyes. "I don't know what it was, but it was... it was terrifying."

A shudder runs through me, bugs crawling down my spine. My eyes prick with fear. I curl my knees up to my chest, because the whistle's still there and grey bleeds into the whites of the room—a storm cloud forming.

"You survived it, though," he replies, and his voice is like an anchor in rocky shores. "You survived both the dream and the accident, Eleanor. It's hard not to, but you don't deserve to return to it every time you hurt."

The words cut something in me, raw and open. I don't reply, but I inhale shakily, try to focus on three things.

Dr. Henderson's pen, clicking a pattern he only does when I start spiraling.

The blinds, blowing from the vent above it. It's a faint clink that grounds my next exhale.

And then I have my necklace, which I'm still holding like a lifeline. I don't let it go until my hand starts aching from how hard I'm clutching it.

"While it was terrifying," Dr. Henderson continues, looking at me over his glasses, "I also think it stands to reason that you don't normally speak about your dreams. Really, you don't speak about what the police claimed to be cause. The drunk driver."

In a minivan. I scowl, arms shrugging. "They talked about my brother like he was nothing but a number. I didn't believe another word that came from their lips when I know they didn't look for him for that long."

"Ah, so, they told you about your brother's missing body."

I nod, clenching a fist on the top of my knee. Tears beg to fall, but they burn in my denial.

"Spat it at me. Like I wasn't even worth the time."

I scoff. My brother had been more than that. He had been laughing in his final moments... and he deserved more than some half-assed cop not caring about his retrieval.

And now... now with the added eyes and transforming whatever, I don't know what to believe. Them? Myself? The facts?

That there's no body, but that's because he fell into the river. I was told this. I know this.

But then there's the niggling in the back of my mind, a scratch that I want to itch no matter how much it hurts me to do so. It whispers that there's something there—that what I dreamt wasn't anything but reality.

It's like a feeling in my bones, like I know it happened now that I witnessed it firsthand.

"And you think that this is because there was no drunk driver?" he asks—like he genuinely wants to know and isn't just blowing air at me. "You think it's a... military jet? That transformed? Is that what I'm hearing correctly?"

I nod, but my voice is frost when I say, "You don't have to believe me."

"No, of course, I believe you, dear," Dr. Henderson says, shaking a hand at me like he's warding off the disbelief. "I just want to get all the details. What exactly happened in your dream?"

I repeat the story as if I relieved it every night since the accident . The hot chocolate—the fuzzy, warm ride that turned into something sinister. Like we were on the set of Final Destination. I tell him about the rain, how they turned into storms that made it hard to see. About the Camaro that passed us—about the jet that followed said car and then flew too low to the ground in its haste.

I describe the hissing, the clinks, my body shivering the longer my voice shakes. The clunks that sounded like shrapnel melding together are described with a tremor in my hand. When I get to the part about it transforming again, I can feel my breath fall out like ice on clammy skin. I tell him how my brother tried to stop—how we hydroplaned right into it to try and spare our own lives.

How it didn't matter in the end, not when those eyes promised death glaring down at us.

When I'm done, Dr. Henderson's eyes are widened, pupils blown like I just dropped the secret of the universe. The silence is daunting, broken up by my choked sniffles that I try to contain.

"Eleanor," he says softly, once a few moments have gone by, "with the way you reacted, I would say—and I say this with the utmost sincerity—that what you experienced was a memory and not just a dream."

I sag in my seat—unsure if it's from relief or something else I can't quite name. Having him say aloud that I'm not clinically insane for conjuring something like that up does bring me joy. But it also makes it real in a way that I didn't want to touch. Not yet. Not now.

Because when Dr. Henderson says it, he looks at me—his dark eyes as somber as a grave. I want to ask, but I only say, "I... I thought that, but maybe..."

Maybe it wasn't, if only to save myself the pain of realizing that what had once been a good trip was marred by something that might not even be human.

Because if it was real, then the monster isn't just in my dreams—it's in the blood spilled from my brother's body. And I don't know what to do with that reality.

"I don't think, Eleanor," Dr. Henderson starts hesitantly, "that this is something you should keep from your mom. Possibly even your dad—but I know that's a touchy subject."

A scoff couldn't untangle the weight behind 'touchy subject.' I don't respond to it right away, biting my lip. When I do reply, it comes out meaner than intended, and I hate the way I bristle like a cat being cornered.

"I didn't tell her because she would've told me to see someone else—someone special." But maybe she would have believed it wasn't real. Maybe she wouldn't have been on Dr. Henderson's side, where he looks at me with complete belief like what I'm saying happens to him everyday. "I didn't want to become a specimen for seeing something that no one else has ever hallucinated."

"But Eleanor, what if they weren't hallucinations? Or a a figment of your imagination due to too much chocolate?" he adds when I open my mouth, a harsh breath escaping me.

"It was," I argue, voice cracking on the word. "It had to have been, Dr. Henderson, because— because if it wasn't—"

"It means you have to accept the fact that something you might not know killed someone you loved," Dr. Henderson says gently. "If it's a drunk driver, there's a fault—a blame. Justified. Granted. But if you take these... these eyes and add them to the equation, who can you really blame? When it doesn't exist until it does?"

I shake my head. It's true. I hate that it's true—that I can't justify what happened to us when I see those red eyes glaring down on us. Not only because I don't have the memory attached to it, but because it means that all those months I blamed the nameless driver and nondescript minivan go down the drain. It means there's someone—something—else out there, and it's even more terrifying than a couple of beers behind the wheel.

"This is why," he continues, voice as soft as rain on an umbrella, "I must stress to you the importance of speaking with a loved one about it. Someone you trust. Hell, what about Ron? Weren't you two on good terms last visit?"

The mention of his name makes me tense, but for a whole slew of reasons. Mainly because my hand still throbs any time I move it in the cast, and it wouldn't do that had I not punched him in the face. And I wouldn't have punched him in the face if he didn't say some insensitive things about my brother.

My nostrils flare against my tears just thinking about it.

I don't respond, but I guess the silence is answer enough for him.

"Ah, no, wait," —he looks pointedly at my bandaged hand— "you punched him. I do remember that. For saying that—"

"We don't need a repeat," I say blankly, picking at lint on my jeans. "He said what he said. I did what I did. No one needs to tell him anything."

"I know you said last visit that he helped you none," Dr. Henderson replies, worrying his lip before brushing a hand through his beard. "But I will say, that session had been the most open I'd seen you since we've met."

"It was luck of the draw. Maybe I was feeling nicer that day." I shrug with no feeling, knowing that day after I met Ron—and even the day after I punched him in the face—I had opened up to Dr. Henderson more than I had in the past.

But I don't want to tell him that. He'll think I need Ron or something. I don't. I'm perfectly fine with the drive sitting empty without his truck. No one wanted him there anyway, and he was awful to Alfonzo.

Good riddance.

(Even though a small—so small that I can't even reach it—part of me that wonders: Would Ron have believed me?)

"Even still," Dr. Henderson says, like he's going to die on this hill, "I think it might be helpful to speak with him about them. Getting your memories back and learning what really happened are a crucial part of healing—both mentally and physically."

"I understand that," I say through clenched teeth, not sure if he's understanding my dilemma, "but I don't want to tell Ron anything. Especially not when he always thinks he's justified in his actions. Especially when he thinks that being in a war makes you the wisest person on the block. Newsflash—being an ass isn't the same as being wise!"

Dr. Henderson blows a sigh from his nose. I can't tell if he's bemused or annoyed. I land on the former if only to make myself feel a bit better. But I don't take the words back, the throbbing in my chest dulled to a quiet ache after I said it.

"You know, you could have just said, 'No,' and left it at that," Dr. Henderson says, a light smile on his face.

Bemused, then. Not really mad I don't want to talk—most likely will mention it again before I leave, though.

"Really?" I ask, raising a brow as I kick my leg down. "Because I don't think it would have. I think you would have continuously tried to get me to speak to a man that probably hates my guts now."

And I'm not mad about it. Dr. Henderson's all about connections and healing trauma through the lens of those around you. Something about even though they never experienced it... they can give you insight you never even imagined.

Whatever that means.

"You say that he 'hates your guts,'" Dr. Henderson says, scribbling on his notepad. "Could you elaborate more besides him putting you in the truck? And I'm not saying that's not justified hatred, Eleanor—I'm asking what else makes you think he hates you when you were the one who punched him?"

It stumps me for a moment, because there's a semblance of truth in what he said. I hate—hate, hate, hate—admitting it, but Ron, in a sense, had only been doing the best with what the lack of options he had. I did tell him Alfonzo would wake up; Ron's as big as a freight train, too, so him walking me up the stairs himself was out of the question in case he broke the very foundation of them.

Why he didn't wake me up, instead? I don't know.

But... I can't deny that he wasn't being outright malicious when he had put me in the foreboding Topkick. I don't know if it's because he takes things too seriously or what... but I think he genuinely thought he was helping me by putting me in the truck.

So, no—I can't elaborate on why he hates me. The only other reason I can think of is because I broke my hand punching him in the face, and he hasn't been back since.

That could be a reason, I tell myself, but I don't think it's one Dr. Henderson will believe. I don't think he'd believe anything that came out of my mouth—especially if it was maliciously aimed at Ron.

He believes that Ron meant well, overall. And, sure, maybe that is the case. But it doesn't mean he should have said what he said. Like I wasn't valid for my own feelings.

"No one that likes anyone would say what he said to me," I mutter when it hits me, the way he spit that refusing to get in a truck wasn't going to bring my brother back. The way he said it like it was some truth I was avoiding—a truth I should have been aware of this entire time. 

Like my refusal to get into a vehicle was a minor inconvenience and not a choice I made after my life was flipped upside down. 

"But, weren't you the one who hated when Willow and your friends skittered around the subject while mentioning it in the most roundabout ways?" Dr. Henderson asks, raising a brow at me as he points to his notes. "You mentioned that their refusal to stop talking about it in passive aggressive ways forced your hand. Made you angry." 

"And Ron did the same thing," I mutter, but it's not true. Ron hasn't treated me with pitiful eyes or caressing arms since he's met me. It's been brutish comments and eyes that made my head ache. Nothing soft, nothing coddling. "He just— I don't know... It's different. He knows but he doesn't. Not like they did. He didn't know me..." 

Before. Ron didn't know me before my brother died—hadn't met the version of Eleanor that everyone wants me to be. Instead, he met me surly, isolated and so lost that a compass couldn't even point me in the right direction. His reactions to me were for me—not for the person everyone wanted back. 

Dr. Henderson nods. I always hated that he could read me like an open book, but I appreciate it now. There's no way I was about to finish that statement, to keep rambling as if I was the one being paid for the session and not the other way around. 

"So, because he didn't know who you were before, it's easier to digest when he's... brutish?" Dr. Henderson asks curiously. 

I don't nod. I don't think I can—not right now. But Dr. Henderson takes that as an affirmation. Like my silence means 'yes,' even though it clearly doesn't. At least, I don't think it does. Not now. Not for Ron. 

"Here's what I think," Dr. Henderson continues in my silence. "I think that you're angry because you agree with some of his words, Eleanor." 

Automatically, I tense like a taut bow. Biting my lip, I snap, "That's not true." 

"I never said it was. It was a thought and nothing more," he says easily, holding his hands up like he's placating a wolf caught in a trap. I inhale shakily through my nose as if it'll ward off the unwanted tears. "I just believe that after hearing what he said to you, your initial reaction would not have been to... punch him in another scenario. You would have reacted differently if the words didn't land. But, I think they did because it wouldn't bother you so much otherwise." 

I glance away, burning like a fire on a winter's night. The AC's cool on my sweating back, but I only think of his words. How I don't want to agree with them. 

How I might have to anyway. 

In a way, they're true. I hate that they're true—that I might just... I don't know. Agree with Ron? It wasn't that I did, it's that something about his words I couldn't ignore anymore. 

You must remember that refusing to get in a vehicle isn't going to to bring your brother back.

Said clinically—matter-of-factly. Like the words were nothing new to him, but the person he was saying it to was. 

But the more I think about it—the more I sit in this chair, knees pulled to my chest—I know he wasn't saying it to hurt me. He was literally stating a fact. My refusal to get into a vehicle isn't magically going to raise my brother from the dead... especially if it was a creature that ended his life. 

Ron's right about that, and I hate it. Hate that it makes my throat close and my eyes water as I say, "So?" I wipe my cheek with the heel of my palm. "What does it matter? It doesn't change anything. I'm not talking to him. What's there to say?" 

"That's for you to decide," Dr. Henderson, oddly enigmatic when I need him to be blank. "I just think it's worth talking to him. About anything." 

My eyes narrow. It's cryptic, but also oddly specific—like he's meaning only the crimson eyes from my dreams and nothing else. 

"Not like I can even talk to someone that's not there, 'doc," I add, pushing his emphasis away; I already had enough on my mind. I don't need to add Dr. Henderson to the list of Adults Who Keep Thing From Me in Riddles. 

"Well, no," he says easily, leaning back in his chair and crossing a leg. "But maybe that's because he thinks you don't want him there? Do you think that could be a possibility?" 

I shrug. "Maybe. Does it matter?" 

"I think it does," Dr. Henderson says softly, scribbling on his yellow notepad. "I'm not saying his words were justified, but I think there's a part of you that hates hearing them so much because they ring just a little bit true... Do you agree?" 

I grimace. I don't think it's true, per se, but it's not wrong—what he said. Not entirely. 

Ron shouldn't have said what the said, but the fact that he might not be there because I punched him could be true. I wasn't kind, even if it was deserved; for all I know, he could hate me and wish me gone like he would an overzealous rodent. 

And it doesn't bother me. It shouldn't, at least. 

But there's a knot in my chest from Dr. Henderson's words, from hearing him say that Ron's words are true in a sense I haven't been able to graze yet. It makes it raw, too real—like Ron's peeled off every layer of skin I hadn't known embedded in me with calluses. Like him coming here disturbed every chance I had of recovering on my own and forced me to address things that I never wanted to graze. 

Maybe I was dwelling too much on the past, trying to convince myself that maybe, if I didn't get in a vehicle anymore, then maybe no one would leave me again. Maybe everything would turn back to the way it once was—when my brother was here, healthy and alive and the family complete. Not a broken shell of what it once was. 

"Only a little bit," I grumble, but Dr. Henderson accepts it like it's the holy word. Any admission is sacred to him—especially in our short time together. 

While Ron coming in my life has disrupted it tremendously, I'm starting to think that it's not the worst thing to happen to me. The broken hand sucks, but the relief ebbs in slowly—like a baby turtle trying to get to sea. 

Sure, he's a hard ass and a brute, but he did listen when I needed someone and he confided in me as if we had known each other for years not weeks. In his own twisted way, he was trying to give me advice that day. Trying to soothe me and help me with my own fears and panic. 

"That little bit means a lot with healing,"  Dr. Henderson says softly, closing his notepad and smiling gently at me. "An admission is an admission, and I'm proud of you for coming to that on your own." 

I roll my eyes, gently not angrily. "Don't you think you questioning me had something to do with it?"

"Semantics."  Dr. Henderson claps his hands together, grinning amicably at me, peppered hair glinting in the distant sun's gaze. "What matters is that you came here and opened up. We learned more about the accident today than we have in the past months we've been meeting. That's nothing to scoff at."

"Yeah, but it might just be another nightmare," I mutter, curling my fingers against my knee tight enough the blood leaves. "We don't know if it was real." 

"But it felt real, right?" he asks softly, as if the question is costing him. 

Like my vulnerability has a timer on it. 

I only nod my head, eyes burning from keeping them open. It takes everything in me not to blink, because if I do, the images will rush up like a well being flooded. I don't want them right now. Don't need them. I focus on the blinds, how the sun's setting just so, slanting in like a soft blade of light. 

"It did," I finally say after what feels like hours. Mouth like sandpaper, the words come out cracked, dry. "But it can't be." 

"Time will tell, Eleanor," Dr. Henderson says gently, rubbing a hand through his hair and glancing at his watch. "And speaking of—we're out of ours today. Sorry to say." 

Hastily, I stand, wiping my clammy hand on my jeans. "No need. I need to get going. Homework and all that." 

"Just try to think about what we talked about, Eleanor," Dr. Henderson calls as I walk to the door, bag slung over my shoulder. "It's better to talk to someone, even if that is Ron. You don't have to be alone in it." 

One last nod is all I give him as I close the door gently shut behind me. I know I'm not going to take the advice, no matter how much "progress" was made in there today. 

The breeze picks up as I head home, promising cooler weathers as the days grow shorter. I hike my jacker further up, let my thoughts carry me through every step. I think of the nightmare, how it might not have been a figment of my imagination. How I still think I'm justified for punching Ron, but maybe... maybe there's some truth in what he said. 

And even through I try my hardest to press them to the catacombs of my mind—where cobwebs live and memories go to die—sea painted eyes with midnight black hair pop up into my mind. 

I can almost feel the rain misting on us, the way it never touched his perfectly tousled hair but frizzed mine up. The way he talked, low like waves over stone, eroding every fear I had with every syllable. 

Changed in an instant. 

When I make it back to the house, the truck still isn't in the drive. 

My Corolla is, though. 

Ron's still not back. The thought shouldn't bother me as much as it does. It's not like I was going to talk to him, but the fact that he's actively avoiding me and this house after the fact? It stings, just a little bit. 

As I head into the house, I feel myself taking one last look at the drive, wondering when it had stopped being my brother's Sierra I imagined behind my own car. Wondering when it started being Ron's Topkick I saw, as little as his time had been? 

I walk into the house with heavy footsteps, head pounding like an avalanche falling down the side of a mountain. Mom greets me. Dad makes room for me. I hover, lay on the couch, and sleep—a sleep where red eyes mix with blue and make a purple so vibrant it leaves me gasping when I wake up. 

Chapter Text

As my heart pounds needlessly, I can hear Mom in the kitchen, humming as she pulls something out of the oven with a clank. Dad's disappeared as well, but the shower running upstairs tells me all I need to know about him. My hair's a knotted mess on my head, my fingers tugging uselessly at it as I turn towards her for a semblance of normalcy. 

When she sees me looking, her hum turns to a smile. "El! You're awake. Did you have a nice nap?" 

I don't know how to tell her I saw an image of blue eyes swirling with bright crimson ones to swirl into a purple hue of despair. How they mixed so flawlessly, like they were one in the same before. Like I'm just seeing them for what they are. 

I nod my head anyway. "Nice. Sure." I rub my eye, throwing the blanket off my aching legs. "What're you making?" 

"Casserole for you and chicken carbonara for your father and I. You can have some noodles if you want, but I figured you wouldn't want any of it." 

She's at the sink, rinsing off a spatula with dish soap. Her grin never wavers. Instead of answering her, I set my feet on the floor, trying to stop my stomach from churning. When I can stand without feeling like the world's spinning, I make my way to the kitchen, yawning as I stretch my arms behind my head. 

The kitchen smells like garlic, tomatoes and spiced chicken. Mom kisses my forehead when I lean against the counter, fighting another yawn like it's my birthright. 

"You slept well," Mom comments when I yawn for the third time. "Must have been a good therapy session." 

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "It was okay, if you want to mention how Dr. Henderson keeps bringing up Ron like the man's a god or something." 

"Hmm..." Mom stirs the carbonara, garlic and onion gliding through the air as she does so. "That is odd, isn't it?"

"Considering he doesn't even know him, yeah, it is," I say, frowning slightly. She's taking this with a lot less surprise than I was expecting. Which—I narrow my eyes. "Mom...  Does he know Ron?" 

"Hm?" Mom asks, 'distracted' by taking the bread from the oven next. "What's that, honey?" 

For one moment, I throw the image of the creepy nightmare I had to the catacombs of my mind, if only to give my mother a suspicious look. It's one thing for her to act like Ron's a saint (he literally helped weed her flower beds), but if Dr. Henderson doesn't even know him... what reason would he have to be singing the soldier's praises? It just doesn't make sense—doesn't add up.

Mom plants the wooden spoon flatter against the pan she's cooking in, refusing to meet my eyes. 

Yes, because that's the way to throw me off scent. 

"I said," I walk over to the stove, hip-checking the oven bar, "isn't it a little odd that Dr. Henderson sings Ron's praise? And also—does he know Ron?" 

Because with the way Dr. Henderson was acting, as though Ron was someone trustworthy without having even met him, you would think that the therapist and his partner had the man over for dinner on multiple occasions! 

The vent over the stove's light glares down at Mom. Sweat collects on her brow, but I'm not sure if it's from the fact that I could be calling out an obvious truth, or because she's been here, baking in the oven's heat. 

Mom holds up a finger, pursing her lips. Her hazel eyes strike through me, forcing me to look away at the reminder of my brother's own. When she replies, her voice is hurried, "Well-that-might-be-because-he-actually-maybe-sort-of-does?" 

A dark strand of hair falls into her face as she huffs the sentence—was it a sentence or just a long exhale disguised as that?—out. I give her an incredulous look. 

"Now, you know that wasn't even remotely English. Did you have an asthma attack?" 

Mom snorts. "Shut up, Eleanor." But the look she gives me is fond, as if she forgot my bite could be kind and not just mean. I almost turn my head in shame, but she continues before it bothers me too much. "I just—okay, so, I was telling you that... yes, Dr. Henderson, or Eli, does... maybe... know Ron." 

Her mouth twists into a wry grin, hands splaying out, like, "Surprise?" 

I refrain from slamming my head into the counter. Instead, the betrayal washes over me like a tsunami made of magma. 

"That's not—that's a breach of trust!" I snarl, voice cracking on the words. Unwillingly, my eyes burn with tears as I angrily reach for a grape. I shove it in my mouth, words as venomous as the sour grape. "He can't do that! It's biased and he's supposed to be unbiased and I shouldn't have to go back there if not even he gets it!" 

The world blurs as I glare at Mom. She tries to reach for me, a frown marring her tired face, but I dodge, moving out of reach and yanking my arm back. 

"Eleanor, you have to understand," Mom says gently, taking a step forward when I flinch backwards, breath sharp. "You were his patient before he knew Ron. He only met him when Ron... well, Ron saved his partner during battle." She takes another deep breath before saying, "And his partner is Malcom, my best friend from college." 

The moment the words leave her mouth, I clench the counter to maintain balance. Malcom is Mom's closest and only friend; he visits every other Christmas and was due to move here before the incident in Mission City happened. We had sent him flowers—Mom visited every other weekend to make sure he was healing nicely—but had never met the mysterious partner who seemed to evade us each time we went. 

Knowing that it's Dr. Henderson feels like having the floor taken out from underneath my feet. I stare at Mom, and she must see how it looks—how it feels—because she says, "Honey, it's not what you think. I promise. Eli—Dr. Henderson and I met way after you started seeing him. I only saw him as your therapist until we both ended up in Mission City, looking over Malcom." 

I nod, unsure if it's really me doing the action or puppet who's taken my place, letting the strings go where they may. "But? But he knew Ron after that, Mom. And you. That interferes with personal relationships. HIPAA or something, right?" 

"We... well, honey while Malcom was healing, we had no clue it was Ron who saved him..." Tears fall down my mother's cheeks in quick recession. "It was only when your father returned home with him that we were able to deduce that and that was months later. You had been making so  much progress by then that I—!" 

"It doesn't matter how much progress I was making," I say blankly, throwing a fist on the counter like a weight. No force, just landing. "I was the one who should have been told since it is a violation of objectivity. Now, I have to not only hear Ron's praises from you and Dad, but from my own fucking therapist as well! When I just want someone to hear me!" 

I use my hoodie sleeve to push the tears off my face, unaware that I had been crying at all. Mom looks worse for wear, but I find that I don't care too much. I just wanted someone to hear what I had to say—and I'm not saying Dr. Henderson didn't do that, but to follow it up with Ron's praises is a little less than what I had anticipated. 

And he did believe me about my dream. That has to count for something, even if it's not much. Even if it doesn't make up for the fact that Mom knew him and he knew of Ron. 

Mom's face falls at my words, like I've just told her my brother's died again. Her eyes water, tears falling silently down her face. She doesn't reach for me. I'm glad; I don't know how I would have reacted, and I'm glad neither of has to find out. 

"Eleanor," she says, voice choked like someone's tried to rip the chords right out. "Had I known that you were struggling so bad, I would have intervened a long time ago." 

My stare is incredulous. "Would you have, Mom? Becauseic if you can answer that truthfully, you can give me some truths as to why Ron's been here. You can help me understand what the actual hell is going on here." 

There's a part of me that wants Mom to look me in the eyes and tell me everything—why Ron's arrival here changed everything, what actually happened in Mission City that hurt Malcom so bad—but the other part of me thinks of my nightmare from before. How the poisons melded together to create a hue of purple so dark yet vibrant enough to make my eyes hurt when I blinked my eyes awake earlier. 

That part of me begs me not to ask, that knowing is worse than being kept in the dark. My lip trembles, my back thrumming with heat and pain as I stand there, staring at my mother's ashen face, her hazel eyes wide with anguish. She doesn't reach for me—doesn't move at all, as though she's been struck and is now paralyzed here she stands. 

"Don't think I've forgotten when he followed me, Mom," I snarl, the words ripping through me like sandpaper. I don't care to keep myself hidden in this instance, don't care if the words crashed through her like a train. "I remember it. And remember you telling me it was nothing to worry about. But you wouldn't explain why—as if his name was explanation enough! Well, news flash, Mom, it wasn't!" 

I'm heaving short breaths, each one sharper than the last. Mom looks at me, and part of me fears that she's not sure who I am. That her little girl that lived before the accident is gone, replaced by this monster who won't accept what her parents tell her. 

But you have a reason, I try to reason with myself, but even I feel stupid doing it. The facts are laid out there for Mom to see, but it doesn't seem like she grasps onto them. Feels like they just fall through her grip and back into mine, thorns pricking my already bleeding hands. 

"Honey," she says, and it should soothe me, the cadence in which she speaks, but all I feel is dread, "I know. Oh, god, do I know. But honey, I promise, you are the safest you've ever been now with Ron in our lives than you were without him. In fact, I'd say we're really lucky to have gotten him than another soldier." 

Her words should soothe me, should rush over my skin like cool water on the hottest day—but I just stare at her, feeling something fracture. Ever since Dad's arrival home, Mom's been withholding more from me every day. It used to be we would sit and talk at least once a week, just to know that we had each other even if there was no one else. 

Now, she's holed up in her study with Dad all the time, whispering in low voices as if the walls are as thick as their heads. 

Lucky to have him? Safest now than I was without him? Sounds like a load of bullshit answers to avoid the real reason that he's here with us now. 

My fist clenches once more before I exhale and loosen it. I nod—once, twice. And then, it's like I can't stop nodding, no matter how watery my eyes get or how unfair this all feels. I feel like more of a stranger in my own home now than I ever did after the funeral. Like they're all just moving on with their lives and leaving me behind to pick up pieces they refuse to leave for me. 

"I want a new therapist," I say lowly, voice as blank as a sheet of paper. I don't even look at Mom, who makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, her eyes freely flowing as she stares at me. "I don't care who it is. The only criteria is—they can't know you, your friends or fucking Ron." 

The language is unnecessary, but the fact that she felt it okay to keep such a secret for me—especially a secret that could be objectively detrimental to my healing—feels like such a breach of trust. When I stare at Mom now, I feel like I'm meeting a stranger who had never spoken to me once in my life. Who never listened to me when I said I just needed someone to listen, to be there. To take the pain and help me mold it into something I can hold, not something they want me to carry that's too heavy for me. 

Mom gasps, and it's a small thing, but I still feel it in my soul as if I killed her directly. Disrespect's something I've never been able to carry well, but looking at Mom's dark hair, her eyes that seem like glittering topazes in the lights, I can't bring myself to care. 

They refuse to tell me anything. I refuse to cooperate. Simple as that and just as easy, no matter how horrible it might make me. 

"Eleanor, please, I know we—" 

"If you know, then fix it!" I yell, and it cracks like porcelain shattering on a granite counter. "Fix it, Mom! Send me to someone else! Don't make me feel like I'm in the wrong because I don't get along with Ron. He can be here all he pleases, but the moment he forced me into the truck without my consent was the moment he lost all access to kindness." 

"He... he put you in the truck?" 

"I'm supposed to believe you didn't know that?" I ask with a humorless laugh, turning as fast I can with my back burning. "When it was Dad and Will who helped me? That doctor from base? Remington or whatever?" 

"Remington?" Mom questions, sniffling through the inquiry. Her perfume sweeps through my nose, floral and itchy, as she waves a hand through the air. "Oh, honey, I think he prefers Ratchet." When she notices there's no chance I'll melt to her words, her flustered face neutralizes into a frown. "No, you're... you're right, Eleanor. I haven't been as present as I should be." 

I'm stoic, silent. I don't want to give her a sliver of forgiveness when she hasn't even earned a centimeter of it. 

"But that doesn't mean..." Mom takes a step towards me, her trembling hands clenched at there. There's sauce in her dark hair, strands of it falling in her hair like vines. "I'll do better now, honey. I promise. I don't want you to think— Eleanor, you have to know that I never wanted you to... to feel this way. I had no clue about the truck, your father only told me you had hit him..." 

"Shocker," I deadpan. 

Mom winces, turning to the stove momentarily when the garlic's aroma tries to spill over the pan. The casserole's still baking in the oven, but I'm not hungry anymore. My stomach's in knots, like someone's pulled a rope taut then wrapped it three times over for good measure. I don't look at Mom. I want to walk away. Alfonzo's running around somewhere, so maybe I should find him and take him upstairs. 

"I... I deserved that," she says quietly, voice a broken hush in the kitchen's dim lighting. She wipes her hands on her apron, shaking them out like she's warding off demons. She inhales deeply—so deep, I wonder if she might inhale me, the house and all the insects, too—and then stares towards me out of my peripheral, long and hard. "Eleanor, I don't think anything I can say will make it better, so I'm not going to." 

Mom takes a step towards me. I turn away, crossing my arms. My back's towards her, and my eyes water despite myself. I'm the one who feels like irons are lighting me up with anger, so why am I also the one with tears dripping down my face, snot trickling out of my nose? 

"But I'll tell Eli—Dr. Henderson, that you won't be needing his services anymore. We'll get you another therapist, okay, El?" Mom asks. I can feel her behind me, see the shadow in the wall in front of me, but I don't turn around. "I know it's not much, but it's—El, it's all I can—" 

Gravel smacks the window, thunking against the kitchen's pane like a glass drum. I jump, surprised by the whistling in my head that accompanies it. Mom and I turn to see more stray rocks smack the side of the house as if the person driving had a vendetta against them. The evening sun burns through it, highlighting the enormous truck swerving to a stop in our drive. 

Black and large as it is, there's no seeing through the tinted windows as it lurches and the passenger door opens, Will exiting the truck, a grim expression painted on his face. 

Well, I guess that answers who's driving the truck. 

Dad storms down the stairs a moment later, his military boots clanking against the stairs, creaking in that one spot it always does. He's already in his gear, as if he'd gotten a call. His own face wears exasperation, disappointment heavy on it like he was really looking forward to chicken carbonara and not whatever the hell is happening in our drive right now. 

Anticipation, unwanted and disgusting in it's enormity, rushes through me when Will slams the front door open, Alfonzo barking in the background at the chaos surrounding him. My stomach knots itself into braids. It rushes through me, the fact that I just talked about Ron today, had my life flipped upside down because he walked through my life before I even knew his name. 

He saved Mom's friend. Dr. Henderson's partner. Ron's somehow connected to whatever Mom shut off on the television all those months ago. And she won't tell me because protecting him is more important than being candor with her daughter. 

Rage boils, but it simmers as Dad stops in front of Mom, placing a swift kiss on her head. He reaches for me next, but I duck under it, uncaring of the shred of hurt on his face because of it. Even though I'm concerned—even though I don't want him to go on this mission—I won't let myself be swayed by it when they refuse to even tell me what's happening under their roof. So, I swivel out of the way, listening to the horn blare. 

Will winces. "Okay, Owen, it's time to go." He glances over his shoulder to the truck, where the horn sounds like a train's engine. My ears ring from it. "I don't think... Ron's not feeling very patient today, it seems." 

Almost like I have no control, I scoff. "When does he have patience, though? That's the real question." 

Seems like no matter his mood, man's ready to throw hands with someone. Always willing to fight to get his point across, even if it means someone gets burned in the crossfire. 

The adults look at me. I raise an eyebrow. 

Dad says, "Ellie, I don't think... well, it's not something I think you—" 

"Would understand," I say, blank as the snow is white. Anger's beating at my chest, red snaking up my cheeks as I stare at the men who claim to protect the world but can't even bring that integrity into the house. "Cool. Don't think you'll understand why it is I don't want to hug you, then. Have a good trip." 

Dad's face falls like someone threw a sheet of concrete over it. He doesn't say anything else to me, though, and I know then that his guilt won't absolve this issue. I will remain clueless and he will remain estranged. Since that's how he wants it. 

Since being the world's hero matters more than being a father to your own daughter. 

"El—" Mom calls, holding a hand out for me to stop before I reach the stairs, Alfonzo hot on my heels. She stares at the men, aware that Ron's not growing happier as he sits out there and waits on us to have our little chitchat. "You can't just leave without telling us where you're being deployed to. Where are you going this time?" 

Will bites back a groan when Ron honks three times in quick tandem, each one longer than the last. Dad looks like he might get sniped through the window if they don't get out there soon, the evening sun highlighting the urgency on his face. 

"Oregon," Will replies, voice crisp but understanding. He gives me a look of concern—of, I wish I could tell you and if I could, I would, but I can't. But I don't hold it against me. He's not the one who didn't write his daughter back when she needed him most. "There was... one of our jets actually swerved off course in Oregon. We don't know where they went—something scrambled the systems. It might've been a hacker, maybe some solar flare nonsense, but they're calling it precautionary recovery in case the pilot was hurt during descent. Wherever they are."

But he shares a look with Dad, even as Mom nods, accepting the answer. I glance at her through my peripheral, wondering if she just doesn't care enough to ask or if his answer were plausible to her and not some excuse to get themselves out of here and on the road.

The glances exchanged were too suspicious not to be anything but a coverup. Will and Dad have always been good at lying without the other there, but put them both in the same room and it's like watching two chickens run around with their head cut off. 

"Jet crash?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. "In Oregon?" 

I deftly don't think about the crimson of that monster that loomed down at me in my dreams. I don't think about the way that color swirled with blue and made purple in the one I just had. 

My heart falls anyway, beating against my chest as if trying to escape. I know they mean their military jets, but the thought of the other one that hissed and transformed before my very eyes sends a wave of nausea through me. The drawing upstairs, tucked away where no one will find it, flickers through my mind like a fever dream. 

"They happen all the time," Dad says, waving a hand through the air, "but we just happen to be in jurisdiction and since they're not having any luck with the rescue..." 

"Right." I barely listened to a word he had said. I could only hear Ron's blaring horns, bird still screeching as they leave the trees. "Well, don't let us keep you."

Dad rushes over without preamble, giving Mom one last kiss on the forehead. He gives Alfonzo a scratch behind the ear, before pinning me with a heavy, worried gaze. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but without warning—so sudden I drop to the ground from the loud boom that echoes through the house at it—the door slams open. Through my arms, I see Ron's presence in the doorway, a shadowed figure with illuminating sapphire eyes, like water glowing in a dark cave. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry, was my message unclear with the honking?" he snarls, throwing a large hand out to where the truck is still honking, so bad that it sounds like when my brother's truck's horn broke on the bridge, when it wouldn't stop, stop, stop. "Get your fraggin' afts out there before I bodily drag you. Now." 

Dad and Will grumble their goodbyes, but I can't hear outside of the honking, outside of the shrapnel in my lungs, scarring my stomach and my face, slicing through my body as though I'm a piece of meat. I can't hear outside of the wind rushing through my ears, the way it whistled a lament as I fell. 

Fell and fell and fell. 

And—

"El?" 

Mom sounds horrified, seeing me crouched on the ground as though I can't handle a little noise. A little force. 

I can. Could. I shake my head. Shy away from her hands. Through my fingers, where they cover my eyes, I see Ron turn, almost as though compelled to, his sharp eyes on my broken frame at the bottom of the stairs. Unreadable, tracking. Tracing the outline of my cast with a look that almost looks like guilt—like pity. 

Heat rushes through me, embarrassment a wire I touched wet. It wasn't him, I don't care about him, it was the noise, the honking (that's suspiciously stopped) that tore me through a timeline I didn't want created for me. 

But shame races through me anyway, if only because he saw me like this. At my lowest. When I didn't want him to. 

Ron clenches his fist, jaw tightening, angling his body ever-so-slightly towards the door before he grunts, the noise loud in the silence left behind, and turns away. His footsteps are final, echoing as he crunches on the gravel. 

The truck is pulling off before I even hear the door close. 

Tears streak down my face. I wipe them with my good hand, shrug off Mom's help. I don't need it. Don't want it. She doesn't get to come in and try to save what could have been helped had she not have withheld so much from me. 

The betrayal sits heavy in my chest, a rock that won't leave—won't budge. I can't look her in the eyes. Clicking my teeth for Alfonzo, I achingly pick myself off the ground, needles pricking my back with fire licking the tips. 

"I'm skipping dinner," I mumble, voice cracking with tears I don't want, but can't stop. Still, it feels like that horn had been thunder blaring, the truck's own breaking, and everything in between. A nightmare. A collision. "See you in the morning." 

"El, please, don't leave it like this," she pleads, not reaching for me, but bracing against the stairwell as I start the long journey with my growing back pain. "I promise I'll get you a new therapist. Promise. And you won't have to see Ron, not if you don't want to—" 

"But are you going to tell me?" I ask blankly, staring at her with empty eyes. "What all the secrecy's about? What you think you need to hide from me?" 

My hands tremble. Back pinches. I want to go upstairs, go to sleep and forget this whole day happened. Mom looks at me as though I'm a stranger, and maybe I am, in this house of bones but no spirit. Maybe that's all I can be with Ron's piercing gaze striking through me as though he stripped every layer of conversation I had with Dr. Henderson through my face. 

And didn't like what he saw. 

Another step up the stairs. I inhale a shaky breath. Mom doesn't respond, but that's answer enough. I won't tell her about the drawing I have tucked away upstairs, either. 

I just say, "Goodnight, Mom." 

"Goodnight, El. I'm sorry," she replies, quiet as the night's whisper, its dark creeping in from the windows behind her as she does. "I wish... Oh, how I wish it were different." 

Nothing more escapes my trembling mouth. I simply turn and continue up the stairs. 

Different, she says. Different how? I want to ask it, to scream it. Different because she had a son once? Different because she wishes she could tell me all those secrets? Or different because she can't change what had happened anymore than she can change the fact that whatever she's hiding—she can't speak of it? 

I don't ask. Part of me doesn't want to know. Maybe the truth's harder to accept than the omission. When I finally make it to my room, I just go to my bed and curl up over the covers, my breath still stuttering in my lungs as if my breath was spelling out SOS in morse code. 

All I hear is the blaring of those horns and the shrill scream of the storm that ruined my life. Ron's stare pierces me, and I hate that a part of me curls into the way I wanted, for a moment, to tell him about it when he saw me. Underneath all the embarrassment and shame, I needed to explain it to him, to tell him why I did what I did. 

Why he was the one caught in the crossfire. 

But he didn't... Will had said he wasn't in a patient, perhaps even forgiving mood today, and it showed, but his gaze had been heavy on me. Heavy but not weighted. Watered down, as though the fire from before died down to an ember in the ashes. 

Maybe it had to do with seeing me there, hunched on the ground like I had no senses, but it made me ache to reach out, to tell him—if only because he would see it with me as is and not the me they all knew before. 

And I didn't know how much I craved that until now, legs curled to my chest and hiccups falling out of my mouth. 

Yet, I ruined it. And it's more than likely that Ron will never speak to me again, especially not after today. 

✦

✦

Chapter Text

Two days. They've been gone for two days. I start to worry about them, but then I remember the fact that they called is a precautionary recovery mission before sharing a glance with on another and it helps me go to school a lot less easier. On Friday, I come home to Alfonzo prancing in the yard, Mom nowhere to be seen as I get ready to go over to Sarah's for babysitting.

On Saturday, I sleep in, refusing to think about the way Ron had gazed at me (with contempt or guilt, I don't know—don't know if I want to) or the way his fist clenched, almost as if he was holding back more than his tongue that day. He saw me for a split second, but it felt like an eternity—like it had been us suspended in a moment neither of us wanted to create.

Pulling myself out of bed, I brush my teeth slowly, leisurely, as if it will place a bubble around me, stopping time from moving on. But when I'm done, Alfonzo is pawing at the door in my room, begging to be let out. I sigh, wishing I could just cocoon myself in bed for the rest of the day and not worry about the lack of sleep I had (which is the reason I slept in) or the fact that Mom's gone, once again.

Most likely working on the weekends. Avoiding parental responsibility for her child. The usual for her.

I clomp down the stairs like an ogre in his swamp, rubbing my stomach with a yawn as I let Alfonzo into the foggy yard outside. He disappears in a white puff, yapping at nothing. It brings a faint smile to my face. At least there's him in all this chaos.

The one creature that never asked anything of me, even when my brother died.

While he's outside, I go into the kitchen, head already pounding from the rough night of sleep I had. The ibuprofen is in the top cabinet, and I reach on my tiptoes to get it, slamming two down dry before going to the refrigerator. There's vegetarian casserole in there from the other night that I still haven't eaten, so I bring it out, tossing it on a plate before throwing it in the microwave.

As that cooks, I fill Alfonzo's bowl with food, going to the door and calling for him. He comes swiftly, tongue lolling out of his mouth, pleased as anything despite doing nothing. I smile at him, petting him gently and kissing over his face before the microwave dings in the kitchen.

I drop the plate on the island, sinking on the stool, bones weary.

There's a television in the living room, but I mute it even as I eat. The news is on, but I'm not too pressed about paying attention to it. It's national, but I chew in silence, wishing that I had something else to fill the silence. Missing my brother more than ever.

It's an odd sort of ache, one that sends ripples down my spine. I think of how he would have laughed at the anchor's tie being crooked, how he would say the man was definitely going to have a complete meltdown about it later. How he would steal from my plate and then eat the entire thing while making me something he would never eat. He was weird like that. Odd.

I miss it.

The news is showing the weather now, but a moment later, it shifts it's attention onto a wide view of a forest, a fire blazing right in the middle of it. My eyes follow it, almost entranced, but it's the headline that makes me stop:

MILITARY JET CRASHES IN OREGON: FAULTY LANDING OR FAULTY PILOT?

My heart crashes in my chest as if it had slipped of rhythm because of the news. It's in Oregon... right where Dad and Will said it would be. And it's a jet. They were right about that, too. I can see the pieces of it, exploded into shrapnel and pieces that scattered flames across acres of land. It should make me queasy, should make the worry spike to one thousand, but all I hear is metal crashing on metal.

Rain falling onto steel roofs, pattering off like hail on concrete. It slams into my mind as I look at the aftermath of the explosion, as I turn the television up to hear the anchor say, "And as of right now, there have been no known survivors. The military is searching far and wide with the help of Oregon's National Guard. They hope to have this matter resolved in a mannerly fashion, with all pilots and soldiers accounted for."

It has nothing to do with my situation—nothing at all. But then there's a hiss on screen, like a nails dragging down a chalkboard, and through the corner of the military drone that's recording the damage, I can see a sleek, silver jet zoom out of the frame. It flies through the distances, skimming the clouds and disappearing, a puff of black smoke trailing behind it.

Suddenly, the drone cuts off, the feed lost to nothing, glitching a dark red before dying black. The anchor on screen laughs nervously, but I can tell it shakes her up, can tell her next words are forced and not on the teleprompter.

"Well," she laughs nervously, "we should have more information about the Hidden Forest fires located here in Bend, Oregon, later. I'll give it back to you, Charlene."

It pans back to the woman doing the segment on politics, but my ears don't register the words coming out of her mouth. The other anchor's voice had been almost shaky, had been teetering on scared.

Part of me wonders...

Had the drone cutting out been more than an accident?

My hands tremble, the right one throbbing in my cast as I blankly pick myself off the stool, taking my unfinished food to the trash and dumping it. I throw the plate in the sink—thinking of how my brother would have taken it from me with a sharp grin, a smoothie already made in apology... of how I didn't believe my father, how I thought it was just another notch in his belt of lies.

And it turns out it wasn't.

But that hiss—

That hiss. I swallow the saliva in my mouth before it can become bile, curling my right hand in my chest as if it'll keep my beating heart from erupting in my chest. It had sounded like something from my nightmare, with fire whistling around it instead of rain kissing its metal face. And I didn't see a face this time, but the noise was the same—it had to have been.

Nothing sounds like metal grating on glass like that noise did. I would remember if I was in a coma, would wake up as soon as I heard it. It haunts me, makes my legs turn to jelly as I try to walk to the living room.

Dad and Will were right. They were right, I didn't listen, and now they're on a mission with the same hiss that crashed through my nightmares. That jet that escaped wasn't the one that exploded; the shrapnel for the fallen one had been in the corner of the television, down in the right as a crater in the ground, burning too hot that even the National Guard had been giving all their efforts to it. Like something other than a faulty pilot had taken it out...

But that can't be true either. Dr. Henderson—and yes, I still want a new therapist—said that it could be a memory, but what person has memories of a giant robot that had death in its eyes when it glanced at me? Like I was worse than scum to it.

That can't be what Dad and Will and Ron are fighting. That can't be what just flew away on the screen like it was escaping something dreadful, threatening. The emerald of the trees—glowing neon even in the day from the ignited fire as smoke painted the sky black—shifts into my mind like a virus a computer just can't expunge.

Burnt through quickly, with odd holes seared into some of them. Carved like a circle with what I thought looked like an oozing... something. I don't know what it was, but it was steaming and it had the trees burning as though they were wisps of dried barley and it drop of gas, ignited by the explosion. The smoke was black, charcoal clouds of doom rising in the air.

It had looked like nothing could help it.

And still the news' anchor saw that jet fly away, but said nothing regarding it. Almost as if it had been another military jet.

I clutch my head. But that doesn't make sense. There's bringing in military personnel to help and then there's escaping a scene—the way the jet had done in it's efforts to zigzag as it flew. I could just make that out, right before the drone cut off with the glitch, the way it had spun a sharp left, tilting right after and speeding away.

The counter's under my hand as I use it as a guide to get out of here. It does nothing to block out the ice in my veins. Dad and Will are out there right now. Ron's out there, and all I can think about is that giant monster that stared down at me. The one that cause the wreck, if it was a memory and not some figment of my imagination.

But what's to say it wasn't? What's to say that jet didn't leave to go pick up more supplies to help? What's to say that hissing wasn't just me adding it to the noise of it zooming into the screen, the way it flew past, the last bit of it seemingly attaching itself to the jet? I haven't been able to trust even myself recently, so it might all be in my head, a piece of fear manifested to worry me.

Yeah, yeah. That's it. I stumble to the living room, but my breathing doesn't ease. If anything, it feels like I've inhaled a swamp. Throat's clogged, tears unwanted but streaming down my face. I hate this. This feeling. This uselessness. The callousness in which I acted towards them.

If it's a fraction of what was on the bridge in my dream, I don't want them anywhere near it. Dad's too heroic, he'll sacrifice himself for the greater good as if that thing had cared about the greater good.

The sun beams through the living room's bay windows when I finally trip into the chair, inhaling a choked breath.

Red bleeds into my vision, followed by the blue that makes my head pierce.

Ron's blue.

Swirling into a deep purple that brings nausea to my stomach.

I clutch my stomach with my left arm, aware that my right one is throbbing, angry in its cast.

Come home, I think, and it's a mantra. Ron's eyes float in my mind, and I think of how we left it—unfinished, fist curled rather than words spoken. There was more I wanted to say to him, if only to tell him that I wasn't sorry for how I punched him.

But I was sorry for the anger behind it, for the lack of understanding of what he had meant. Because the daunting memory of my brother still shines in my memory, even today—even with the jet on my mind and my worry being pulled taut in three different directions. And even that isn't enough to bring him back, the echo of him.

Nothing's going to bring Theo back, and I can't prevent the fact that he's dead, that he wasn't even a corpse in a coffin when his casket was buried.

Tears burn my eyes. The chair rocks with my movements. Alfonzo yelps on the couch, worried but unable to help. His claws scratch against the couch, soft thunks followed by his whines.

I clench my jaw. It had been such a normal day, such an easy one. Memories flitted through my mind—and sure, they were painful, but they didn't hurt the way the news I had just witnessed does. The way this fear pierces through me like a javelin shot through the heart.

The jet might not be real; it might also be the only solid thing I remember from the crash.

And that hiss, imagined or not, makes my heart churn, my knees weak as I try to pick myself up, spine burning as I stand on shaky legs. I need to go to bed, need to sleep it off, I decide. That's the only way that the jet's violent exhaust will leave my memory. Maybe when I wake up, it'll be a faint echo in my mind, a mirage I can conjure up to exhaustion and stress.

Yeah, I'll do that. With a stuttering breath, I hold the wall, clenching my fingers in the grooves of the archway to hold myself stable. I wipe my face with my good hand, cheeks caked with salt and dried tears.

The journey to my room is long, arduous. I have to sit on the stairs twice and count to ten to get the pain and memories under control. My lungs are trembling with stutters when I finally throw myself into my bed, Alfonzo hopping up and curling beside me immediately.

It eases the ache in a way only Alfonzo can do. I grip his fur, securely but not tight, and he licks at my drying cheeks with a snort and a huff, watery eyes blinking at me like a bug. It does nothing to still the pounding of my heart, though—to bring me down from the precipice I had climbed up with shaky hands.

He does help. A little.

Helps soothe the way my hands tremble like paper fans int he wind, the way my breath gets caught in my throat like it's string pulled taut on a nail. Like something it's pulling it back, shoving it away, making it harder and harder to inhale.

I close my eyes, clench them shut. The comforter is soft under my left hand, and part of me thinks about drawing what I had witnessed, to bring it to life if only to make sure that hiss wasn't a figment of my imagination.

But my limbs are so heavy it's like wading through molasses. The bed sinks with my weight, and I curl myself up, right hand over my chest and left arm hold Alfonzo with the strength of someone clinging to the last bits of reality before they spiral into the unknown. It feels like an abyss might swallow me whole, might engulf me in the cool heat I found in the blood-colored eyes of the jet.

I ignore it. Shut it out. Not here. Not now.

The only thing I wish for is their return—safely and without injury. I hadn't seen Dad or Will during the shot, but the drone was only far enough to see extraneous damage and not the military aiding relief with the National Guard.

But they're okay. They have to be. Must be. They came back from whatever the news cut off at Mission City, they'll come back from this too.

Alfonzo snorts in my ear. My nose finds his head, shifting until I'm comfortable enough.

I try not to think too much.

Sleep never comes.

(A pair of haunting, worried, blue eyes plague my mind, anyway.)

✦

At some point Saturday night, Mom comes home. When she gets here, I go downstairs after she's eaten without saying much, mouth heavy and tongue twisted in my mouth like I had eaten a lime. She talks about her day at work, the clients she's working on (without dropping names, of course), and then sits on the couch watching an art documentary for the rest of the night while I place my dinner carefully on a plate like I'm going to eat it.

Like my stomach's not already rolling.

I don't say much to her. Not to be rude, just because there's nothing to say. Her words of nonchalance when I told her about Ron and the fact that she won't tell me why he's here might be factors in it, but it's just because I'm more concerned about Dad and Will.

(And Ron. I won't say it aloud, but I worry about all of them, even if Ron and I aren't on good terms. Even if I did punch him.)

After pushing around sautéed mushrooms in gravy with parmesan oven-roasted broccoli, I quietly bid a goodnight to Mom, who is getting up from her documentary with a yawn. Her dark hair is pulled up in a knot with one of those long, thick pencils used for art—one I have in my own supplies, sitting cracked after the drawing of the creature from my dream. I want to ask about it, partially because I've never really seen her with anything other than a pen holding her hair up. And sheer will.

But her eyes are tired, and I'm not consoling her. Not tonight. Not when looking at her still makes my stomach churn. She's not telling me everything. She doesn't need anything more from me. The good thing is she doesn't try to talk me into staying on my way out and up the stairs. They creak underneath my uneven weight, my steps clumsy, aching acid burning up my back as if I had fallen in a pit of it.

Slight movement alone is doing that—raking hot stones up my back as if I had jumped in a pool of them. Rolled around in them as if I were an excited dog who wants to hurt, to feel the nail pierce my spine as I continue my (slower, now) journey.

That can't be good. Not for me—for Mom.

Especially not Mom.

Goodness, I think, trudging up the stairs, listening to her clamber around in the kitchen, trying to be quiet as she loads the dishwasher. In a courtroom, she commanded a room, had killers turning their heads in shame as she got the maximum sentence for their crimes with no hair out of place.

In the kitchen, with her soft-worn wool socks she always wears no matter the season, she is just Reagan, hairs falling out of the knot in her face and into her flushed, one-glass-of-wine cheeks. And that pang of longing—of having her as she is, just herself with no secrets or shadows to be found in the warm light of her—shoots through me before I have the chance to do anything with it.

Before Dad came home, it had just been us, had been her feeding me smoothies when I wouldn't get out of bed for weeks. When I wouldn't drink the raspberry ones because they made me retch, made my eyes sting with rain water and Theo's blood.

It was us, sobbing in our own rooms and coming out with that silent agreement that we wouldn't speak of it unless it was necessary. Then, we'd watch reruns of all her favorite childhood shows and the storm inside of the house would lessen to a monsoon. Still raining, just a shift in it.

It had been me, sitting on the couch catching up on the school I missed while she typed up her arguments—her analysis and evidence that supported whatever case she had been working on. Had been us, walking through the woods, to the treehouse, Mom pausing as if time itself had stopped the moment she saw that the treehouse was unchanged. The same as it had been when he was a live.

She hadn't come back since.

Still, it was nice.

Now, it felt like there's a world of distance between us, like I'm scrambling for purchase on a surface to reach her—to understand—but she's pouring the oil on the tracks. Accidentally, sure. Not with ill-intent, but with her back turned, her own shoulders caving in with the weight of stress she bears herself.

My walk up the stairs is arduous. Part of me thinks I should maybe tell Mom about the pain I'm experiencing, but another part of me would rather take a battery, dissect it and eat the parts inside it until she had to call Poison Control. Not that I know if you would call Poison Control for eating a battery, but either way—it sounds better than having her slam me into her Tahoe like an actual doll and escort me to the hospital, fears be damned.

You must remember that refusing to get in a vehicle isn't going to bring your brother back.

The words bounce around in my head like jagged knives, unannounced but. . . not unwanted. They don't pierce this time—just sink deep into the marrow of what they mean. I wonder if telling Mom about my pain, if concerning her with something that could just be temporary is worth the pain of remembering.

Ron's right, again. Like earlier, I know it won't bring Theo back, but the memory of the crash's engrained into me so deep that each breath feels like I'm reliving it. But it's my hand that throbs in my cast as I make it to my room on shaky, aching legs.

I will always carry that, carry Theo—in only a way I know how. Only a way someone who lived it, who saw what the creature, real or not, had done on that horrid day. That carnage it created in its wake.

The way I could only sit, frozen—even in the dream.

I sit carefully at my desk, like a puppet being pulled by a precarious master. My sketchbook is out, Alfonzo jumping on the bed as I turn my desk lamp on with a sigh.

Part of me doesn't know why I'm here, why I'm sitting in a chair I hadn't touched since Theo's death, but now have been sat at twice; the other part of me needs to get these wicked thoughts— these grazes of what Dr. Henderson said I needed to glimpse more into—onto paper. To know that it was real, imagination or not.

But when I pull the sketchbook towards me, dragging it on the desk with my left hand, the sudden realization that I can't use my right hand smacks me with the force of a thousand trains.

Something catches in my throat as I stare at the olive green cast, Dad's messy scrawl on it—a signature, love u, ellie, with a heart that's pleading for life. It's the only thing he can draw after multiple lessons (so he claims), but looking at it now is a reminder that I can't draw.

My wrist throbs in the cast, as if reminding me that it's my own fault for getting in this mess. I drew the other one left-handed, but it only looked realistic in the dark, when I had seen it with dream-fogged eyes—when the nightmare was behind my eyelids, almost tangible if I let them close for more than two moments.

In the light, when I turn to the page, it looks like child's scrawl. Left-handed wasn't the way to go, and my tears had leaked onto the page like raindrops, painting the monster in a watery swirl of destruction that looks more like a blob than anything else.

I clutch the desk as I stare at it, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood—just to prevent myself from taking the paper and crushing it in my hand. It was pointless, useless to even draw it. What was I thinking? That I was special? That I could bring something as monstrous as that behemoth of a creature to life? With the way my hand had trembled on the paper? The way it had burned in my cast, using it as carelessly as I did?

The chair clatters against the closet as I push away from the desk. Noise rattles the walls, enough to make the water turn off downstairs momentarily. I can feel it, the way she wants to ask, to call up and check on me. My teeth clench to keep in the frustration that begs to boil over, that wants to spill from me like oil in a car.

She doesn't call. The water resumes seconds later. I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed, stomping as quietly as I can to my bed, but one of them ebbs into me like a wave crashing into my already-present anger at my own incompetence. The consequence to me thinking with nothing but adrenaline and instinct and anger. So much anger it had made me see red, crimson as blood and just as evil.

I hadn't said it then, won't say it now—but there had been a part of me that had. . . wanted to hurt Ron. But it was a moment's graze, followed with the flash behind my eyelids, gone as soon as it erupted.

Like it was never meant to be there in the first place.

But it was. It had been there.

And I did it. I punched Ron.

I curl into the bed, shaking my head, thinking about those eyes in the rain. How they lit up like a vacancy sign at a hotel. How they bled into me like the rain on my skin, even now as I cocoon myself in the comforters.

Wind blows through the cracks of the window, the house shaking slightly. With colder seasons comes more wind—more rain and cold that seeps into you like frost on blossoms. It used to be fun, something Theo and I would count down to. Hot chocolate used to be our favorite, made to perfection by one of us each time that first nip of cold settled in the air.

Now, it reminds me of the way the truck crunched under a giant foot—the way the rain pelted down on us, melting my skin with ice. I clench my eyes shut. Don't think about it.

Because now I have no way to make it real—no way to tell myself that it wasn't a dream, that it could have been something more. My drawing is a child's scribble at daycare, the eyes two red circles that could be apples for all anyone knew. I failed, couldn't bring life to the monster in my head.

The whistles pierce my ears. Alfonzo sniffles and then curls up beside me, trembling the dramatic way Chihuahuas do. Downstairs, the quiet's eerier than the wind. Used to be Theo down there, on his console, yelling about Mario and assassins in tandem. As if MarioKart Wii was the same as Assassin's Creed. It wouldn't be quiet until well after midnight—because I would go down there with that very argument and then we'd play a mash of the two until Mom demanded we go to sleep—but now it's barely nine and she's going to bed.

The silence is a lament tonight. It reminds me of the absence of Theo this morning, of every day before that when I needed the anchor to the storm raging in my chest. He had been my best friend at one point, had been the only one I wanted to talk to besides my friend group. And even though he was popular and I wasn't, he'd make time, would push me in the hallways and trip me up with a cheeky grin, but wouldn't let anyone speak about me.

Especially if it was something horrible. He'd had to cut off three friends due to some. . . irredeemable comments made about me. Theo had never told me what they were, but when they came to school—a couple with black eyes and scrapes all over them and one who missed school for an entire week and still managed to have clumps of hair missing when he returned—everyone could tell they weren't apart of Theo's "group" anymore.

After that, everyone just gave me a wide berth.

They still do, but for different reasons. I'm the girl who lost Theo—the one who was with him when he died. They honor him, but give me looks of pity, almost scorn. His locker is always decorated, never to be used again.

I'll be forgotten the moment I graduate.

It doesn't bother me that I won't be remembered; Theo shouldn't have had to die for people to give me the respect he wanted in the first place. Even if that respect is pity wrapped in silence.

Alfonzo whines when the wind shakes the house with extra force, the windows rattling as he curls up beside me under the covers. His fur's soft in my left hand, and I focus on the comfort of him, of sifting through the soft strands instead of worrying about my thoughts. They're useless, anyway. It's not going to bring anything back but foul memories.

So, I push them away. Alfonzo's warm beside me, rain starting to patter against the panes. I clench my eyes shut, pressing my ear into the pillow to block it out. My back burns angrily like I had done a full body workout three times over, and I hate that I have to focus on that to block out the storm in my head.

But it helps, and my tears leak because of the physical pain—not the way the hisses outside sound like metal on concrete or the way the wind reminds me of the sickly crash right before the dream ended.

Rest doesn't come easy, but it does come, the way rocks are eroded over time. Slowly and then a collapse.

The wind's whistle follows me into my dreams.

Chapter Text

Another couple of days later, and the afternoon air's crisp with the promise of fall, the wind blowing gently through my hair as I walk by from the treehouse with Alfonzo. I flick a carnation petal off my jacket, watching as it flutters to the ground, the lilac mixing with the blades of dying emerald on the ground. Though my face is dried with tears I had kept in all day, I try to conceal my expression to a more neutral one.

Mondays always suck, anyway. It's the first day of school, first of all, and I always end up taking flowers to the treehouse on Mondays—a promise I made to myself after Theo died.

But this Monday was particularly hard to endure. Not only did I wake up at two in the morning from the burning pain in my back spreading to my arms, but Mom ended up making me stay home from school when I could barely get out of bed because of it. She'd instructed me not to move from my resting spot with my legs elevated unless it was necessary. She pulled the Mom Eyes on me and everything. Terrifying, but I didn't listen.

At two thirty on the dot, I walked to the flower shop with Alfonzo, trying to keep pressure off my back—a hard challenge considering you need your back to walk and my legs were protesting the entire time, but I can't explain my idiocy to myself right now. After I greeted Oliver, got the flowers, I returned home and then journeyed to the treehouse.

Part of it was for the routine and another part of me just wanted to be alone, to have that moment of peace for myself. Where I didn't have to pretend to be angry instead of hurt, where I only needed to be. Just me, a piece of history I'll never get back, and the flowers that will remember it before the petals wither and die.

I stayed there for a while, let myself be lost in a comic we had used to read together before I remembered that it was discontinued the year he died. After that, I had to leave, almost run from the walls that wanted to close in on me.

I'm almost back to the house now, can see it past the Lennoxes drive as Alfonzo scurries ahead of me, enough that he has freedom but not enough that he's out of sight. My legs tremble ever so slightly like I had done something strenuous and not just climb up and down a ladder. I know Mom's either called Dr. Johnson to see what to do about this or I'll have to beg the doctor to come see me because I cannot go back to a hospital. It had been bad enough when I lived in there during rehab and learning to walk again, but if I need to go back for the same issue? I'd rather just let it be.

I don't know how that's going to go, what with the way my knees start to weaken as I make it past the Lennoxes drive and towards ours. White dots my vision, making it fuzzy as I near the house.

Alfonzo's surprised bark brings me back to the present, and I see the white ball of fur take off in a sprint before I can even make sense of it. His tiny legs carry him through the yard and to the porch, three shadows encasing him in darkness. He looks like a star fluttering around the night.

For a moment, I stare, a little perturbed, but then my eyes glaze over them; it's Dad, Will and Ron.

Tears prick my eyes before I know what to make sense of. I remember the jet, the way it had flown out of the picture.

I remember my own nightmare, the way the creature haunted me even last night as though it was a song I couldn't get out of my head. I think about the possibility of them fighting that—of it being a villain even if it's partially in my head and not really real.

I'm moving before I remember my legs shouldn't be able to carry me that way. Not with how weak my knees just were.

But I race over there, heart racing, legs burning with exertion. Dad doesn't have time to react before I throw my arms around his neck, gripping him so tightly like he might fade away if I let go off him. Like it's not real. Like he's not real.

The anger dissipates to relief, to the way he had carried me when I was eight and broke the strap on my sandal on a hot day. To the way he holds me back, like he forgot the feeling of it.

And maybe he has. I didn't—when he came back, I was so angry. I was pissed that he gave me nothing in return to my letters (and I still am), but now I realize that maybe there's. . . something out there that is bigger than what I understand. Bigger than what I really want to know.

Dad could be fighting that. I saw the jet leaving, felt the stain of red in my nightmares. I know it could be capable of deadly things if it's real. And I don't want him to live with me hating him if that's something he could be up against.

The anger persists, hidden underneath the love and relief of him being back, being here in Washington and away from the fires that the news said they were finally able to squelch in the middle of the night. It overshadows the rage, the indignation.

He's here, trembling underneath my hands—or maybe that's just me, a leaf blowing in the wind. I grip onto him like a child, like I was six-years-old and it was his first time returning after a lifetime of being away.

Dad's arms wrap around my waist with an, "Oh, god, Ellie!" It sounds more like a whoosh of air than anything, but the sound of it in my ears, like a band-aid on scraped knee, brings tears to my eyes.

He's home.

"You're home," I say, and it's so quiet the wind catches it in its grasp and flicks it away. I don't even assume he hears it until his arms tighten around me.

"Yeah, Eleanor," he says, softly, like he knows I need this more than I should. He smells like gunpowder and mint, like cedar and sweat. It drops me back to childhood, when he was walking through the door and I tripped Theo up horribly just to be the first one to hug him—to feel the reality that was taken away from me when he walked out of the door months before when I was six. "I'm home."

His hand goes through my hair, comfortingly so as if he were soothing himself, too, in that moment—something he had done when I was younger and he had more than enough on his plate. We'd watch old anime movies during downtime, popcorn and M&Ms laid out around us while Theo complained that he wanted to watch the Barbie movie specifically for that one little blue guy that's fuzzy.

It's different now. I'm older, Theo gone. Dad's home and, though I'm in his arms, there is nothing comforting about this scene. The crimson eyes haunt me, but I bite my tongue so hard to stop myself from asking what they saw. What happened. Why did they even go? If there was a chance that—

A chance that what? My imaginative creature could be there? Could have caused that fire?

There's no way it was there, no way that I saw a jet leave like it was hightailing it from a crime scene. I was just fatigued, tired from the night's before.

Had to be.

"But I guess it's expected since it was just a fire, Ellie," Dad says softly, laughing like it's a joke he forgot to mention earlier. "The jet ended up being an oil fire—bad but not life-threatening."

Metal crunching. Sliding over the road, slicker than black ice and just as dangerous. Theo, torn, shredded from the car—

"Yeah," I say, pulling back quickly, curling up like I had done something shameful. I attempt a scowl to make up for the fact that I had been crying. Turning my attention to Will seems like the best bet—before I tell Dad exactly why I think his mission could have been dangerous—so I wrap my arms around my uncle's waist with all the strength my tired, trembling body can muster. "Since it wasn't life-threatening, you can make dinner tonight."

Will laughs as he hugs me back, arms around my shoulders ever-so-gently. It feels like he can feel the unease in my spine, the way I lean into him more than I would before. Running over to embrace Dad must have taken more out of me than I had to spare.

"Oh, yes," Will says, snorting in my ear, pulling back to look at me but keeping me stable—an arm around my shoulder, his leg pushed up against my own, "I think it's only fair. I say it's whatever you want, too, El. Really stick it to him."

I flick my eyes to Dad, aware of the silent, looming presence that still hasn't said anything—not that I've given anyone but Dad a chance—and the way my heart flutters in. . . anticipation? Anger?

Something simmering, the same way it had when his eyes met mine for that one, brief moment days ago. Curled up as I was, pitiful as his stare had been, it still burned through me as if he had stripped me down to my roots and set them ablaze. I hadn't forgot them, they way his hands clenched as if holding all the words he wanted to say, but couldn't.

Wouldn't.

I ignore Ron's heated gaze now, the way I can hear him adjust his footing, porch creaking underneath his towering frame. Dad's gaping at Will as though he spat at him, and it's almost comical. A small breath escapes through my nostrils, and Will snorts, unbothered.

"Okay, so we're ganging up against a man in his own home?" Dad asks, raising a light brown brow as if he's been thrown over his own ship. "First Ron doesn't let me drive home and now there's flack because I make one comment."

"Your driving is abhorrent," Ron says, just as I open my mouth to respond with something just as mean.

I snap it closed when the baritone hits my ears, a drum's bass, reverberated through the air like an echo of finality. I'd heard it when he came in days ago, but that was when he was yelling. When sirens wailed in my ears and I looked pitiful on the ground—a dried up sponge that wouldn't stop crying—but now it's calmer. Blunt, yes, but deep like an ocean not an abyss.

I turn to Ron, Will making room for me to do so, staring at his general vicinity and not near his eyes, scared I might do something insane and snap at him for no other reason than pure overwhelming confusion.

Part of me wants to yell, to shout until I'm red in the face. I'm the one with the broken hand, yet he acted as though I slighted him. But then I remember that I didn't have to punch him, that the boiling fear flipped to rage like a switch and before I had known it, I punched him. Twice.

And now he's here, and somehow he looks worn and ageless simultaneously. His dark hair, usually tame with a few strands falling is now messy on his head, like he had been running his hands through it. I wonder what that's about—if it happened during the mission. . .

If so, why?

I chance a glance at Dad, who says, "My driving is beautiful, actually. I have a perfect record."

"You managed to get Ratchet's rig stuck in a ditch, Owen," Will says, and then he continues, but the words start filtering out, ears muffled as I turn my gaze back to Ron.

He's leaning against the railing now, arms crossed over his broad chest. His lightning-blue eyes are turned downwards, away from where Dad and Will are arguing over the merits of two-door cars versus four. Will's still letting me lean on him, but when I see Ron's face twist—the way he tenses as though he senses me watching but won't meet my stare—I decide it's time to go in before I actually open my mouth and dig my own grave.

"Dad, no one cares if your first car was a Bug," I say, standing to full height slowly, trying not to disturb the way my spine already burns from Will's subtle assistance. He makes it look seamless, too, turning his ankle behind my foot for stability while he lets his arm fall away. It helps me reach over and pat Dad on the chest as I walk towards the house—managing to keep my legs from giving out underneath me. "I'll send you the recipe for dinner. Try not to mess it up."

"You're going to email your own father a recipe?" Dad calls as I take a careful step towards the house. "Also, where the hell are you going? And why the hell aren't you in school right now?"

"Fumigation," I say, trying to deftly ignore the fact that he stopped me at the screen door, my back leaned up against it in what I hope is a natural way. "School's been overrun with roaches or something."

Dad narrows his eyes at me. I know he can see through the lie, but how he didn't notice me struggling to stand is beyond me. And apparently, this is the man that's highly praised by Epps.

I beg to differ.

"Okay, so we're having lies and slander for dinner tonight," Dad says, nodding and taking a step towards me. His eyes are no longer light with mirth; he looks genuinely concerned, which is one hundred times worse. "El, what's happened?" There's a pause where he winces, as if he doesn't want to ask this next question but has to. "Is it your legs?"

I flinch, surprise evident in my glare when I grab the screen door's handle.

"You don't—how did you. . ." Reality washes over me when I realize that Mom must have told him, must have spilled everything about me since the FoodMart incident.

For some reason, it sends ice through me. My own journey, retold like a story and meanwhile, I'm begging them to give a scrap of whatever the hell they're keeping. To just give me a semblance of normality since it feels like I've had more questions since Dad returned, not relief.

Hell, Will's been the only one forthcoming with information—and it's not even his responsibility!

I don't say anything to Dad. Let the words echo out and into the midday air like the wind had snagged them from my throat mid-sentence. He's still walking towards me, but I take a hasty step to the side, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from cursing in pain.

Foolish. I'm foolish, and I just want to leave this situation, but I don't know if my legs are going to let that happen. They're trembling now, and it makes my eyes prick for different reasons. For the way my brain recalls them trembling in the hospital bed with no feeling accompanying it. The way I couldn't feel anything past my waist—not a pinch, a slap or a punch.

Is that what's happening now? Is my spine eroding? Being picked at by lack of exercise, by the way my spine burns as I give incredulous eyes to Dad.

"I have a lot of homework." I commend myself for keeping my voice steady, for not letting the emotions coursing through me like an acid river of doubt, but Dad doesn't seem too pleased with my lack of. . . relief that he knows what's wrong with me. "If you want to know more about what's wrong with me, you'll do well to ask Mom. Again."

Dad flinches like I slapped him with a giant slab of metal, his hands curling at his sides like he knows—he knows it was wrong. Like he should have asked me, should have reached that branch out instead of cutting it off the tree completely.

"I didn't—Eleanor—"

"I told him about your legs," Ron says, voice cutting through Dad's squeak like a meteor through the sky. It crashes in between my ribs with nauseous surprise as I turn, meeting Ron's eyes for what felt like the first time. His own electric-blue eyes are faintly. . .glowing, almost. He looks at me without trepidation—like he doesn't care what reaction he's about to get. "Call it deductive reasoning. You walk as though you're a spar—a foal. One of those children horses."

Children horses?

My hands tremble as I stare at him. Surprise wars with rage, and they clash in a fiery battle as the wind ruffles my hair softly. Yet nothing about this moment feels soft—standing here, eyes locked on Ron like a heat-guided missile. Biting my cheek so hard the blood seeps onto my teeth and tongue like a bad drink, I don't speak for a moment. I can't. What would I say?

How did he know? That's where I want to start. I've never spoken to him about my physical pain, about the way my legs burn like two stakes being burned by the sun—yet his eyes remain true, his large arms crossed over his chest even as he keeps adjusting his posture, almost uncomfortable.

"I don't even know how that's something you would know to tell him," I say, my voice carefully blank, even as my head starts throbbing the longer I stare at him. His gaze remains unmoving, broad shoulders catching the light and blocking out a sliver of it as he stands taller. "When I never told you about it, deductive bullshit aside."

All I told Ron about was my plagued dreams, the way they curled through my brain like tendrils of smoke and shadows pulling me into the darkness. But that had been just a nightmare, speculations of a night I couldn't even recall. For him to stand there, eyebrows drawn together—thick and black and exasperated—and act like he knows when none of them were there?

"Deductive bullshit?" he asks, voice reverberating like an aftermath of an earthquake. No longer does he awkwardly fidget in his body that he doesn't even look comfortable in; Ron takes a pounding step forwards, the entire porch lurching with the force of it. His mouth's set to a frown, voice a whisper of a snarl as he ignores Dad's and Will's hurried pleas to not say anything and says, "Was it deductive bullshit that Ratchet also found discrepancies when he was over here? Taking care of your. . . issue."

Faintly, his eyes flit towards the olive-green cast, but I tuck it behind my back, swallowing thickly, metallic and bitter. Anger rises, and I focus on that instead of the debilitating shame that overcomes me every time I glance at my hand, but I can't let the rage overpower me—no matter how much my hands shake or how my legs are barely holding on from collapsing altogether.

"Issue?" I question, pushing my hip into the door before using it to launch myself into a vicious step closer. My eyes are burning—not with tears, but with a refusal for him to deny what's right in front of him. "You mean my broken hand?"

Ron doesn't answer for a moment. I roll my eyes. Always the one to keep his mouth shut. Shouldn't he more confrontational? What happened to the Ron that yelled at Dad and Will the other day? Something about. . . hurrying their afts?

Whatever a plane's back end had to do with anything.

"Yes, that," he says shortly, nodding at it a moment later. His voice's is stilted now, rough like gravel, expression pained like he would rather be anywhere else but here. "Ratchet said that you also had damage in your spinal cord—a fact that your father wasn't clued in on. I simply amended the situation."

"Mhm. And did you think that maybe it wasn't his business?" I say, clenching my hands so hard, my nails indent the skin, crimson moons scattered about. Another step and we're standing closer than we had been in weeks. "Just like. . . I don't know—it wasn't yours."

"Hm." Ron grunts, the sound like a bass drum in my chest. He stares down at me from his nose, blue eyes shining with a dangerous conflict—one that makes me assume he's wondering if he's going to shut me up the easy way (in his eyes) or the hard one. "And that means I can't share information I found with people I deem worthy? Whether that be yours or not? It was simply an observation, Eleanor. It's not my fault you are so lost in grief that you refuse to allow others to share that weight with you."

Dad winces out of the corner of my eye, calling out a sturdy, "Ron."

But the words have been said, and Ron never says anything he doesn't mean. His eyes tell me just as much, the way they cut through me like steel—as if I were nothing but rubber. His arms, larger than ever and cutting through his shirt as if even the biggest size was too small for his brutish frame. Dad tries to take a step forward, to deescalate a situation that has my blood boiling, my heart racing as if I just ran a marathon with rocks for shoes.

What does he know about my grief? About the way I hold things? Me not telling Dad about my issues is my own concern. I was eighteen, an adult in the every sense except I was in school. Held back because of the accident and just as contrite because of it. Ron can fuck off; he wasn't there.

I take back about what I said—about what I could have told him had this ended up going a different way. Had he not scorned me in front of my family like I was nothing but a bug under a microscope for him to give statistics of.

"Heh," I say, my voice completely blank as the whistle returns, as the noise from the day I punched Ron trickles back like poison in my veins. Head tilted ever so slightly, I gaze up at him, relishing in the way surprise—apprehension, even—flickers over his face before stoicism makes it impassive once more. And the thoughts that accompany that, that fill me with something ugly and poisonous echoes of a night where we both disclosed something. I can't stop my mouth before I continue. "And what? Big soldier can't save everyone, so he has to project his own grief onto someone else? What? Not saving Jazz still cutting deep?"

Metal crunches in my thoughts, my face curling up with satisfaction when he flinches, imperceptible as it is. Dad doesn't catch it, but he does yell at me—as if my words were the ones to strike the biggest chord.

But Ron ignores him. Ignores everything, keeping his focused, irate gaze on me like I'm vermin under his boot. His tan skin's tight with tension, veins creeping along the arms and into his clenched fists like sinewy snakes. One wrong move, and I might end up as a breaking news report.

"Hm, you think me to be weak when grief's all a soldier knows, Eleanor," he says, his voice gravel over heat, smoldering and burning as it rushed through my ears—as he steps closer, turning his nose down at me, his next words pressing out of him like blades. "I'm not the one foolishly breaking my hand because of it, now am I?"

He raises a brow, but all I hear is static. Metal on bones, crushing—aching. And I want him to hurt, the same way those words pierced through me.

But what can I say? There's nothing left in my ammunition because Ron's right. Not only about sharing the burden of my grief, but about the fact that I did shatter my hand. . . punching him in the face. All because I couldn't stand the thought of the leather seats kissing my skin for one second more.

Those crimson eyes—a gruesome image that circles back around like stormy weather—flash through my mind like a billboard on the road. They flash, a star illuminating before it explodes and takes everything with it.

And with it, they bring a sense of—of disappointment that Ron has me beat. That I did injure myself in my pursuit to run from my grief. Yet he has seen death, perhaps more than I could count on one hand and I. . .

I said that. That he couldn't save his comrade's life and because of it, he had to meddle in affairs that weren't his to speak of.

I spat in his face, and he took it with an almost-imperceptible flinch.

Hm, yes you did, I think, and the voice belongs to me, but it's. . . it's off. Warped. Feels like I'm not the only one saying it. Like it's been wrapped in metal and smelted down.

But my legs bring me away from it, trembling harder than a leaf taken from a tree. I don't know if the tears pricking my eyes are from Ron's words, Dad's anger—his incessant need to push an arm on Ron's chest to get him to back up—or my own ire rising. The kind of ire that forces me to bite my tongue against a slew of vicious words that really feels. . . like it doesn't belong to me.

It tastes alien, like sparks and static and something almost. . . alive. Something pulsing and angry and so overwhelming that part of me wants to stay—to see if I can keep the frown permanently on Ron's face.

I take a step back, then another. That isn't—wasn't me. Shaking my head, I press them away, will the daunting thoughts away as acid creeps up my throat like bile.

"Ron, stand down," Dad's saying, voice stern, angry the same way a cat's defensive of their young. Not initially threatening, but Ron's own raised eyebrow, seen through blurry eyes as I try to escape the way my blood feels like it's on fire, tells its own story. "That wasn't for you to say. Now, I get that you're the one who wanted to make amends but I don't see how—"

I slam the door on the way in, holding onto the hooks on the wall to keep myself upright. Dad's voice carries in, my name a call of worry.

"Fine," I grit out. I don't want him to come in here, don't want any of them in here if it meant that they would see this struggle, the way that my legs are burning up my spine and to my head. "Just going to get started on some. . . work."

My voice wavers on it. Work's the last thing on my mind, homework or otherwise. I want to get into bed, to put my legs somewhere they don't have to strain. Mom was right—I should have stayed in bed, but there was an ache deep in me. I had missed Theo more than I ever had today, had wanted his laughter to fill the living room when I tried to watch an old anime we used to be obsessed with when we were younger.

Wanted him to throw his feet on the table, the one that still has a scuff from his cowboy boots when he dressed up as Woody for Halloween and I was Wheezy—both from Toy Story, a movie the had felt timeless then but like a memory shrouded in gasoline and smoke, burnt to ash before my very eyes. Young as we had been then, it feels like it happened centuries ago rather than a couple years.

"Eleanor," Dad calls, "Ron didn't mean what he said."

"Yes, he did," I say, smiling bitterly in the house where no can see me when Ron replies—simultaneously, "I most certainly did."

"See?" I continue, calling out the door in hopes Dad's newfound concern doesn't extend to opening up doors and checking on me. They can probably see me through the screen door, hand braced against the wooden wall, splinters cracking my fingers, each of them pulsing with a steady thrum of ache. "Now that that's out of the way—can I go do my homework?"

"Only if you let me help."

Against my insistent wishes to whoever wanted to listen to my pleas, the screen door cracks open. Dad walks in first, followed by Will's shadow. I'm standing, white dots blacking out my vision from pain, but even I can make out the way Ron swallows the doorway, the way it seems to shrink underneath his stern gait, sure and steady as he glances around the house—eyes flitting to the staircase, brows furrowed as if remembering a nasty dream.

I stand there, ignoring Dad's pleas. "Not happening. I've gotten through this far on my own. I doubt using brute strength's going to get you far. But thanks for trying!"

Dad levels me with a look, displeased with my sarcastic reply. Pinching the bridge of his nose, I'm expecting him to tell me—in the most Displeased Dad Voice he can manage—that I need to let him help me for my sake. So I don't get worse.

But it's Ron who says, "Brute strength would get you up the stairs, wouldn't it, punk?"

When I turn to stare where his voice rumbled through the air like thunder rolling over hills, he's raising an eyebrow at me—daring me to deny it. To prove that I can walk on my own or accept it with my mouth shut. A glare flits over my own face, my legs burning in a way that suggests the next walk will be a weak, children-horse like shuffle to my room. I'm not even sure if they'll support me, since it feels like the nerves have been fried, like someone stuck a lightning rod in my spine and placed me in the heart of a storm.

The house's dark with the promise of earlier nights. Mom should be off soon, and if there's one thing Ron is correct about, it would be the fact that I do need to get upstairs. Preferably before she gets home and chews me out for not resting the way I should be. I don't need to see her face turn that plum shade of purple again.

I lean heavily on the wall as I reply, "Ever heard of patience, big guy? Or is that not something they teach you in training?"

Ron's grunt is felt more than heard, almost mechanical in the way it vibrates through me. Like a frequency, not a sound. I turn, glancing back at him through my hair. His eyes, branding and as light as a crystalline pool under the moon, sear into my own, daring me to look away.

I don't. Pushing my hair out of my face, I turn to stare at him, left hand on the all, right one curled in front of me, pulsing and throbbing like a bruise waiting to be pressed. Anger throbs, but I press the voice from earlier away, the one that purrs at his discomfort—that revels in the shame that flashes through those striking blue irises.

Pushing it down—that's not me, that's not me—I clench the bannister so hard my hands tremble as I take a step forwards. I won't think about it, won't mull it over in my head like a song that's never been finished.

"Let me help, Ellie. I know you're—"

Dad reaches for me. Fast. Too fast. I curl away from his arm instictively, the movements sharp, jarring. Pain, so bright it feels like I've been bathed in a thousand dying starts—a blooming of agony that spreads like their fading light. It engulfs my body, has my legs stuttering underneath me as that cool, creeping metal fades into my mind like an unfamiliar call.

It shrieks as my knees buckle, as my hand falls from the bannister, only my fractured one to catch my fall. The sun catches in my eye, bright as my pain and just as uninvited, and I groan when I make impact.

Tears prick my closed eyes, back searing with the kind of pain that feels timeless. Endless. Like when I was rolling and rolling and the truck wouldn't stop—it wouldn't, and that metal kept shrieking.

Shrieking and shrieking and. . . striking.

Not here though, I think, because someone jostles me. Their arms are rough and angry as though they're angry they had to do this. I realize, gasping as the pain brings me back to the present, that there was no impact. Not with the floor.

My tearful eyes blink open, heart racing in my chest. I had thought. . . thought maybe Dad, since he was the one who shouted, or Will, who's always ready for a disaster to strike in the Cambridge home, would have attempted to have helped my weak and ailing legs from giving out from under me, but it was my father I flinched from. Maybe he didn't need another reminder.

But the scent isn't Will, either—it's gunpowder and smoke. A storm of steel at the crest of midnight. Strong arms are attached to it, and it takes me two seconds to realize that Ron. . . Ron had caught me before I fell.

One of his massive hands is wrapped around my wrist, pulling me up and into his chest while his right arm burns against my waist, present, clutching tightly as if he had just gotten there in the nick of time. And if pain hadn't rendered me speechless then, his face—stony as a mountain, the only reprise the streaks of blue like a river's unreadable concern in his eyes—chokes the words in my tight, aching throat.

Ron's own throat bobs, his hands stern but gentler than I could have anticipated when he lifts me upright, towards him. Sun drips into my eyes, and before I can bring my casted hand up to cover it, Ron adjusts our positions until he blocks the window to my left field of view, his hands never once losing contact.

Warm, bruising pressure. Pressure that I can feel through the fabric of my shirt, like his skin was a burning motor on hot day and I was the one foolish enough to fall into the grasp of it.

Unlike a motor, Ron doesn't vibrate angrily. No loud noises, just a gentle lift into a standing position that I know I wouldn't be able to maintain had his arms not remained steady around me. Dad comes to the right of my, his bright green eyes shining with years of guilt not yet said.

His voice is soft as a pillow when he says, "El, why didn't you tell anyone it was this bad?"

For a moment, all I can do is stare, mull the question over in my head. What should I say? Should I tell him I pushed it down, tried to throw it away—only for it to be recycled with twice the urgency.

Should I tell him that I didn't think it mattered, that a part of me didn't care if I had lived or died at one point? That the pain had chewed away at me until agony became bearable and anything more was need for intervention. I just thought, then, that when I got there, I wouldn't care so much about it.

But I do.

For some reason, I care now. I don't know if it's because Theo would have, had I been the one that disappeared, with only a casket to remember me by—or if it's because there's a part of me that needs to know. . . needs to understand what the screeching metal means.

What the voice. . . the eerie, angry voice had whispered in my head for.

But the reason I didn't tell anyone really is rooted in one thing only and that's the ambulance ride to the hospital. After the last experience—when they had to sedate me because I couldn't stop seeing the thundering sky or tasting the metallic copper of my own blood in my mouth—I didn't want to give Mom a reason to force me to relive that.

He wouldn't understand.

And it doesn't matter anyway. I try to move, to get my weak legs to hold me without the stinging burn of Ron's arms around me, but I can't even twitch before his hands squeeze me, his left hand encasing my wrist like a giant lead.

There's a lot I want to say when I glance at him, but the words die on my tongue like a star that's never burned into existence. I turn to Dad, pondering again on how to answer without the vicious anger that follows me boiling up. It bubbles beneath the surface, even now, an unjustified voice that says, it was you, Dad. I didn't say anything because you wouldn't have cared.

But he would have cared too much, I know.

"I don't know," I mumble, voice hoarse like I ran three marathons without a water break. "Can I—Can I just go to bed now? I didn't. . . I didn't even know it was as bad as I had first believed, anyway, so it's not like—"

"But you walk everywhere, Eleanor," Dad says, and his voice isn't so much of a snap as it is stern.

Ron's arms tighten almost imperceptibly, but my heart races when he pulls me up by the waist, keeping a foot anchored underneath my own to give me a semblance of control. I want to say my gratitude but words exchanged earlier prevent me from opening my mouth. Even though he managed to wrap his right arm around my waist without flinching, pulling me up without lighting the already searing nerves in my back up. His left hand still held my wrist, oddly enough.

I wonder if that's because that meant I'd have to grab him for support should he let the hand fall, but I'm so gracious for the moment of relief that I only tell Dad, "And I'll keep walking everywhere."

"No the hell you will not." Dad takes a deliberate step forward. His eyebrows, brown and drawn like two angry caterpillars on his head, furrow down in frustration. "You can go to bed, but don't think that you're not going to the hospital when your mother gets home."

"I'm not going anywhere." My voice comes out strained, teeth clenched. Dad's green matches my own, but his glare has never and will never scare me. He doesn't know what it had been like—the haunting screams. The squelching of... his body. The way bone cracked like logs in a fire. I had stared at death's eyes that day, crimson and pooling like blood on metal. No other ire will compare to me now. "I'd rather—"

"You're going," he says, low. An instruction. A command. His eyes are stone emerald now, resolute in his concern, even if it means he has to be the bad guy. "You're not going to sit here in misery when there are amazing hospitals that could have treated this, Eleanor!" I flinch from his tone, at the accusations rattling through my head like shrapnel. It feels like he's saying the fault's my own and not a product of what I've been through. "I have half a mind to put you in the truck and make you go! I mean—where did you think—?! What did. . . Did you even think? About what this means for you? About how it could. . . I don't know, hurt you more in the long run? Did you even. . ."

It's concern, I tell myself, even as my heart starts to race, his words filtering out of my ears like he was speaking underwater and not directly to me.

It's concern, I think, even though I don't like the way my dad is staring at me—like my issues are the problem. Like his solution should have been the first one.

And I know—god, do I know—that he doesn't know what happened here when he was on leave, but for him to stare at me with a solution that threatens to saw me open from the inside-out. . . it's like I don't even know the man who returned all those months ago.

Everything at me screams to leave, that his desperation to save what ails his daughter isn't more important than said daughter's needs. Or wants. But I can't move, my limbs ensnared in Ron's giant, burning frame. The longer I stand by him, the hotter he grows, and it doesn't even. . .

I turn to glance up at him, taking my eyes away from Dad's ire for a moment to look at the man who had stopped me from falling despite the ill words I spoke earlier. He's staring at my dad, not even paying attention to the fact that his grip has tightened enough to be considered constricting. It should hurt, should bring the fire in my back to a peak of agony. . .but the flare never comes and Ron's constriction becomes a steady control to fall back on.

Not pain, but something else. Soothing, almost. . . like the heat of him—hot to the touch like a kettle on the eye, simmering instead of boiling—was meant to protect me from the shards of my father's words, concerned or otherwise.

"Colonel," Ron starts, and that surprises me, his voice dark and stern as he regards my father. "Eleanor stated before that she has no will to get into a vehicle. Your incessant meddling in things you don't understand's only going to estrange you further if you don't stop, Owen."

"I don't need you—" Dad starts, but Ron takes a step forward, his hand falling from my wrist to point at my father.

A direct, firm poke in his chest. One my dad flinches at.

"You clearly need someone to remind you how to see grief and what it needs." Ron grunts, and my stomach flutters like butterflies were trying to escape through my throat, thorns on their wings. Clearly, he's taking up for me, but I can't. . . why would he do something like that is beyond me. Especially when I spoke to him so callously outside. "Ratchet has been contacted. He can observe Eleanor, to see if there's any need to take her somewhere—especially when he has all the equipment to fix her ailments, Colonel."

"Ratchet shouldn't have to come up," Dad says, exasperated, eyes filled with frustrated tears. I can see it from his side, can feel the way frustration guides him along, concern the warring emotion mixing in with it. "She needs help now. Ratchet will take too long."

"His ETA is ten minutes," Ron says flatly, his right arm skimming upwards—in a way that both soothes and terrifies me, my shirt riding up for one slight moment, the pad of his finger tracing bare skin before he smooths the shirt down, more a reflex than anything else—and clenching my waist with enough pressure to let me know he was about to move. When I glanced up, he was already staring at me, wry twist to his grunting lips. "I shall be the one taking Eleanor upstairs, since you shellheads—"

"I have done nothing wrong," Will points out, raising a finger in protest so quickly that I turn my tired eyes to him, trying to ignore the way Ron's eyes had seemed like liquid in the light moments ago. "I'm all for Ratchet coming, by the way." Will glances at me, where my face is stricken with tears, my breathing coming out in deep pants, slow but debilitating as I tremble in Ron's sturdy hold. He smiles gently before turning to my dad. He slaps the blonde man on the back of the head, who once again, looks like a fish out of water—heartbreak on his face from a glance I take at him. "You—go do something else. You're only stressing her out more than she needs to be. You think putting her in the thing that killed your son" —Dad flinches and it makes something in me ache, the way Will had to say it like that for him to understand the gravity of the situation— "is going to help her heal? What if she gets in there, panics, and it causes more harm than good? Especially since we don't have any idea what is wrong with her legs."

Dad hadn't thought of that. I can tell by the way his face falls—how he had only been thinking: solution equals good. It didn't matter if for me, it meant total destruction. Even the sound of tires on the pavement can cause me to jump on a good day. Can turn what had once been a day of peace and serenity into a living nightmare of the bridge.

It should bother me more, but I'm tired. So, so tired after everything. After hugging Dad for the first time since I was younger. Tired from getting a rise out of Ron when there was—there was so much more I needed to say. Want to say, still.

And yet, it is him who continues, "You should be fine with this, Owen, since you're the one who called Ratchet for her hand."

"She needs more than—" Dad glances at me, stubbled jaw clenched as he turns to stare down Ron. I turn my head up to see that the towering man, one ankle crossed behind my own as his stance straightens even more.

If that's even possible. He seems to swallow the room with his shoulders alone, the thick muscle barely straining, even after holding me up for so long. I still don't know why he did it, don't know why he didn't let me fall after I had said despicable things about his late friend Jazz.

But anger, while it's painted on his face like an expression he knows well, is directed at my dad. Not me.

"Ratchet will give her even better care than the best hospitals you have," Ron snarls, raising an eyebrow. "Or do you think him only a good doctor when he's caring for his own?"

Dad flinches, eyes widening, but even I don't understand the implication behind what Ron was saying. His own? Did Ron mean the soldiers that Ratchet must have mainly worked on?

But Dad shakes his head, pursing his lips like he's bitten a lemon. "I never meant to make it seem like. . . Of course, Ratchet's fine." He rubs a hand through his dark blond hair, scrubbing his eyes with his fingers in a manner that ages him. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise, Ir—Ron. I'm sorry."

"Hm." Ron sends him a final glare, Dad's apologies seemingly not enough. Not yet. Wrapping his left hand around my wrist, I'm surprised when he winds my own arm around his waist, pulling my fingers until I had to grab purchase on the worn cotton of his shirt. "You can apologize to Ratchet. For now, I'm taking Eleanor to bed. Seems you should also discuss some things with your wife, Owen."

"Oh, like you have any room to talk about—"

"He's right, Dad."

My voice is barely a whisper, but it slams through theirs like a whip being snapped. Dad's agonized expression haunts me, but he's the only one that's yet to really talk about the accident. To accept that it's happened. I refused to say my brother's name aloud for over a year—still do on some occasions where it feels like salt in a dry mouth—but I could tell you the reason why I couldn't. Because it was screamed raw from my throat when I blindly searched for him.

Foggy as the memories are, I carry them. I have them, and I've lived it.

"You don't look at me for long anymore," I say, a sad, worn thing that feels like the edges of the book being burned. Even now, his gaze flits. To my eyes then away. Back again. Repeat. "You remember when I was fired because a man looked at it and I snapped? Well, you don't look at me for even two seconds. Like you c-can't—"

I cut off, refusing to cry while Ron's got me wrapped in an embrace I never asked for but never denied either. I feel his hand curl tighter, his hip jutting ever so slightly to the left where my trembling hand is scrambling for purchase.

It should piss me off—should bring the hazy blur of red back to know that a man who looks at me like he can't tell whether I'm an equation he wants to solve or a problem he wants to eliminate. But in his own way, it's an apology. His own olive branch. And that thought fills me with enough warmth that it shrouds out the icy chill that had been there since my fist connected with his face all those weeks ago.

"It's not—Ellie, of course, I can look at you, it's not—" Dad cuts off, voice sharp, cutting off on the syllables as if he has no right to say them. Not when he can't even look me in the eyes when he says them.

"Is it the scar?" I ask quietly, voice wavering on the question like a glass on the edge of shattering. "Or the fact that the scar means your son's not coming home?"

He flinches, the reminder one he obviously didn't want. My own stomach sinks, the knowledge that I'm not only a survivor but a reminder of the only son he had—gone. The sun cuts the lines on his face, setting into the horizon but lining him in age as it does so. He tries to take a step towards me, but there's a rumble coming from up the drive, and he stops at the last second.

It's loud, rattling the house almost.

Not like Ron's very own Ironhide—a truck in its own league due to the amount of times it could be compared to an earthquake—but like an urgency only emergency vehicles can carry when they need to hurry somewhere.

It doesn't surprise me when Ratchet walks in, his dark brown hair neatly askew as he takes me in, eyes flitting over where I am entangled in Ron, both us twisted together in a show that is most definitely not an indication of how our last interactions have gone. Ron does nothing but raise an unimpressed brow, grunting under his breath.

"Ratchet," he says shortly. "Took your aft long enough."

"You underestimate traffic midday, Ron," Ratchet says, coming over with a thin grin directed at me. "Hello, again, Eleanor. I didn't think I'd meet you again until it was time for your cast to come off."

I shrug, helpless on what to say, feeling small under all these men's gazes. On a normal day I'd be pleased to see Ratchet, but under the circumstances we're in now, it feels muted against the agony and confusion bubbling within me. "What can I say? I'm a magnet for disaster."

The laugh comes out dry and forced, but it's not the time for joking, anyway. Dad's staring at me—not for long, never for too long, always flitting, flitting, flitting—and Will says his own goodbyes moments later when he hears Sarah's car start pulling up the shared drive. He kisses me on the forehead with a, "Feel better soon, El. Owen, we're talking later."

He doesn't grace my dad with any sort of acknowledgement except those words, which means Uncle Will is really angry at him despite his easy demeanor as he walks over to his house. I can hear him yell for Annabelle, cooing her name, all the while Dad sighs in the house, turning his face away in shame.

"Eleanor," he starts, word heavy on his tongue. I wonder what he's thinking. He's only ever called me 'Ellie,' even when he returned from the war the most recent time. Today, he's called me by my full name more than once. I wonder if it's because I no longer look or act like the little girl who once fit in his arms easily but now refuses to have them wrapped around her. "I hadn't ever meant to make you feel like. . ." He looks at me, head on, and it makes me flinch when he flinches away from the scar running jagged down my face. "Like your scar—or that you. . . Eleanor, you're not the reason I have been a right ass these past few weeks, and I'm sorry I made you feel like it."

But even still, his eyes flit away—as if he couldn't hold onto it for long. That semblance of sincerity in his actions.

Ron doesn't relent his grip, not even for a moment. And that's why my next words, whispered and battered like a bruised fruit being pressed, are directed towards him.

"Ron. . ." I don't look at him, terrified I might do something foolish like cry in front of someone who's giving me strength in a time of dire stress. I don't want to do anything to hurt that, but I also don't need him seeing my weaknesses for what they are—a girl scorned by her father she had once called her hero.

"Yes, Eleanor?" Ron asks, and I can hear the surprise in it, the way he looks at me—can tell there's a shameless curiosity in my lack of malice when calling his name.

One that had been vitriol, a spit of disrespect—called out like a soft cry.

The next words come out like cement, thick and dry in my mouth. "Is there anyway. . ." I close my eyes, swallowing both my pride and my shame. I need upstairs and there's no way I'm asking Dad for help after the way he had looked at me. "gDo you— can you help me get upstairs? Please?"

Gone is all the malice from earlier, the vitriol I spit at him because I didn't know where else to put my words. Bone-deep exhaustion burrows in me like debris of a meteor crashing through my thickest membranes. Maybe I'll think about it later, but my body is pulsing now, angry with pain, and there's a heaviness in my chest at the fact that I'd rather Ron assist me upstairs than my own flesh and blood.

From the torn look on Dad's face, you'd think I'd said I'd never wanted to be around him again. But it's not that. It's the expression on his face that shows he won't look at me. I'm not the same daughter he left behind two years ago, and he's not the same man who would warm up his mother's famous stew for me when I was sick, nose clogged like a sink and just as runny because of it.

Ron tells me, "I can. I'm just not sure how easiest it would be. Primus knows you'd fight like a. . ." His eyes flit upwards and over before he continues, ". . . a bull. It's safe to say I would be putting myself in danger. Again, one might assume."

But his hand's grip is like a vice, secure not suffocating. And, when I chance a glance at him, Ron's eyes aren't firm in the statement, so I try to take it as the tease I hoped he'd meant—a tease that helps me take a shaky step forwards, crouching in tandem with him as he uses his left arm to hoist my legs and over it.

The sun highlights him as he gets me comfortable, and I try to stop the way my heart seems to pound at the contact, at the way he raises a brow at me, making sure that it's okay despite the fact that he hadn't jostled anything when he picked me up.

"Alright?" His eyes were liquid sapphire flames, and they still burned through me, sent a sharp ache down my head. But. . . but they also never stray from my face, never waver over the scar reaching my neck.

"Yeah," I say, aware it's worn, hoarse. As though I had been screaming for days on end. "Yeah, I'm good."

Ron blew a breath from his nose, midnight strands of hair falling into his brows as he shakes his head. "Then, lead the way, Ratchet."

My own arm is around his broad shoulders, barely touching the expanse of them and landing somewhere between the sculpted blades between then. My casted one rests in my lap, conscious of the little space between it and the warmth Ron seems to exude continuously. Ratchet moves past Dad, who's running a hand through his hair, clenching his phone in his hand like it's his last anchor on the situation.

"Don't feel bad, Dad," I say, trying to the crack out of my voice, even though that angry, vicious echo from before returns, haunting my next words with it's own cold sneer. "You could have known all that. Had you read the letters."

Sometimes, I wonder if he threw them away. By the way his entire body flinches away from it, I suspect he'd done just that. Hah. I don't know why it doesn't bother me so much as hurts me.

Ratchet's footsteps creak up the stairs. I can hear him muttering through pounding ears, though I can't make the words out. He makes it to the top in an impressive speed, throwing a hand out before slamming—yes, slamming, and thoroughly waking Alfonzo up—my bedroom door open with a curse.

Ron and I are about to follow the doctor, but Dad's voice rings out.

"Ellie, I. . . I have every letter you sent me, honey."

Ron doesn't so much as move me an inch, even as he pauses at the bottom of the stairs, a knee braced against my hip. With shock, I see he's going to go up three stairs at a time. With a person in his arms.

The shock of it—and logistics, if I'm being quite honest with myself—makes Dad's words register later, when the silence has become an anvil. I don't look at him, don't tell him how my eyes are burning with tears I won't let fall for him. My arm clutches Ron's shirt, and I don't know if it's for purchase or for something I can't name.

Something I can't ask for.

Not from Ron.

Without looking at him, I whisper, "I'd prefer, Eleanor, if you don't mind."

So small it might have been a wisp of wind, mistaken for words spoken. But Dad looks at me like I've taken the floor right from under him when I look over Ron's shoulder at him. His green eyes are crystalline with a break that I'm not sure I created indirectly or he shattered directly. I can't feel bad, not even when my stomach churns, not even when Ron turns, straightening his back.

"Got it," Dad says shortly, and his voice isn't clipped so much as empty. "Get better, Eleanor. I'll check in on you later."

He turns and starts walking away, towards his room. No other words uttered.

I watch him for a moment, feeling suspended in a disbelief that he would walk away. That he wouldn't look me in the eyes for more than four seconds before it became too much—before I became too much. It twists my gut, a puzzle I don't know if I'll ever work out.

"If you do buck in my arms, do I have permission to throw you to a different galaxy?"

It takes a moment for me to realize Ron's addressing me, and when I snort, glancing up at him, his eyes are already on me, searching yet guarded. Not hard like they normally are, yet not soft. Something like clay being chipped away at.

Maybe it's because it distracts me from the fact that my parents' door slammed shut, a final nail in a coffin that's been sealed since Theo's empty casket was lain to rest. Maybe it's because I'm tired, because Ron's seen me curled in the floor on these very stairs, hearing things that couldn't really be there, but it makes me laugh—a tired, worn thing, drawn from me like the last sparks of a dying star.

"I'd say only if you'd catch me, but we all know you never would," I say quietly, nudging his shoulder with my own in a moment of exhausted weakness. Any other day, I would never humor Ron like this, especially not with what happened outside not too long ago.

"You never know." Ron takes that first step, his hands careful not to irritate my back, which has remained mostly silent of pain throughout his entire hold. On the second step, he turns down to look at me again, those iridescent blues almost making me flinch if it weren't for the wary. . . almost openness he regards me with. A curiosity, maybe? "Could surprise you yet. . . Maybe in the same way you continue to do me."

And then he's up the third step and into the room before I can even process the words he spoke. I can hear Alfonzo barking on the bed, refusing to move for Ratchet despite the doctor's very specific orders, but it's all lost to the slight tilt of Ron's head, the way he glances down at me once, not smiling yet. . . his face was softer.

"Hm." I don't know if my mouth can form words—can describe the complexity of emotions warring within me. Confusion, hurt, and one I don't want to mention—to even think about: hope And it's because I can't say any of that, because I can't tell him it both is too much and not enough in the same breath, I say, "I'm sorry, Ron. Really, I am."

For so many things, but mainly for how I acted. And how he still treated me with such kindness even when I had done that. He didn't have to catch me with reflexes that were even quicker than Dad's and Will's, but it was his arms that had pulled me up without bothering my already traumatized back. It was him who carried me up the stairs.

So sorry is all I had.

And it seems like he knows that. The last thing he says, something that could be a smile in his voice, before he places me on the ground is, "Didn't have to throw you to the galaxy. Guess we can both call it a win this time."