Kept Boy to Made Man - 14. Priorities

“I hope it will work out too. There are not a lot of people I trust to take care of him. He is a very frightened and traumatized boy,” Juan said into Sandra Mack’s cordless phone from his seat at her kitchen table. “Yes, we’ll be there around eight unless we hear from you. Thank you, Mami … I love you too.”

He disconnected the call, setting the phone in the center of the small table before sitting back in the well-used ladderback dining chair. He didn’t know what they would do if John and Rebecca Renkin refused to allow his mother to take Micah in. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Jaun hadn’t had many moments to think since midday Monday. His life looked nothing like it had then, but as stressful as the past few days had been he didn’t ever want to go back. The detective had been with the department for a year, making little difference. Since meeting Thomas Miller, he had been an active participant in the arrest of two deplorable pedophiles, unearthing mob informants in the station, and rescuing three young boys from unspeakable horrors.

It was surprising how little the statistics meant to him. The people he had met over the past several days were what felt most significant. It all started with Thomas, and his disturbing testimony. He had felt sorry for the small teenager, but after witnessing his interactions with Micah, Juan was now in awe.

The teen’s past should have been debilitating, and in some ways, Juan knew it was. But it had also made him incredibly strong, resilient, and compassionate. Watching him pick his way through Micah’s defenses had been breathtaking, especially after making so little progress himself.

He thought about Roger Cicero. The man was intimidating, powerful, almost scary. Juan thought of him as a lion. His care and protection for those he saw as his pride was inspiring, but his ferocity towards those he deemed a threat was terrifying. Like Thomas, it was clear that he was the product of a difficult past, broken in some ways and tempered in others.

Daniel was perhaps the most familiar and the most perplexing person in his new circle. A fellow soldier, they had many things in common, but he was so much more confident than Juan. The man was a natural and caring leader. Juan was happy to follow him, and more than relieved to hand over the investigation.

What didn’t make sense to Juan were the other feelings Daniel stirred in him. Juan had been drawn to many men in his life, constantly hungering for the approval, support, and guidance a father would typically provide. He had never been drawn to another man in the way he was towards Daniel. He shoved his confusing feelings aside, unwilling to dwell on what they might mean.

Two others dominated his thoughts, even though he didn’t know either well. Qian and Micah. He would never forget Special Agent Chang’s reaction to the naked, gagged, and restrained boy. Juan had never seen someone’s mind break so suddenly or dramatically. Although he didn’t know the details, it was obvious that the man’s past paralleled Micah’s in some profound and painful way.

Juan couldn’t help but imagine Micah years in the future suffering the lasting effects of his trauma like the other survivors he now knew. The sadness he felt for his new friends was eclipsed only by the anger he felt towards their abusers. He would never understand how someone could inflict such damage to another human being. He certainly felt no compassion for people like Charles Miller and Carl Jenkins.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but perhaps Sandra Mack was. Roger and Daniel had both left for their respective offices thirty minutes before. Sam had gone with Melissa to prepare for her unexpected guests before he called his mother. Thomas and Brendon were still upstairs with the three sleeping boys.

Juan automatically reached for his weapon as he silently stood. He held the weighty Beretta M9 behind his back as he stepped lightly towards the front of the house. The United States Marine Corps took their combat and weapons training seriously. It was First Sergeant Ramos, USMC who greeted the two middle-aged men taking off their shoes at the door.

“Hands where I can see them, slowly,” Juan told the intruders, one of which he noticed wore a clerical collar.

Both men looked up quickly.

“Whoa, who are you?” It was the man without the collar that spoke.

“Juan Ramos, Chicago PD. Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Juan could now see the man’s resemblance to his son, but his recognition didn’t cause him to lower his gun.

“I’m Alan Mack. I live here. What are you doing in my house?” Alan was angry, but he was also afraid of the gun now pointed at his chest.

“Al? What are you doing here?” Sandra descended the stairway, having heard voices.

“I live here!” Her husband was frustrated by the question asked again.

“They said you would be held until the hearing.” Several emotions flooded through Mrs. Mack as she unexpectedly faced the man she had married almost twenty years before; the man who had beat their son because he refused to renounce his sexuality and denounce his boyfriend.

“Only because you refused to post bail.” Alan was clearly trying to control his anger. “Reverend Greg paid it and brought me home. This wasn’t the reception I expected.”

Alan Mack’s attention returned to Juan who had lowered his gun but had not holstered it. The detective could see the suspicion that settled into his expression.

“What are you doing in my house?” He asked again.

“I am protecting the lives of several boys,” Juan said simply. “Based on Brendon’s bruises I consider you a threat.”

“Dad?” Brendon and Thomas made it halfway down the staircase before stopping; They were holding hands.

The man in the collar sighed in disapproval, and Alan Mack growled. Juan stepped towards the stairs. Thomas, sensing Alan’s anger, reflexively tried to pull his hand free. Brendon held on tightly and glared that the two men who had caused him so much emotional and physical anguish over the previous four months.

“Child, I fear for your soul.” Juan watched Reverend Greg make the sign of the cross as he addressed Thomas. “If anyone causes one of these little ones to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.”

“That boy is not welcome in my house. He is a murderer and a Sodomite! Get away from my son!” Alan’s voice rose steadily until he was yelling.

Sandra felt a fury unlike any she had ever known. The solitary soul searching she began as she sat with her battered son had opened her eyes to many things. Seeing Thomas again, meeting Roger, seeing Brendon’s joy return, and interacting with the twins whose lives were so recently ruined had solidified her resolve. Juan’s firm grip on her shoulder was the only thing that stopped her from attacking her husband.

“He’s not worth it Sandra. The boys need you.” Juan felt the woman’s rigid muscles relax as his words cut through her anger.

“Thomas saved my life, dad. He’s not a murderer, he’s a hero! And yes, I love him. I’m gay, and I am in love with Thomas!” Brendon’s words were followed by the sound of crying from the second floor.

Thomas turned, and Brendon, who could feel his boyfriend trembling let him go. He glared at his father, remembering the pain of his fists and the even deeper pain of his words.

“You made it clear on Sunday that you would not have a gay son. I’m gay, Alan.” Brendon’s pain was as obvious as the tears streaking his cheeks.

Alan Mack’s hard expression broke leaving confusion in its place as Brendon moved back up the stairs as well. The sounds of sorrow and pain grew when he reached his room. Juan’s heart broke as he watched the fractured family split further apart.

“You need to leave Alan. Take that fork-tongued Pharisee with you.” Sandra’s words were laced with venom of her own.

“This is my house, and you are my wife.” The uncertainty in Alan’s tone undermined the authority of his words.

“Thank you for the reminder. I’ll be sure to talk to my lawyer about both of those problems. Now get out.” Alan looked into Sandra’s eyes before quickly looking away.

“Sandy, you are making a mistake. Wives should submit to their husbands in everything,” Reverend Greg opined pompously.

“Sandra has asked you both to leave.” Juan reminded the men he was still there, his dangerous tone implying his intent to side with the woman of the house.

Alan Mack glanced at his wife again before slipping his feet back into his shoes and stepping towards the door.

“I’ll pray for you, Sandra.” The reverend was not used to seeing obvious defiance and open hostility directed at him; He too turned, allowing Sandra’s fury to push him from the house.

. . .

 

Brendon was furious, devastated, and afraid as he re-entered the room he had just left. His eyes took in the four other occupants. The emotions he had been feeling merged into despair as he smelled both urine and fear.

Thomas was back on the beanbag, curled up in an all too familiar fetal ball. The twins were in the same position, but were crying in terror as the angry words that woke them resurrected their freshly buried emotions. Micah scared him most of all. The boy stood frozen with a blank expression in the corner of the room. It was clear that he had wet himself, but there was nothing else to suggest he was feeling anything at all.

Brendon began to sob as he heard his mother’s angry words. He wondered if the pain would ever stop for any of them. Maybe this was all their lives would ever be.

. . .

 

Roger looked at the notepad in front him. It was filled with questions, tasks, and ideas. He often approached new cases by dumping the scattered contents of his mind onto paper. He could then create a plan out of all his seemingly disconnected thoughts.

This case was unlike any he had ever taken on. He wasn’t working for a singular client, but unlike a class-action suit, the class of claimants were not seeking financial recompense; they were seeking their very freedom and basic human rights. It wouldn’t be enough to attack, even if he knew who to go after. The heart of this case would not be argued to in a courtroom, but in the broken and battered minds of the boys Daniel and Juan would rescue.

Watching Thomas with Micah had shown the attorney what he was up against. He imagined eighty damaged boys in a line, waiting for their turn to sit on Thomas’ lap. He felt overwhelmed and exhausted, his own wounds smarting from the interaction with a single victim.

The attorney tore off three clean sheets from his legal pad. He wrote a single word at the top of each: How, Who, Where. How could they help? Who would help? Where would the boys go to safely pick up the pieces of their broken lives? There were so many unknowns, but Roger now knew the primary question he needed to answer. He placed the first sheet on the desk before him, setting the other two aside.

How?

He was going to need both help and information. Eddie’s watch read 2:42. Roger took a deep breath before picking up his phone.

. . .

 

“You and Brendon shouldn’t stay here.” Juan didn’t know Sandra or her son well, but he felt the same need to protect them that he felt for Thomas Miller.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go. Alan is right. The house is in his name. I don’t have any way to provide for Brendon without him.” Sandra’s anger had given way to hopelessness as the reality of her decision to leave Alan set in.

“My mom and I survived on our own. You and Brendon will too,” he said with conviction as his mind turned to his upbringing.

Juan’s mother had never allowed him to see the struggles that she undoubtedly faced alone. He was almost overcome with feelings of gratitude and guilt. She had sacrificed her entire life for him, and he had all but abandoned her when he left for Basic Training. He hadn’t spent much time with her since returning either and didn’t have a good reason as to why.

A part of him had always resented the fact that he had grown up without a father. He was in High School before Rosa had shared the details of her past and his birth. After spending time with truly unloved and abandoned boys, Juan began to see that he had taken his mother’s sacrifice for granted. He had been too focused on what he didn’t have to fully appreciate what he did.

Juan Ramos suddenly looked forward to the chance to hug his mother when he brought Micah to Lincoln Park later that evening. He returned his focus to the anxious mother in front him.

“Start gathering some things. You’re moving into my place until we can figure out something better. I’ll be staying with Micah and my mother for a while anyway.” Both Juan and Sandra were surprised by his words, but the detective knew they were both logical and right as soon as they left his mouth.

“You don’t even know us,” Sandra said as her tear-filled eyes saw the sincerity in the man she had just met.

“Please let me help you, Sandra.” After a few seconds, she nodded. “Go pack a few bags. Be sure to grab anything sentimental that can’t be replaced. I’m going to go check on the boys.

“Thank you,” Sandra whispered as she watched the young detective, an unexpected angel, climb the stairs.

. . .

 

"Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you'll live—and you must keep to them. Don't you forget that!”

It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.

Rosa placed Mary’s colorful and whimsical unicorn bookmark in the old and worn book. She knew Joshua would be awake soon, and she wanted a few minutes to help the young girl on her lap process the three chapters they had reread together.

“I think Mary is lonely and maybe a little scared, don’t you?” Rosa asked.

Mary didn’t respond right away. When she did, it was with a question of her own.

“Is that why Mary is being mean to everyone?” Her quiet words were thoughtful.

“Nobody really showed her real love. She grew up thinking others were there to serve her. She didn’t know how to treat people because she never really had any friends or family to learn from.” Rosa gave the girl time to think about her words.

“My parents are kind of like the other Mary’s parents, but I have Joshua and you to love me.” Rosa’s heart broke as Mary made the painful correlation between the story and her own life.

“Oh Mare-Bear, your parents love you very much. They just get caught up in being adults sometimes which makes them forget what it’s like to be a kid.” Rosa wrapped the girl into a hug. “But you are right, your brother adores you, and so do I!”

. . .

 

John Renkin felt the full sum of his parental deficit as he listened to the conversation between his little girl and the woman he had hired to care for his children. Mary had been acting sad for several days, and now the man knew it was his fault.

He had asked his wife about their daughter’s malaise the previous evening. Rebecca seemed surprised by his observation before suggesting Rosa might be neglecting the children when no one was watching. It was that thought that had brought him home early. He was shocked to learn that his daughter did feel unloved, not by her nanny but by her parents.

As he considered from his hiding place just outside his daughter’s room, he was forced to admit the uncomfortable truth. He was seldom home and often not present when he was. His mind was trapped in his fifty-sixth-floor corner office with the needs and issues of his successful investment firm. Clearly, his wife had other priorities as well.

His thoughts were interrupted by the almost imperceptible sound of small feet approaching. John turned to see his soggy-bottomed son moving down the hall towards him still wiping sleep from his waking eyes. Putting his finger to his lips, he scooped up the boy. Quietly, he carried Joshua back towards his room.

He laid the boy down on his changing table before grabbing a fresh diaper, the wipes and a bottle of baby powder. He was pulling Velcro tabs free before he realized that he had never changed the boy’s diaper before. Fortunately, changing his son wasn’t too different from his memories of changing Mary seven years earlier.

“Up.” The boy didn’t understand or appreciate his father’s faraway look.

John was rethinking his priorities as he lifted the young boy once more. He almost ran into Rosa as he turned to leave the room.

“Oh, Mr. Renkin! I didn’t hear you come home!” Rosa was startled by the unexpected presence but relieved to find John Renkin rather than his wife.

“I decided to spend the afternoon with the children,” he said, which wasn’t the whole truth but also wasn’t a lie.

“How wonderful!” Rosa sounded genuinely happy.

“Mary, would you play with Joshua in here for a few minutes while I talk to Ms. Ramos?” John asked as he set his small son on his feet.

“Okay, daddy,” Mary said shyly as she reached for Joshua’s hand.

John watched his oldest lead his youngest towards the boy’s toybox. Mary was no longer the little girl he remembered. He sighed as he led Rosa from the room.

. . .

 

Rosa set the glass of ice water in front of her boss before sitting in the chair opposite him. She spotted some dried syrup she had evidently missed earlier and began picking at it with her thumbnail as she tried to calm her sudden nerves.

“I want to thank for taking such good care of my children, Rosa. They clearly adore you.” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, so he paused.

“They are a delight, sir,” Rosa said carefully, wondering if the man was planning to let her go.

John saw her nervousness. He often saw similar looks on the faces of his subordinates. He realized he didn’t know Rosa any better than he knew his kids. The man decided to be honest and direct.

“I heard you and Mary in her bedroom,” he said. “I have not been a good father, have I?”

Rosa tried to formulate a response that wouldn’t offend her employer. The man was obviously saddened by the realization. She didn’t care to minimize his neglect any more than she wanted to enhance his feelings of guilt.

“Your children love you, Mr. Renkin,” she finally said diplomatically.

“They hardly know me. How could they when I am never here?” John asked rhetorically.

He was struck by her composure, feeling how much his presence intimidated her. He saw the woman swallow her reticence as her eyes met and held his.

“Mr. Renkin, I love your children very much, like they were my own. They are not my children, however. They spend each day with me, and then many hours each evening. Caring for them and keeping your house is my job, and I am happy to do it. Your children need to feel their parents’ love through play, and words, and hugs, however.” Rosa had never been so direct with an employer, but she knew this may be her only chance to change the patterns of neglect in the lives of the Renkin children.

John set aside his feelings to reflect on Rosa’s words. It was a skill which had served him well. Not liking something doesn’t mean it isn’t true. He had hired Rosa Ramos to care for his kids, instead she was raising them in place of their parents. The woman was up by six each morning, and seldom retired to her upper floor apartments until well after eight each night. He had long felt that they had found a bargain in Rosa Ramos, but he realized now that they were taking advantage of her kindness.

“Rosa, I am going to talk to Rebecca about how many hours we ask of you.” He saw her face fall. “Please don’t misunderstand, you are doing an incredible job. It is my wife and I who are failing at ours. I propose that your evenings are your own once dinner is served. You are welcome to join us so we can use that time to talk about the day. We will spend the evening with our children and put them to bed. Perhaps your weekend duties should end at lunch. These changes will not affect your pay, Ms. Ramos.”

Rosa felt sad but knew the time Joshua and Mary would gain with their parents was critically important. Her sadness was for herself and the loneliness she would feel during her off hours.

It was then that she remembered Juan’s call about the boy, Micah. She realized that she would not find a better time to ask Mr. Renkin about taking in the boy for a time.

“Mr. Renkin, the children will benefit greatly from the extra time, as will you if I can be so bold.” John could feel the woman’s nervousness and panicked himself, thinking she was about to quit entirely. “My son called earlier. He is a police detective working on a case involving children. He asked if I would care for an abused ten-year-old boy they removed from a home this morning.”

“You’re quitting, then?” John said sadly, for once thinking first about his kids as he imagined how crushed they would be when they found out.

“No, Mr. Renkin!” Rosa said quickly. “I am asking for your permission to bring the boy into your home.”

John’s relief was clear. He almost said yes before considering, simply because it would mean that Rosa would stay.

“Is the boy dangerous?” He immediately regretted the question as Rosa looked at him with the same displeased look his grandmother had often given him when he was younger. “I’m sorry, I suppose it seems strange that I am suddenly worried for the welfare of my children.”

Rosa’s expression softened.

“I honestly don’t know much about the boy or his situation, but I do know mine, Mr. Renkin.” Rosa paused as she thought about her son. “If he is asking for my help, it is because he believes I can. Juan has always been pragmatic, but he is far more caring than even he realizes. I do not believe he would ask if he thought the boy was a danger to those around him.”

“You have my permission, Ms. Ramos. Perhaps Mary will even benefit from having another child her age around the house.” He was relieved that Rosa wasn’t planning to quit.

“There is one other thing, sir. The boy comes with what Juan called a protection detail.” He saw her employer’s confusion. “My son will be staying with me in the evenings, and there will be another officer here during the day. Juan can explain it better when he arrives tonight around eight with Micah.”

John Renkin wasn’t sure why a ten-year-old boy would need a bodyguard, and the thought of an armed stranger in the house made him nervous. Once again, the fear of losing Rosa made the decision for him. He nodded his head in acceptance.

He realized too late that he hadn't consulted Rebecca. He lifted the water glass to his lips, trying to drink through his sudden smile. He began planning what he would say to his wife who was certain to be upset by such an inconvenient intrusion into her peace and privacy.

. . .

 

Daniel set the stack of updates and reports aside and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t really understand the computer and lab speak, but it was clear that there was a lot to do and discover on both fronts. Stumbling onto Micah had only increased the man’s sense of urgency. Seeing the effects of trafficking first-hand was sobering and motivating. Daniel didn’t want any child to live in that kind of fear a single moment longer than they had to.

Charles Miller must have spent a lot of his time on the computer. According to Craig Andersen who had moved Charlie’s computer to the FBI’s own lab, there was an entire underworld connected by a vast labyrinth of chatrooms and message boards. The tech geeks were learning how orders, sales, and trades were orchestrated while looking for clues that might help locate at least some of the exploited boys.

Rachel Swanson’s efforts were proving productive as well although success only meant putting a name to a victimized body. Several of the boys in the photos and videos had been matched to missing persons cases. The team was reaching out to surrounding counties and states for their missing person profiles of minor boys who had disappeared in the last five years.

The progress on both fronts was promising but, it took a lot of resources to make connections and follow leads. Requesting and obtaining information was frustrating and time consuming work as well. At the current pace, it would be weeks, maybe months, before they had collected missing person reports from each of the state agencies.

Daniel needed help. A lot of help. He reached for the phone, intending to call the Hoover Building in Washington DC, but his hand paused as he heard a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he said as he sat back.

His door opened to reveal a boney young man with pale skin and jet-black hair.

“Sir, I hoped you might give me a few minutes of your time. My name is Robert Fenton. I am a staff psychologist from the sixth floor.” Daniel thought the man looked much too young for the job.

“Doctor, please.” Daniel gestured to a chair across the desk from him.

“I’m certain you are busy, Mr. Janick, so I will get right to it.” The thin man said as he sat. “I want to help.”

“With?” Daniel asked cautiously.

“Qian Chang came to see me this afternoon,” Dr. Fenton revealed. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about his session, but in it, I learned of your current investigation. I’d like to join your team full time.”

“Why, Dr. Fenton?” Daniel knew he needed help, but the boys they were hoping to save were not a curiosity.

“Because I can help, and both the boys and your team will need the kind of help I can provide. I took this job because I am passionate about helping people work through trauma to find peace. Instead, I find myself being constantly lied to by field agents hoping I will sign off on their mental stability.” Dr. Fenton paused. “I accomplished more in 60 minutes with Special Agent Chang than I have in the two years I have worked for the Bureau. Frankly, I want more. I want my work to matter.”

“Okay,” Daniel said, convinced of the man’s sincerity. “When can you start?”

. . .

 

“Do you have everything you need, Special Agent Thompson?” Melissa asked.

“Please, call me Jim. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. I hear Special Agent Thompson too much as it is.” He liked the spunky, gorgeous blond who had been tasked with caring for the twins; knowing she was in a bed nearby was going to make sleeping a challenge.

“Goodnight, Jim.” Melissa said, choosing to ignore the man’s somewhat lecherous gaze.

“Goodnight,” the man returned.

Melissa stepped into her spare room which was lit by small lamp sitting on the room’s single dresser. She looked down on the tousled brown hair and momentarily peaceful faces of the boys she was quickly becoming attached to. She and Sam had picked them up from the Macks’ house in time for an early dinner. The evening had been spent in front of the TV since neither seemed excited by the idea of going to a park.

They were sad and scared. She knew that while the immediate effects of the boy’s trauma would fade in time, their lives had been changed forever. She found herself wanting to build new loving memories for them to cling to even though she knew they would be with her for only a short time.

She leaned down to kiss Simon before moving around the bed to kiss Samuel. She wished them sweet dreams like own mother had, back when she herself had been loved. Melissa doubted the boy’s dreams would be sweet, however, and that realization broke her heart once more.

. . .

 

Sandra lay in Juan Ramos’ bed, staring at the ceiling of his downtown apartment. She had offered to sleep on the couch, but the man had insisted she take his room. He wasn’t sleeping there, so she should be as comfortable as possible in the unfamiliar space.

Until her husband’s arrest, Sandra hadn’t slept alone for almost twenty years. She found herself crying as she thought about the lonely future in front of her. Supporting Brendon was her priority. Several days of separation had helped her realize that Alan wouldn’t likely change his hateful views about their son’s sexuality. She couldn’t stay with a man who would abandon his own son.

Sandra Mack cried herself to sleep, knowing she would need to start building a new life for herself in the morning.

. . .

 

Mary Renkin was huddled under her blanket devouring Frances Hodgson Burnett’s classic story.

"Do you hear any one crying?" she said.

Martha suddenly looked confused.

"No," she answered. "It's th' wind."

She didn’t want to sleep, but her eyelids were growing heavy. The words on the page began to melt and merge into the young girl’s dreams. She could hear the crying too. The sound was coming from above her. Maybe Rosa was crying. That didn’t seem right to her. Her eyes popped open as she realized she had been falling asleep.

"There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It is some one crying—and it isn't a grown-up person."

Mary finished reading chapter five, before placing her bookmark and switching off her flashlight. She drifted off to sleep to the sounds of sorrow above. Martha was wrong. There was someone crying, and she was certain that it was a kid like her.

. . .

 

Juan sat with his mother on the small couch in her apartment on the top floor of the Renkins’ large house. They listened to Micah’s soft cries, wishing there was something more they could do to comfort him. They had each tried, but the boy only withdrew further with each attempt.

“What happened to the poor boy,” Rosa asked her sad son.

“Honestly, he hasn’t said. I think Thomas innately recognizes some of it though, which means that it was probably bad. Thomas is seventeen now, but he was abused in every way imaginable for years,” Juan kept his voice low.

Rosa was not a naive woman. She had lived a difficult life even before setting out on her own. She hadn’t personally experienced traumatic abuse, but she had known many others who had. She would do what she could to show Micah love, but she had no illusions about the difficult road they would all face in the coming days.

“I’m proud of you Juan,” she said suddenly. “You have become a good man.”

“Thank you, Mami. Thank you for everything you gave up for me. I’ve realize now how lucky I am to be the son of Rosa Ramos. My life could have been like Thomas’ or Micah’s, but it wasn’t, thanks to you.” Juan thought he was out of tears, but his ducts pushed out several more.

Rosa reached up and wiped them away.

“I love you, Juanito.” She hadn’t called him that for over a decade, at least to his face.

“I love you too, Mamacita.” Juan allowed his mother to hold him, even rocking his body a little as he soaked in her nurturing love. “Te amo más que a nada en el mundo.”

. . .

 

The light from the monitor washed over Samantha James. She was tired but knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep without purging some of her thoughts and feelings from the day. There were several thousand new words in her journal file. Not that anyone, including herself, would likely ever read them. She was surprised by the things that had poured from her mind, through her fingers, and onto the screen.

The day’s entry felt very different. It was written in the first person rather than the second and third person perspectives she typically chose. Sarcasm and humor, both tools she commonly employed to communicate thoughts, were both noticeably absent as well. She had found herself searching for unused words to describe unfamiliar feelings.

The journalist typically lived life in her head, observing and analyzing the world around her. Sam James hadn’t had time for detached observation since seeing her article on the front of The Windy City Pages that morning. Each moment of the day had been spent in the present, responding and reacting to people and events in the real time. Engaging like she had was almost intoxicating, leading her to feel things she typically only wrote about; things like love and compassion.

Samantha knew she would never again be satisfied with the isolation she had purposefully built into her life. Micah’s horror was something she had previously only read about, and never in a way that accurately conveyed the awful truth. Watching those around her step into the boy’s nightmare, willingly paying the heavy emotional cost, left her desiring to do the same. She felt inadequate, not knowing what value she could possibly add.

Her eyes read the headline she had drafted: Sons Wanted. There was a story that needed to be told, in a way that people couldn’t help but react to. Micah wasn’t a tragic case or a number in a sterile report. Micah was a real boy experiencing real, unimaginable pain. He had been a son, probably even a wanted son, until someone took him for their own evil desires.

Sam’s fingers were moving almost as fast as her thoughts. She had several days before the weekly deadline. The journalist began to record the things she had seen and felt in Carl Jenkins’ home.

. . .

 

Daniel Janick closed the front door, locking the bolt. He signed, both at the raw discomfort he felt in his bowels as well as the empty feeling in his soul. It had been a long day, and he hadn’t wanted to drink alone. He hadn’t planned to bring anyone home. He never planned on it, but it was not uncommon.

“Fuck.” Daniel wiped the inevitable tears from his cheek as he headed towards the shower.

Thankfully he had insisted on a condom. Otherwise, he’d be trying to purge the man’s seed in addition to washing his body clean of the man's scent. He thought about his life as the almost scalding water failed to wash away his shame.

The Bureau, like the Corps was not a safe place to be openly gay. He had learned to hide who he was in almost every area of his life. Daniel limited his sexual expression to casual encounters and self-gratification, both of which left him feeling dirty like he did in that moment.

He let his bladder go, hoping to flush out the final evidence of his meaningless encounter. He wanted to share himself with someone who really loved him. He wanted something real, honest, and pure. Daniel wanted Juan Ramos, but he was too scared to give voice to such an unrealistic fantasy. Even if Juan could feel something for him, their careers made it impossible to pursue anything serious or lasting. Daniel respected the young man too much for anything less.

. . .

 

Brendon pulled Thomas’ thin body even more tightly against his own. They were naked, spooned tightly together taking up only a small portion of Thomas’ large bed. Neither found the embrace overly sexual despite their arousal. Thomas longed to feel safe, while Brendon needed someone in his life who loved him as he was.

Neither spoke. The day had been emotional, full of highs and lows. Ending the day together was a new comfort for the young couple and did more to heal their individual hurts than anything else could. Eventually, Thomas broke the silence.

“I’m sorry, Bren,” he said sadly.

“Why are you sorry?” Brendon asked.

“My father hated me my entire life, but your dad loved you. I ruined it. Because of me, he doesn’t love you anymore.” Thomas’ hot tears soaked into his pillow.

Brendon Laughed humorlessly. He reviewed some remembered moments in which he knew that he was gay. Many of those memories included his best friend, but there were other moments, other bodies as well.

“I’m gay, Tommy, and that is not your fault. My dad, Alan, can’t handle it, and that’s not your fault either. He put me in the hospital and spouted his hate again today. Neither of those things are your fault.” Brendon paused to kiss the back of Thomas’ head. “You are not the problem, Thomas. You are the solution. I am gay and have the best, most amazing boyfriend in the world.”

Thomas’ body shook with each deep sob. He didn’t feel worthy of Brendon’s love, but he desperately wanted and needed it. He couldn’t imagine returning to a life void of Brendon’s support and love.

“You are my solution, too. I am gay and have the best, most amazing boyfriend in the world.” Thomas poured his love and gratitude out, making Brendon’s words his own. “I love you, Bren.”

“I know. I love you too.” Both boys allowed the stress that had been building to dissolve as their bodies melted together once more.

There was nothing more to be said in that moment. They each enjoyed the comfort the other provided before slipping into the individual battles of their own disturbing dreams.

. . .

 

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help but listen to the sad but hope-filled conversation. Roger Cicero silently made his way to his own bed. He looked around the nondescript room he had slept in for the past six years. He had moved into the condo shortly after Eddie’s sentencing. The move was meant to be a fresh start.

That start had evidently been on hold, however. Nothing in his condo held any real meaning to him beyond the teens in the next room. It was very nice, extravagant even, but it certainly didn’t feel like a home. His empty bed wasn’t inviting, instead serving as a reminder of how alone he was.

Roger turned off the overhead light before stripping to his briefs and climbing into the large, cold bed. As his body settled into the mattress, Roger Cicero felt. It was disorienting after years of feeling nothing. He hurt, but he also felt loved by Thomas, perhaps Brendon, and maybe even some of the others in his life.

“Goodnight,” he said to nobody, to everybody.

The man closed his eyes, mentally preparing for another restless night.

Eventually, sleep found him, but for the first time since his seventeenth birthday, his nightmares did not.