Previously On Specimen S:
"I would do anything..." Martha said softly, closing her eyes for a brief moment. "Anything."
"You know I would too."
"I know." She paused for a the span of two heartbeats. "So...now what?"
"Is he still here, do you know?" Jonathan asked, nodding vaguely toward where the shed lay beyond the farmhouse walls.
Martha shook her head. "I'm not completely sure. I haven't seen him leave the shed. But I haven't been perched at the window in a stakeout either. I wanted to go back into the shed...but I forced myself not to. You're right about one thing. We can't force ourselves onto him. If he wants to trust us, he will. I just wish I could figure out a way to help him."
"You're a strong lady," Jonathan complimented her.
"Not as strong as you think," Martha said, sighing. "I spent part of the afternoon in tears. I've...we've...been praying for so long. I just...I wish..."
"That maybe he's the answer to those prayers," Jonathan finished for her. "I've been wondering the same thing myself, all day."
Martha could only nod.
S' grip on the doorknob tightened a bit as he tried to puzzle out what Martha had meant. Why would he be an answer to anyone's prayers? Did they want to use him? He'd overheard Trask calling S the answer to his prayers too. And Cameron had wanted S as a weapon, as a means to commit mass murder, as a conduit to bring suffering and pain to others.
Martha choked back another tear. "I already love that boy," she whispered, as Jonathan took her in his strong arms.
"Me too," he whispered back. "Me too."
Love?
S' hand slipped from the doorknob. He understood what the word meant. But he'd never known anyone to love him. These simple farmers had only just met him, and yet, they claimed to love him. It was impossible, wasn't it? But then again...they didn't know he was listening in on them. They didn't know that S could hear their every word. It wasn't as if they were trying to appeal to him, to entice him to stay.
Maybe, just for this night, he would remain. In the morning, he could decide what to do.
***
December 25, 1978
Christmas morning dawned cold and bleak. Snow still fell from the sky, though the storm had lost most of its power. Instead of racing down from the clouds, the flakes now lazily wafted through the air before joining their brethren on the ground. The whole world seemed awash in a pristine blanket of frigid whiteness. S peeked out of the window in the shed, his eyes wide. He'd been told about snow, had seen video and pictures of it. But they didn't do it justice. The beauty of it stole his breath away.
The night before, Jonathan and Martha had brought a simple dinner to the shed to share with him, a meal made of pasta and seven differently prepared types of fish. S had curiously asked what everything was, and Martha had patiently answered all of his questions. They had not discussed if S would be staying with them. They seemed to be taking their lead from him, letting him dictate the course of the conversation. S hadn't brought it up either. He still hadn't made up his mind.
He was grievously torn. He ached to stay. Something in his gut told him that he'd found a good place. That he'd found good people. But he was still scared. He no longer thought that these kind farmers would hand him over to Trask. But he feared what might happen if Trask ever discovered that they were sheltering him.
S had wrestled with the conflicting thoughts and feelings most of the night, until he at last fell into an exhausted sleep. He'd stayed in the shed again, had snuggled down into the bed of straw. Jonathan had offered him the spare bedroom in the house. He'd even promised him a mattress, since he'd never gotten rid of the bed he'd slept in as a boy himself. S had staunchly refused, as indecisive as he still was over whether to stay or to flee. So Martha had contented herself to bringing him a pillow and several thick, soft blankets. S had enjoyed the feel of the material. His cell had offered only a hard cot and scratchy, starchy, thin sheets.
All night long, he'd tried to place the feelings he was experiencing, tried to find the proper names for them. All night long, he'd failed. Now, in the light of the overcast morning, S wasn't any closer to making his decision, wasn't any closer to understanding the gut reaction he was feeling toward these kind strangers.
But he had decided on one thing. If Jonathan and Martha invited him in this morning, he would take them up on their offer. Perhaps then, he might be able to figure out his next move, and pinpoint the feelings circulating through his body.
He didn't have to wait long. Jonathan waded across the yard through an ocean of white that reached halfway to his knees. When he reached the shed, S opened the door. Jonathan looked pleased to see that the boy was still there. That struck S as a new experience, and his heart gave a little flip in his chest. Trask and the others - even Jenson - had never looked pleased to see him in the mornings. They'd never looked unhappy, per se. Their expressions had only ever been neutral, or at the most, still partly sleepy. But Jonathan was bright-eyed and happy looking.
"Good morning," the man said, in a voice that matched the twinkle in his eyes.
"Morning," S replied.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"Glad to hear it. I was wondering if you might want to come in for breakfast. Martha's making her world-famous cinnamon buns."
"I...I'd like that," S agreed.
Jonathan's smile exploded onto his face. "Excellent!" he said.
He turned and quickly shut off and unplugged the space heater. S gathered his things, not that he had much. He tucked the thin jacket beneath his arm, careful not to spill out the contents of his pockets. He wasn't yet sure that he wanted or trusted these people enough to let them see the file on him. He didn't know what the file said, but he could guess well enough. S didn't want to frighten these people with the truth of what a freak he was. If he chose to stay here, then he would worry about things.
Jonathan quickly gathered the blankets and spare pillow, then guided S back across the yard to the farmhouse. S made certain to step in Jonathan's footprints, just in case anyone happened to be prowling around, looking for evidence that S had been there. Trask had taught him the basics of warfare - how to track and ambush, how not to leave a trace for others to follow. He'd also begun to teach S about various weapons - guns and tanks, missiles and knives, gas attacks and hand-to-hand combat moves. Those discussions had left S feeling very uneasy. But now, however, he was glad to know how to cover his tracks.
Jonathan threw open the door to the farmhouse, stepped out of his shoes, and entered into the living room. S followed suit. Jonathan gestured for S to sit before the fire, which blazed merrily in the room's hearth. S shyly sat on the edge of the couch, too nervous to allow himself to get comfortable. But he liked the warmth the flames gave off, and the cheerful light it threw.
"Wait right here," Jonathan said, just before disappearing into the kitchen to help Martha.
S studied the rest of the room. It was true that he wasn't surprised by the decor. After all, he'd looked at it before, when he'd used his unique sight to spy on the two farmers. But it was different, now that he was inside. Looking through walls couldn't convey the coziness of the room. It couldn't allow him to smell the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. They made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. Looking through the walls hadn't been able to show him just how comfortable the glow from the multicolored lights on the tree was. He decided that he liked the room, and wondered what the other rooms in the place felt like.
Before he could think too hard about it, Martha came into the room, once again bearing a tray full of food. S inhaled deeply. The cinnamon buns smelled fantastic. He watched the steam rise from them and curl before fading away into the air.
"Good morning," S said politely.
"Good morning, honey," Martha said, giving him a smile. "Merry Christmas."
"I...uh...Merry Christmas," he said back. He'd nearly said that he didn't know it was Christmas. He'd nearly admitted to not knowing what it meant.
But neither of the adults seemed to want to comment on his near slip-up. They merely placed the food and drinks on the coffee table. At Martha's encouragement to "dig right in," S bit into one of the hot, sticky buns. It was as if every one of his taste buds exploded into a wakefulness they'd never known before. S hungrily ate the bun, then went back for more. Martha smiled with pride as the boy complimented her cooking and ate another bun. She shot a look to Jonathan, but S missed it.
When they were done eating, Martha cleared away the breakfast items. Then she and Jonathan doled out the presents. S was shocked speechless when a small pile of brightly colored boxes began to materialize before him. Surely, he had to be mistaken. Surely, these gifts could not possibly be for him. He was being foolish. He was being a daydreamer. And Trask had always punished him for daydreaming - sometimes with the chunk of Kryptonite, sometimes with extra hours spent being Jenson's personal science experiment.
"These are for you, son," Jonathan said, when S failed to move.
S' gaze moved from the pile of gifts to the famer's kindly face. "Thank you. But...why?"
"No child should ever have to go without gifts on Christmas," Jonathan replied, as though it were no big deal. "I know it's not much, but, well, I thought you could use them."
"I...I didn't...I have nothing to give you," S apologized. Though he'd never received a gift before, he understood how the ritual was performed.
"You already have," Martha assured him.
"I...did?"
Martha nodded. "More than you know."
S didn't understand that. But his curiosity had been roused. At another word of encouragement from Jonathan, he tore open the first of his gifts. A thick, tan winter coat was inside the box, waterproof and lined with sheep's wool for warmth. It looked just like the one Jonathan had offered him the day before. S had never owned anything so nice in his entire life. He could scarcely believe that this coat was his. True, he didn't need the item; the cold didn't affect him. But the thoughtfulness and the kindness behind the gift touched him deeply.
"Thank you," he breathed. "You didn't need to do that."
"Son, whatever you decide to do - stay or leave - you can't go about in such a thin jacket. You'll freeze to death out there."
"Stay?" S asked, feigning ignorance. He couldn't let on that he'd heard their conversation the night before.
Jonathan nodded, and admitted to S that he'd spoken with the Sheriff the day before. S did his best to pretend to be surprised. He thought he did a passable job on it too, since neither Jonathan nor Martha seemed to notice that he was faking it.
"You don't have to answer us right now," Martha said gently. "But think about it. We'd love you to stay for as long as you like...or are able to."
S nodded. He could hear the concealed pain in her voice. It seemed to him that she really didn't want S to be taken away...or to leave of his own free will. It still didn't help him make up his mind, however. He couldn't give them an answer just yet.
To give himself a reason not to speak, S turned to the rest of his gifts. He savored the sensation of tearing the paper on each one. He took time to memorize the anticipation of opening each box. Shirts and pants, clothing of all types came out of each present. S had never owned such well-made articles of clothing. All of his had been ill-fitting or threadbare in places, hand-me-downs from Trask's son, Jason. S was forced to use the same three pairs of pants and three white shirts, each of them emblazoned with the brand Trask used to mark him, until the material grew too small to squeeze into. It didn't matter if the fabric grew threadbare or full of holes. S simply had to deal with it. But the things that Jonathan and Martha gave him now absolutely amazed S. He'd known that such nice things existed of course, for he'd seen everyone involved in Bureau Thirty-Nine wearing clothing that was much better than his own. He'd just never imagined that he would one day have the opportunity to own and wear similar things.
He thanked them after each gift, as a lump grew in his throat, getting bigger and bigger as each item was unwrapped. Finally, there was only one gift left. S was puzzled. It didn't look like the boxes he'd opened thus far. This one had an odd shape. He tore the paper from it, revealing a brand-new football. He knew what that was. Jenson had once allowed S to watch part of a game with him when Trask wasn't around.
S ran his fingertips over the pebbled skin of the ball. His ball. A toy - for all intents and purposes - that was truly his own. Something that wasn't used to teach him how to be an obedient little soldier. He suddenly felt like the richest twelve year old on the planet. He could not stifle the huge grin that swept over his lips. He could not stop thanking the two people before him.
"If you stay...and I hope you do," Jonathan said, chuckling at S' reaction, "I'd like to toss it around with you."
"I...don't know how to play," S said. He hadn't paid too much attention to the one game he'd seen. He'd been too nervous that Trask would somehow know what he was doing, show up, and punish him.
"That's okay," Jonathan reassured him. "I'll teach you."
"I'd like that," S admitted, without consenting to stay.
He wanted to stay now, more than anything in the world. But Trask was still out there. Still a threat. And in all likelihood, hunting for him with that green stone.
When S was done with his gifts, he watched as Jonathan and Martha exchanged theirs. S wasn't interested in what items were given. But he was riveted in watching the two interact with each other. There was such love between the farmer and his wife, that it seemed almost unreal to S. He'd never before witnessed such depth of emotion. Even the times when S had seen Trask's wife and son visit the compound where he'd been kept, he'd never seen love like he was seeing now.
The rest of the morning wore on. S grew more and more comfortable in the presence of Jonathan and Martha Kent. And he became more comfortable in their home as well. They offered him the use of their shower, and he took them up on it, changing into a set of his new clothes once he was clean. He liked the feel of the soft red flannel shirt and of the blue jeans. It was so unlike what he was used to.
Martha soon disappeared into the kitchen, preparing the holiday dinner. Wonderful new smells emanated from the room not long after she entered it. S, for his part, was still wrestling with the decision before him. He'd neatly stacked his new clothes in an orderly pile on the bed of the room Jonathan had said was his own as a child. He still had the football with him, and continually ran his fingertips over its surface as he thought, sitting in the living room and staring into the depths of the flames dancing within the hearth.
He was just coming to a decision when he heard it: the sound of an engine coming up the driveway of the Kents' property.
S' ears perked up at the sound and his body froze. His thoughts scattered like a flock of butterflies taking wing all at the same time. Jonathan heard the noise too, and went to the window to see who was coming. It was clear that he wasn't expecting any visitors. S employed his powerful hearing purely by reflex. He paled as he realized who was coming.
Trask had somehow found him.
"Jonathan? Who's there?" Martha asked, coming out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on a towel.
"Don't know. Some city-looking fellow from what I can see."
"Better go see what he wants," Martha said.
"No," S said, shaking his head violently. "Don't."
"What's the matter?" Jonathan asked, concerned over S' sudden fear. The boy's terror was plain to read on his face and in the way he held his body, ready for flight.
"Trask," S said, the word coming tremulously from his lips.
"Someone you know?" the farmer asked.
S nodded. "Please, don't let him know I'm here. He'll hurt me. Maybe you too. I have to go. I'm sorry."
"Now hold on there for a minute," Jonathan said. "What's this all about?"
"No time," S replied, shaking his head. "He can't know that I'm here."
"Martha?"
"The storm cellar," Martha replied. "You go see what this stranger wants. I'll take care of S."
Jonathan nodded and S followed Martha's lead. She took him down a flight of steps to the basement, then to a sunken door. She pulled it open with a little effort, and ushered S down the steps to the fortified storm shelter. She switched on a small flashlight and handed it to S.
"Now don't you worry, honey," she reassured him. "We'll take care of that man. He won't find you. I promise. Just stay here, and I'll come get you when it's safe."
"Okay," S agreed, his heart hammering in his chest.
Martha shut the door, leaving S alone in a sea of darkness, only the beam of the flashlight alleviating it. He found the far corner and sat with his back against the naked concrete, hugging his knees to his chest. His entire body trembled with fright. He was terrified of what was happening. How had Trask tracked him so quickly? He broadened the scope of his hearing and silently listened to everything around him. He scanned with his x-ray vision, through the layers of concrete that made up the storm shelter, up through the floors of the house.
Jonathan opened the door a second before Cameron could knock.
"Hello there, stranger," the man said guardedly. "May I help you?"
"I hope so," Cameron replied. "My name is Cameron Trask. My son ran away from home, and I was wondering if you'd seen him."
"You aren't from around these parts," Jonathan observed.
"No sir, I'm not," Trask agreed. "But, well, I have to find my boy. I'm desperate. I've got...my entire family out looking in every direction for him."
"I understand," Jonathan said.
"Here's a picture of him," Cameron offered, whipping a creased photograph out of his coat pocket.
Jonathan took the photograph of S and studied it for a moment.
"Nope, can't say that I have," he lied easily.
S breathed a small sigh of relief. Jonathan hadn't betrayed him. He was trying to cover for him. But S' pulse was still racing, and he still gripped his football as though it had some power to save him. His fingers felt glued to the ball's laces. He kept listening, kept watching.
"You sure?" Cameron prodded.
Jonathan nodded. "Of course I'm sure."
"You mind if I take a look around the property?"
Jonathan shrugged. "Suit yourself. Let me get my boots on and I'll come with you."
"You really don't need..."
"I insist."
Jonathan swiftly tugged on his boots and exited the house, letting the door bang shut behind him. S followed the men with his eyes. Jonathan showed the man his property. The space heater stood as evidence in the shed, S knew. And that worried him.
"My work shed," the farmer said as Cameron opened the door to peer inside.
"A space heater?" Cameron asked, arching an eyebrow.
Jonathan hummed an agreement. "Gets mighty cold in here sometimes. And my wife and I seem to spend half our days out here." He pointed to the easel and painting. "She's taking a course in town."
"Very nice," Trask said with faux appreciation.
They went back into the yard. Trask pointed to the tree house that stood in the lone tree in the center of the yard. From the kitchen window, Martha watched the two men, pretending interest in the vegetables she was slicing.
"You have kids?"
Jonathan shook his head. "No. It was never in the cards for us," he said, his voice heavy. "That house used to be mine."
"Mind if I take a look inside? Never can tell where a kid might hide out."
"Be my guest. Nothing but cobwebs up there is my guess though. Maybe an old bird's nest."
Trask carefully ascended the wooden planks that served as steps, each one affixed to the tree's trunk with rusty nails. He peeked in through the windows and opened the door. The hinges squealed their demand for oil. But the ramshackle tree house was empty. Trask eased himself back down the makeshift steps.
"Sorry. I appreciate you allowing me the chance to look."
"No problem," Jonathan said, in a tone of forced friendliness.
"Look," Trask said, slipping a card out of his pocket. Unlike S' photo, the business card was in pristine condition. "If you happen to see my boy, give me a call, would you?"
Jonathan had no choice but to take the card. He studied it for a moment. "Will do," he lied again. "Good luck to you."
"Thanks. Oh, I should warn you. If you see my son, it's best if you don't approach him. He's got mental issues, and he could be dangerous."
"I'll keep it in mind," Jonathan said tightly. "Now, if you don't mind, I believe Martha's telling me that dinner is ready."
Trask didn't even glance over to the windows. "Sure thing."
The former Sergeant-Major turned and swiftly went back to his truck. He climbed in and, after a moment, the engine roared into life. S heard the truck back up, turn, then rumble away down the road. And yet, he dared not make a move. He hardly even dared to breathe. His heart was slamming against his ribs so violently he couldn't believe Trask hadn't been able to hear it. He strained his hearing, trying to ensure that Trask was completely, truly gone. All he heard was the door clang shut as Jonathan stepped back inside, stomping his boots to shake off the snow.
A minute passed, then Martha appeared, opening the door of the storm cellar. He looked up, his eyes wide with his residual fear. But Martha smiled gently, and S found some of his apprehension fading in its warmth.
"Is he gone?" S asked.
"He's gone."
S heaved a sigh of relief. Logically, he'd known that was the case. But he'd needed that knowledge confirmed. Martha reached out her hand towards him. S gratefully took it as he pushed himself to his feet.
"Thank you," S whispered.
In the next second, he found himself in Martha's embrace. It surprised him. He hadn't even been aware of what was happening until he felt her arms close around him. A tremor ran through his body; the last of his tension trying to bleed out from him. Martha held him tightly and stroked the back of his head comfortingly.
"Ssh," she whispered to him.
S closed his arms around the woman, holding her in return. He heard the hitch in her breathing. It didn't sounded frightened or pained, so he assumed it was okay for him to hug her.
"He's gone," she told him again. "He's gone. You're safe."
S allowed her to hold him for another long moment, then they both reluctantly let go. S fought down the urge to shed tears, ones that wanted to escape him simply because of the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days. Instead, he followed Martha back through the house to the living room. Jonathan was coming down from the second floor, wearing a dry pair of pants.
Together, the three sat on the couch, and Jonathan recounted all he'd said to Cameron. S nodded thoughtfully, feeling somewhat guilty that he already knew what had been said. But he found Jonathan's observations intriguing. And he found himself opening up to the questions the Kents directed at him.
"S," Jonathan said gravely, "I have to know. Who was that man? Was he truly your father?"
"No," S said. "I don't have any parents. I don't have any family at all. That's what Cameron always told me, anyway. He...Trask...he's the one who...kept me, ever since I was a baby." S struggled to find the right words.
"So, he's been what? Your caretaker?"
"I guess," S shrugged. "He kept me alive. He doesn't care about me. He only cares about what he thinks I can do for him."
"And what is that?"
"He wants me to be his soldier," S said, knowing his words were grossly inadequate to describe the situation he'd come from.
"And you are afraid of him."
S nodded. "He hurts me."
"What does he do?"
S hesitated. How could he describe the pain that the Kryptonite caused him? How could he admit to it, knowing that the stone didn't affect normal people? But if he was to stay with these people - and he'd finally decided that he wanted to stay more than anything - he would have to come clean. If they tried to do what Trask had done to him, he could find a way to escape. S swallowed hard.
"He has something...a stone...it makes me sick. It makes me hurt all over. He has his men conduct tests on me, tries to see what my limits are before I collapse. He locks me in a cell all night."
Martha looked positively horrified. "Oh, honey."
"A stone?" Jonathan was frowning. "I've never heard of a stone causing anything like that to a person."
"Trask says that I'm not a person. He says I'm a...a thing. A creature. An...alien."
"What?" Martha said, shock washing over her slightly pale face.
"When I broke out of that place...I took a file. It's with my things. It can probably explain things better than I can."
S stood and went up the stairs. He wasn't sure why he was being so trusting of the Kents. It was true that he'd witnessed them cover for him. It was true that they'd been kind to him so far. It was true that they'd fed and clothed him. But it was more than that. It came from someplace deep within his guts, his heart, his mind, whispering to him that he could trust these people. He wondered if that was what instinct was.
He swiftly retrieved the file from his jacket. For a long minute he just stood in the quiet bedroom, looking down at the folder in his hands. He hadn't opened it before now. The symbol on the front of the folder seemed to mock him, and he wondered, not for the first time, what it meant. Was it merely a brand that Trask had chosen to represent S? Or did it hold some meaning? He suspected that the answer lay in the pages of notes within the folder. Or, at least, he hoped it might be.
With a sigh, S steeled himself and took the file back to the living room. He placed it into Martha's hands. She looked down on it, then back to S. Her brow was crinkled into an unspoken question.
"I don't know what it says," he said simply. "But maybe you can help me."
"We'll do whatever it takes. We'll go to the police if we have to, to take down this Trask person," Jonathan swore.
S shook his head. "No. I don't want anyone to know about me. I'm...different."
"Different?"
"I have these abilities. Like....well...I can run really fast. That's how I got here. I'm stronger than most of the men in Bureau Thirty-Nine."
"Bureau Thirty-Nine?" Jonathan asked, more to himself than to S. "Why does that strike a bell?"
"They're a group..." S started to explain.
"Government," Jonathan said, as the memory surfaced. "Trask...now I remember why that name sounded familiar. We meet him once before, almost thirteen years ago, at the site of a meteor crash."
"That's right," Martha said, as she remembered the night in question. "Schuster's Field."
"This is getting spooky," Jonathan said, eying the file with interest.
"I don't think they are with the government," S said, casting his eyes to the floor. "Trask hates the government."
Jonathan took the file from Martha and flipped it open. He sucked in a breath as he looked at the heading on the very first report sheet, unmistakably printed in typewriter ink. It proudly declared May 17, 1966, 11:42pm.
"Martha..."
"I see it," she said, her voice shaky.
Neither one of them had ever forgotten the date of the meteor crash. It was just one of those things that a person committed to memory, knowing they'd never witness something like that again in their lifetime.
Most of the evening was spent reading through the file. They stopped only for dinner, of which, no one ate much. Everyone's thoughts were preoccupied with the file and the information it contained. Jonathan and Martha took turns reading the reports aloud, so that S could know what had been written about himself as well. When they got to the dates where he had clear memories of the events, he supplemented the report with his own version of how things had happened.
By the end of the night, S knew a few things with absolute certainty.
He wasn't a normal child. He wasn't from Earth. S was an alien. He'd been found in a space ship, which had crashed in a field in Kansas. Jonathan and Martha Kent had been there, had witnessed his ship as it came screaming to the Earth.
The mark that had branded him his whole life hadn't been of Trask's twisted mind. It was a sort of sigil, one that had been on the ship he'd arrived in and on the blankets that had swaddled him. S looked with interest at those photographs, which had been photocopied into the file. There was no further explanation of the sigil's meaning, however, and it was driving S crazy wondering what it could possibly mean.
He also knew now that he had a name - a true name. A name he'd never heard Trask or anyone else ever mention before, not even in the hushed whispers they thought he could not hear. A name presumably given to him by the parents who'd given him life. A name he'd been robbed of in an effort to dehumanize him further in Trask's insane mind.
His name was Kal-El.
He knew also that he would stay with the Kents, for as long as he could. He trusted them and felt a connection with them. He had no reason to be afraid, sitting there in their quaint farmhouse. They didn't seem frightened by the abilities he admitted to having, even when he'd demonstrated the newest one - the thin beams of heat that he could summon from his eyes - by using it to light a fresh log in the fireplace.
As he slipped into bed that night, Jonathan and Martha came into the room. Martha tucked him in, then kissed his brow gently.
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," she said. "We'll be just down the hall."
"Okay." He hesitated a moment before speaking again. "Jonathan? Martha?"
"Yes, son?"
"Why didn't you hand me over to Trask today?"
Jonathan sighed. "A few reasons. The first being, of course, how terrified you were of him. I wasn't going to hand you over to someone who scared you that badly. Not without knowing the whole story. And then, when I spoke to Trask, nothing seemed to feel right. He said his son was missing, but he never expressed any worry for your safety. He wouldn't even mention your name. He only seemed...eager...to get you back. It didn't sit right with me." He shrugged. "Then there was that picture of you. It was crumpled badly. I couldn't see a loving father pulling out a photograph that was kept in such poor condition. If it were me, I'd treasure a photo of my child and keep it in pristine condition, right in my wallet."
"Thank you," S said. "Thank you for keeping my secret."
"My pleasure," the man assured him.
"There's one other thing," S said.
"Oh?"
"About what you asked me earlier...I really want to stay here with you, if that's okay."
Twin smiles blossomed on Jonathan and Martha's faces.
"Of course it is," Martha said.
"We're really glad to hear that. But, well, there's one thing," Jonathan said, a hint of mischief in his eyes.
S paled a little. Had he been too late in making up his mind?
"What's that?" he asked, a hint of nervousness tainting his words.
"Well, S isn't a proper name for a boy. Heck, it's not a proper name for an animal. Trask called you S as a way to demean you. So, I want you to pick a new name. Anything you want. We can go with Kal, if you'd like, since that's the name your parents gave you."
S shook his head. "I know now that's my name," he said. "But I don't want to use that. Trask knows that name."
"You don't have to decide tonight," Martha said soothingly. "You can take your time. A name is an important decision."
S nodded, then spoke again, unable to hold in his question. "Martha? Why don't you have any kids?"
Martha's expression grew sad, and S instantly felt sorry for asking. He was about to apologize when she spoke.
"Jonathan and I aren't able to have children," she said after a moment, a glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," S said, the sadness in the woman's voice cutting straight to his heart. "I didn't mean..."
"It's okay," she tried to reassure him.
"But...if you did...and you had a boy...what would you have called him?"
Jonathan and Martha exchanged a look, one that was tender and a bit wistful. S saw it, and wondered if he'd again said the wrong thing.
"We would have named him Clark," she answered him.
"Clark," S said, trying out the name. It felt a little strange on his tongue, but it also somehow seemed to fit. "That's a really nice name. Would it be okay if I used that name?"
"Honey, we would love it if you used it. We'd be honored, in fact."
"Clark," he said again, his voice full of awe. "I'm Clark."
To Be Continued...
