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Link to Chapter 1

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A comfortable warmth surrounded Clark as he drifted in and out of sleep, unable to keep his eyes open for very long. Each time he woke, it seemed he was in a new place. First, he’d woken again in the room in that dark house where the doctor had examined him. The next time he’d woken up, he’d been jostling around in the backseat of a pickup truck. And then, finally, he’d woken up in yet another house—this one with a roaring fire in the fireplace and lighter paint on the walls.

But regardless of where he was when he woke, the warmth surrounding him didn’t change. And the gentleness of the woman’s embrace didn’t change.

He didn’t know where he was, and he couldn’t seem to remember much about the whole last day. All he really knew was that his head hurt. A lot. And that for some reason, this woman—whom the doctor had called Martha—had been holding him for…a while now.

As he pulled himself out of sleep again, blinking his eyes open slowly to let them adjust to the dim light of the room, he felt a hand caress his forehead. He looked up at her, letting his eyes meet hers for just half a second before he closed them again.

Her voice came then, quiet and soothing. “Shh, sweetie. You’re safe here.” Another soft touch on his forehead was accompanied this time by her arm tightening around him. “Are you hungry, sweetie?”

Hungry? She was…asking him if he was hungry?

Clark scrunched his eyes shut tighter as the pain in his head throbbed, and he felt himself start to tremble.

He…couldn’t…

No. He shook his head. No, he wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t…allowed to say when he was hungry. That…wasn’t a question anyone had ever asked him or a complaint he was allowed to have. He got to eat when they decided to feed him—Ma and Pa, that is. He wasn’t allowed to complain about being hungry.

But even as he shook his head again, his stomach growled, and that hollow emptiness that he was so used to living with seemed to ache, making him curl up against the woman.

She caressed his forehead again, although her soft touch seemed almost uncertain to him this time.

“Jonathan is making spaghetti,” she said. “He should be almost finished, I think. Do you like spaghetti, sweetie?”

The question surprised Clark, just like the last one had. But he nodded. He did like spaghetti. At least, he thought he did. Ma’s spaghetti usually tasted pretty good, after all, unless she gave it to him without the yummy red sauce on it like she did sometimes when he was not well behaved. Then the noodles were just plain and didn’t have much flavor. But he’d never been asked whether he liked it before, and it didn’t matter. He would eat whatever he was given.

“Oh, good. Jonathan will be glad to hear that,” the woman said in her quiet voice. After a moment, she continued. “He made the sauce last night. It’s his own special recipe. I hope you like it, Clark.”

Sauce! It would have sauce! His stomach growled again, almost as though it wanted its approval to be known, and he opened his eyes and looked up at the woman as she laughed lightly.

“Here, let’s head into the kitchen, and we can see how close Jonathan is to being finished.”

The woman stood slowly, still holding him in her arms, and Clark closed his eyes and buried his head into the blanket as she carried him. The smell of food—definitely spaghetti with sauce!—made his stomach growl yet again. At the same time, the temperature of the air seemed to heat up, and Clark lifted his head and swallowed as he looked around the room.

They had moved into a small kitchen where a large man with brown hair and glasses stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Jonathan, he assumed. Jonathan and…Martha.

Why was he here? Where were Ma and Pa? And…why did his head still hurt?

He should ask them—Jonathan and Martha. He should at least ask them where Ma and Pa were because Ma and Pa would probably want to know if Clark was going to eat their food. And—

A sharp pain stabbed through Clark’s head, and he whimpered and closed his eyes as he pulled the blanket up to his chin.

Wrong.

It was wrong.

He couldn’t take someone else’s food. Especially if Pa hadn’t given him permission. He would get in so much trouble.

He shouldn’t even be here right now. At least, he couldn’t remember getting permission to be here. But then again, he couldn’t remember much of anything that had happened that day. Maybe…he was supposed to be here? Maybe they’d left him with Martha and Jonathan so they could go—

Shopping! They’d…they’d taken him shopping with them in Wichita. For the first time ever. He remembered! They’d bought him a new T-shirt. A green one, with white stripes. And a pair of shoes. The blue shoes. He’d wanted the red ones, but Pa had growled at him not to be greedy when he’d reached out to touch them at the store. He’d just wanted to touch them—they looked different from the blue ones, the material smoother, maybe. And he’d just wanted to feel them.

But…but then what?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry, as he realized he really couldn’t remember anything after they’d left the shoe store.

Maybe…maybe Martha knew. Or Jonathan. Maybe he’d been sleeping. He did feel sleepy still. And his head hurt. So maybe Ma and Pa had left him with Martha and Jonathan when he’d been sleeping. And they’d be back soon. Or maybe they had at least told Martha and Jonathan that Clark had permission to eat their food.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay. Shh, don’t cry. It looks like dinner is ready, whenever you want to eat,” Martha murmured, and she sat down at the kitchen table with him and started to rock him gently.

It helped. A little.

But he knew he couldn’t eat unless he had been given permission. Unless Ma or Pa had given him permission. And he didn’t want to get in trouble. He never wanted to get in trouble.

So he swallowed hard and then, without looking up, forced himself to speak.

“D-did…” The one word squeaked out of him, almost as though he hadn’t used his voice in a long time, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “D-did M-Ma or—or Pa s-say I could…s-say it w-was okay?”

Not much better, really.

“Stop that stutterin’, boy! Get to the point! Or it’d be better if ya just kept yer damn mouth shut!”

Clark felt his whole body tense, and he held his breath, waiting for a reprimand. He shouldn’t have spoken out of turn. He shouldn’t have said anything. He—

“Oh, sweetie…” Martha seemed to sniffle, and her arms tightened around him again, holding him snugly against her.

He risked a glance up at her, and he saw tears in her eyes. With a frown, he closed his eyes and curled up into the blanket again.

“I-it’s o-okay,” he said quickly, not wanting to upset her further.

“What…what’s okay, Clark?”

He shook his head, unable to speak more. Obviously, Ma and Pa hadn’t given him permission to eat, or Martha would have said so. And he wouldn’t be sad about it. He was used to the aching in his stomach. The empty, weak feeling that just…wouldn’t ever really leave. Even though he’d really been…looking forward to spaghetti…with sauce.

The tears came, even though he really, really didn’t want them to, and he screwed his eyes shut tightly and choked back a sob.

He was hungry. He was really, really hungry. He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten earlier that day, but he could remember the day before, when he hadn’t eaten because Ma hadn’t liked the way he’d made a little too much noise when he’d gone down the stairs. He knew to be quieter. He did. And he should have done better. And now, they hadn’t given Martha and Jonathan permission to give him food, and he was going to have to be hungry…still.

But he couldn’t cry, or he’d get in more trouble.

“Clark, sweetie, what is it?” Martha asked, and she continued to rock him slowly.

“We need to tell him, Martha. I don’t think he knows.” Jonathan had a deep voice, but it sounded quiet and gentle like Martha’s, and Clark found that he wanted to hear it again.

He tried very hard to stop himself from crying, even as tears began to slip down his cheeks. And he managed to lift his head up a bit and turn to look toward the man’s voice. As their eyes met, Jonathan gave Clark a small smile, but Clark immediately knew something wasn’t right. The older man sat down in a chair at the table and then looked at Martha, his expression sad.

Clark tensed, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Tell me what?” Both pairs of eyes shifted to look at him, and he immediately buried his head back in the blanket. “S-sorry. S-sorry, I-I…” He shook his head again, wishing he could explain, apologize again.

Gosh, he’d be in so much more trouble now. Speaking up out of turn, stuttering, crying, interrupting an adult. All of that. He hadn’t meant to. He really, really hadn’t meant to. And he didn’t want anyone mad at him.

“S-sorry,” he repeated, his voice still muffled into the blanket he’d buried his face in.

He felt Martha shift him in her arms until he was sitting up in her lap, and he held himself as still as he could, even while his body shook with every sob.

One week. At least. Maybe more, since he’d misbehaved around other people, not just for Ma or Pa. They’d keep him down in the basement for at least a week because of this. Plus the incident at the shoe store. Pa had already been angry enough about that.

And it was so dark down there, in the basement. Dark and cold.

He should have known better. He should have done better.

“Clark, sweetie, you’re…you’re not in trouble.” Martha rubbed his back softly now, and she seemed to hold him just a little tighter for a second as her words hit him. He wasn’t in trouble? But… He carefully looked up at her, sniffling as he sat back a bit. Her eyes looked sad, like Jonathan’s, and he glanced sideways to where the man sat, still and quiet.

Jonathan cleared his throat and gave Clark another careful smile. But then the man took a deep breath and shook his head. “Clark, buddy, so… Do you remember the accident?”

His heart sped up a bit as he blinked and looked away from Jonathan. There had been an accident? He closed his eyes. He didn’t…remember anything after—

“It’s a long drive. I don’t wanna hear a peep from ya, understand, boy?”

Clark nodded quickly and looked outside at the rain pounding down as Pa pulled the car out of the parking lot and turned right, back toward the highway.

It had been raining when they’d left Wichita. Had there…been an accident? Where were Ma and Pa? Is that why his head hurt so much?

He reached up slowly and touched the spot on his cheek where the doctor had put a small bandage. As his fingers came in contact with the bandage, the skin underneath stung, and he pulled his hand away.

“Wh-what…?” He shook his head and forced himself to look at Martha first and then at Jonathan. “N-no. I-I don’t…”

His stomach hurt now too. Not the aching of hunger, but something stronger, sharper, and more…dizzying. He lowered his face into his hands and shook his head again.

“There’s no easy way to say this, buddy. There was an accident, a car crash. Your parents…they didn’t survive the crash, buddy.”

Martha held him to her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”

“Dammit, Jake, slow down already! Why the hell are you in such a hurry?”

“Shut up, woman! I know how to drive.”

Clark swallowed hard and closed his eyes as he pulled his knees up to his chest in the backseat. He’d stopped watching outside a while ago; it was raining so hard, he really couldn’t see much past the edge of the road anyways. But he hated when they yelled at each other, and he didn’t want to do anything to upset either of them more than they were already upset now. He was already in enough trouble from the shoe store. He’d probably have to go to bed without dinner again.

“Jake! Watch out!”

“What the—”

The memory faded with sounds of squealing tires, a curse, and then darkness. And pain. He’d…hit his head. But…

He sat up straighter, pulling away from Martha. Didn’t survive. What did…what did that mean? It couldn’t mean…

“N-no. No.” They couldn’t be…dead. They couldn’t be… They were his parents—okay, so they weren’t actually his parents, they’d reminded him of that all the time. But they couldn’t be…gone. They couldn’t… They’d always said… Clark shook his head. It just couldn’t be true. “N-no.”

He jumped up out of Martha’s arms, pushing away the blanket as his feet landed on the floor. Immediately, his vision swam, the lights in the room dancing around, and the pulsing pain in his head came back with a vengeance. He doubled over as he brought his hands up to his temples, and then he sank down to the ground, unable to hold himself upright.

The next thing he knew, two strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him up off the ground, and he felt himself cradled against Jonathan’s chest. Tears stung his eyes, and this time, he didn’t fight it. He let himself cry, curling up and covering his face with his hands.

Voice swirled around him, but he couldn’t seem to hear any actual words. Just…feelings and warmth and the same sense of gentleness he’d felt from Martha.

After a few minutes, Clark’s tears slowed and then stopped, and somehow, he managed to steady his breathing. But he kept his eyes closed and his face covered. After all, he didn’t want…

“Don’t no one want to be seein’ you starin’ at ’em. Keep yer eyes to yerself. Ya got that, boy? Don’t screw this up, or you’ll never get outta that house again.”

Pa had been perfectly clear just before they’d gotten out of the car that morning. And that had always been the rule anyways: don’t look at people, don’t look them in the eye, and definitely don’t stare.

Ma and Pa had strictly enforced that rule. And although Clark had always tried his best to follow their rules, he had messed up all the time.

He tensed as he realized he’d already broken so many of their other rules, even just in the last few minutes since he’d woken up here, with Martha and Jonathan. He’d looked at both of them. And he’d spoken up, out of turn, interrupted them, cried…

“This is yer punishment, boy! Don’t you be cryin’ again, ya hear? Be glad yer here with me and Ma, and be glad some o’er people didn’t find ya. They wouldn’t be so nice as me.”

Clark flinched as terror filled him. What…would his punishment be here? Did they have a basement they’d send him to? Or…did Jonathan have a belt like Pa’s? And what if they had different rules? They hadn’t told him any of their rules yet. How many had he already broken? How much had he already misbehaved?

“Clark, sweetie,” Martha said, her voice coming from a few feet away, “I’m so sorry about your parents. Jonathan and I…”

He felt the arms holding him shift ever so slightly, and he screwed his eyes shut tighter, preparing himself. They’d tell him now about all the rules he’d broken and what his punishment was. And he deserved it all, he knew. Probably he deserved more.

However, when Martha spoke again, her voice was still quiet and gentle. “Jonathan and I want you to feel at home here, for however long you stay. If there’s anything—anything at all—you need or want, we want you to feel comfortable speaking up. Okay, sweetie?”

Clark let out a short breath and managed to open his eyes partway, turning his head a little until he could see her. But then he remembered—gosh, why was he always so forgetful in the first place?—and twisted his head back to look away. Don’t look at people. Right.

And she’d addressed him directly; it would be rude and disrespectful if he didn’t answer. He didn’t really remember what she’d said, so he just nodded.

“Dinner is gonna get cold. How about we eat, and then we’ll get you settled in for the night? How does that sound, buddy?” Jonathan asked.

“’Kay,” Clark said. Slowly, he sat up, and Jonathan helped him sit in his own chair. Then, Martha scooted her chair closer to his, and he watched silently as she put a huge portion of spaghetti on a plate. His eyes widened when she set the plate in front of him and then again when Jonathan added a piece of toast and some green vegetables to his plate as well. He bit his lower lip and glanced at Martha for just a second before lowering his eyes to the table once more.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Another direct question. And he couldn’t lie—at least, not about this. He was only allowed to lie about one thing.

His voice trembled, but he answered honestly. “Th-that’s…a l-lot of—of food.”

It was only part of the answer, but his words didn’t want to work right, and he felt his heart start to pound in his chest as he prepared himself for a reprimand. He couldn’t complain about food. He wasn’t allowed to complain at all. Ma hated that.

“Oh,” Martha said quietly.

“You just eat what you want, buddy. You don’t have to eat all of it. Okay?” Jonathan set a hand lightly on Clark’s shoulder, and he flinched again, readying himself for the yelling and…worse.

But it didn’t come.

That was all Jonathan had to say. The hand on his shoulder squeezed him gently and then dropped away.

“Would you like some milk, Clark? Milk is always my favorite when we’re having pasta,” Martha said.

Milk.

Clark swallowed hard and lifted his eyes again, looking out across the table. An empty glass sat next to his plate, and Martha had stood, holding a small pitcher of milk in one hand while reaching out toward Clark’s glass with the other.

He loved milk. But it was…not something he’d had in a long time. Were they really going to let him have it?

With a quick nod, he looked up at Martha again, and she gave him a smile. “Perfect.” Then, she poured him about half of the glass—and it was a big glass!—before sitting back down.

“Why don’t we eat now?” Jonathan suggested, and as Clark watched, his hands clasped together in his lap, Martha and Jonathan picked up their forks and began to eat.

After a moment, Clark reached toward his own fork, his hand shaking ever so slightly. And when he took his first bite of the spaghetti, he closed his eyes to savor the flavor. It was so good! The sauce was so yummy. And it even had bits of meat in it! He’d never had sauce with meat in it before.

“Do you like it, sweetie?”

Clark opened his eyes and turned his head toward Martha, although he tried his best to not look directly at her. “Y-yes. Yes, I-I d-do. Th-thank you.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad to hear that.”

Clark blinked with confusion and looked back down at his plate. She sounded so…honest or…something. There was another word for it, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. He should know. Ma had always told him he should know more. But right now, he couldn’t find the word he wanted, the word that could describe how Martha seemed…like she really meant what she said. Like she really was happy to hear that he liked the food.

And he’d never…had anyone ask that or…or care.

He reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek and then took another bite of his spaghetti.


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