Between Lives - 6. Chapter 6

A week after the incident in front of Sophie's school, Will catches the early bus to Nate's house. It's been years since he's been out of bed before eight o'clock, except to stumble to the bathroom or kitchen, but this particular mission is worth the lost sleep. He's stayed away long enough, and it's time to check on the kids, whether they like it or not. He watches the sun rise over the roof of the temp agency, enjoying how the fresh clothes and hot shower have made him feel more alive. This early in the morning, the air smells different. He'd say cleaner, but that's not it exactly. Embarrassed, he can't think of the exact word he wants. All those jokes about killing brain cells that he's shared with Marty seem less humorous all of a sudden.

Before eight a.m., the hard-working people of the world own public transport. There's none of the good-natured ribbing and camaraderie shared by the later riders – the ones without nine to five jobs. The early ones bury themselves in their laptops and toss buzzwords back and forth over hushed cell phone conversations. Their self-importance is palpable. It's not too far a stretch to admit he was once the same, blind and numb to the worst of human suffering. No doubt most of these people consider him no better than the dirt on their shoes, but, curiously, he feels superior. His life is the very definition of simple, which appeals to him most days.

The buses run express routes during rush hour, so Will steps off at Nate's corner in twenty-five minutes instead of the usual forty. The sun's out now, but still low enough that most of the street is shrouded in shadow. The air is brisk, and a rainbow of fallen leaves crunch under his feet as he walks.

Nate's house is still dark, not a single light shines behind the curtains, and Will pauses, uncertain for a moment if stopping to check on the kids was a wise idea. Then he hears his name being called, a "Yoohoo, Mr. Rhodes," and he breaks out in a smile. Miss Emma's white picket gate squeaks when he pushes through, and he has to navigate a maze of potted mums on the path, but in a few moments, he's climbing the three steps to the porch and gladly accepting a mug of steaming coffee. He sits in the rocking chair next to hers.

"You're up and about early," she remarks, and he takes a sip from his cup while he forms his answer.

"Had the night shift. I was hoping to get home in time to see Sophie off to school."

Miss Emma nods and glides back and forth in her old rocking chair, her slippers skimming the uneven planks. "You made it. They should be up by now, I imagine." She pushes the sleeve of her pea-green housecoat back to look at her watch. "Nate usually walks her down at about eight-thirty. Prompt as the dawn, that boy."

Will nods. "Sophie's very lucky."

Her rocking chair creaks back and forth. "So are you."

Will cringes and covers it by taking a sip of the hot coffee. "And so am I."

"I've been sending Bran over now and again just to make sure they're doing all right. I hope you don't think that's presumptuous of me."

Will takes another sip of coffee to hide his smile. Her tone implies she couldn't care less whether he approves or not. He expects she'll soon start treating the kids as her own – which, as nice as it sounds, could lead to trouble.

A light comes on in the kitchen at Nate and Sophie's, and both he and Emma watch their shadows move behind the curtains. "As long as Nate doesn't mind. I think it's a good idea," Will says. He remembers how Bran ogled Nate that first day, and is pretty sure Nate was doing his fair share as well. Still, he makes a note to ask whether the extra attention is bothering him or Sophie. "I really appreciate you watching out for them," he says honestly.

Miss Emma studies him while she rocks in her chair. "You're quite welcome."

"Well, I better get over there." Will finishes his coffee and hands the mug back to Emma. "Thanks. That hit the spot."

She laughs and waves him off. "It was my pleasure. You have a good day now. Try to get some rest."

There it is again. Honest concern from a virtual stranger. He's witnessed more of it this last week than in the past five years. He'd forgotten what a balm it could be. It buoys his spirit and, strangely, makes him eager to see Nate and Sophie. "I'll do that. Thank you."

There's a spring in this step when he jogs down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. It's a thirty second walk to Nate's front door, and he's about to knock when he realizes how strange that might look to their nosy, if well-meaning, neighbor. He tries the knob instead. It's locked, as he expected. He knocks twice loudly. "Nate! It's Dad. I forgot my key."

The door swings open a few seconds later to reveal a frowning Nate – big surprise – and a squealing Sophie. Suddenly his arms are full of little girl. She's dressed head to toe in pink. Before Nate's inevitable questions can begin, he steps inside and eases the door shut behind him.

"Hey," Nate says, frown fading as he watches Sophie snuggle into Will's embrace.

"Good morning," Will replies, aware he's grinning like a fool. He gives Nate a once-over, and is pleased to see the shadows under the boy's eyes are nearly gone. There's color in his cheeks. He definitely looks less gaunt than he did a few days ago. And – miracle of miracles – he's smiling at Will. "I wanted to stop by and see how you guys were doing," Will says. "I hope that's okay."

"It's great!" Sophie yells, drawing out the word like Tony the Tiger. She hugs him tight with arms and legs. "We missed you."

Will returns the hug, fighting the urge to pull Nate under his arm as well. His throat is tight. Sophie smells of baby shampoo and pancake syrup, and for a moment feels so familiar that he almost calls her by the wrong name. He settles for, "I missed you too."

Nate, though still smiling, is biting his lip. "Thanks for coming by. I think Miss Emma was getting a little suspicious."

"It's only been a few days."

"I know. But Bran keeps coming over," Nate says.

Will only barely keeps the laughter at bay. "Well, that is worrisome," he agrees. When Nate's eyes narrow and his lips twitch, Will knows the boy has caught his sarcasm. He squeezes Nate's shoulder. "I just talked to Miss Emma. She doesn't seem to suspect anything. I think it's her nature to mother people."

Nate nods. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Cool."

Will puts a wiggling Sophie down, but doesn't let go of Nate. "You're looking better. And I'm glad you don't mind I came. I wasn't sure, after the other day…."

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean to—it was a horrible thing to suggest. I’m sorry."

"You don't have to apologize." The seeds of the accusation came from somewhere, but God knows, he doesn't think he can stomach the details.

Nate's smile returns. "Thanks. I do feel better." He starts back toward the kitchen, motioning Will to follow. "Sophie's doing really good in school. She's made a lot of friends."

"That's not surprising."

Nate snorted. "No."

In the kitchen, Sophie is sitting on a stool at the island, forking pieces of neatly cut waffle into her mouth. Miraculously, her shirt has escaped the dripping syrup. She grins at Will and Nate. "Leggo my Eggo," she says, holding her fork in the air before giggling into her hand.

Nate passes her a napkin and shakes his head, but Will laughs. He joins her at the island, sitting in the second rickety stool rescued from Miss Emma's garage. He's so close that their shoulders touch. Nate doesn’t say a word, and Will feels more weight lift from his shoulders. As he'd hoped, some of Nate's over-protectiveness is fading. Score one for the resilience of children. It crosses his mind to dab the syrup from Sophie's chin, but in the end all he does is push the napkin toward her. Best not to push his luck.

"I can come by every couple of days," he says. He nods his thanks when Nate puts a glass of orange juice in front of him. "We got lucky with Miss Emma's generosity, but her curiosity may be more of a problem."

Nate's staring at the floor, lips curled in and pressed tight together. "Double-edged sword," he mumbles, mostly to himself. He sighs and glances up. "I think that's a good idea, if you can spare the time. We've been really lucky, and I don't want to have it all ruined. I can pay you—"

"No!" Will cuts him off, a bit too sharply if Sophie's wide-eyed look is any indication. "No," he says, softening his tone. "No more money, Nate. Consider it a favor. A friend checking on a friend. That's the way it's going to be from now on."

Some wariness has crept back into Nate's eyes, but Will refuses to back down. "That way, or not at all," he says, reaching out to stroke Sophie's hair. She relaxes under his touch and takes another dainty bite of waffle. "I want to help you. You and Sophie. As a friend. I don't want your money."

"That's good, cause we don't have a lot of money," Sophie pipes in.

"Soph!" Nate hisses. "Be quiet."

Will winks at her. "Then that settles it."

"Why—" Nate stops himself. He shakes his head and takes Sohpie's empty plate away. "Go get your shoes on and pack up your backpack. We're leaving in a few minutes."

She pouts, looks sideways at Will, then slips off the stool and skips out the door.

Nate waits until the sound of her footsteps has faded. "Why are you doing this?" he asks.

"Because I want to."

"I'm sorry, but that's a bit hard to believe."

Will grinds his teeth, because, damn it, the kid has a point. He makes sure Nate's eyes are on him before he speaks. "There's a lot you don't know about me. That scares you, and it should. But I'm asking you to believe that I care about what happens to you. And Sophie. You haven't told me anything about why the two of you are alone, and I'm not asking you to. I think I can make an educated guess." Nate's lips thin and he wraps his arms around himself. Will steps around the island, risks putting a hand on Nate's shoulder. "The moment you want me to leave and never come back, just say the word. I'll respect your wishes. In the meantime, let me do what I can to help. Please."

Nate trembles, and his fingers clench on his arms. He won't meet Will's eyes.

"Who hurt you, son?" Will whispers.

"Daddy." Both Will and Nate spin to see Sophie standing in the doorway. Her hair has been swept up in a clumsy ponytail that's hopelessly off-center and a ragged pink backpack is clutched in front of her. Tears shine in her eyes. "It was Daddy."

Will can't help the whiplash of rage that races through him. It's no newsflash that he has his own problems, but he's never exploited a child. His stomach clenches, and sweat breaks out across his brow. For once, surprisingly, the rush of emotion isn't followed by the burning need for a drink. He swallows twice before he can speak. "Well," he says, voice rough, "I'm not going to let him do that any more."

One tear spills down Sophie's cheek. "Okay."

His anger is still alive, clawing at him, but he doesn't want to let either of them see it. "Nate?" he asks.

Nate stares at Sophie for a long time before answering. "Okay."

It's a potentially pivotal moment, but a loud knock on the back door breaks the silence. Nate swipes at his face before turning to open it. Will notices he doesn't check to see who's on the other side before sliding the lock back and pulling the door open. And because of that, he isn't surprised when Bran saunters into the room a moment later.

To Bran's credit, he picks up on the tension right away. "Bad time?" he asks, hovering in the doorway. He tilts his chin at Will. "Morning, Mr. Rhodes."

"Good morning, Bran." Will walks to Sophie and scoops her up in his arms, but leaves Nate to answer the other boy's question.

"It's fine. We were just talking," Nate says quietly.

Bran's frown says he doesn't buy the excuse at all. Curiously, the concern in his eyes makes Will feel a bit better. Trusting Nate is in good hands, he nods and turns away, Sophie still clutching at his shirt. "That's a beautiful ponytail," he says. "But just a tiny bit crooked. What do you say we get it fixed up?"

"Okay," Sophie says, speaking into his shoulder. Without waiting for Nate's approval, Will walks out of the kitchen. At the end of the hall, before he turns into the living room, he glances back. Bran has moved forward and curled an arm around Nate's shoulders. He's speaking quietly, almost whispering. A moment later, Nate nods, then swipes at his eyes again. Will rubs Sophie's back and watches, knowing he shouldn't, but the scene touches something inside him – a part that he's kept closed off for far too long, he thinks.

When Bran coaxes Nate into a brief hug, Will turns away, carries Sophie into the living room, and sets her on the couch. "All right, Your Highness. Where's your hairbrush?"

***

As it turns out, it's become Bran's habit to walk with Nate and Sophie in the morning, which is something Miss Emma failed to mention. Bran demurs when Will tells him that had been his plan as well.

"No problem, Mr. Rhodes. I'm sure you want them all to yourself. I'll take today off."

"Actually, I got a chance to see Sophie a bit already, and if you don't mind, I'd appreciate you going," Will says.

"I can manage, you know," Nate mumbles, but both Will and Bran ignore him.

"Are you sure?" Bran asks.

"The earlier I get to work, the better," Will says, completely truthfully. He's got a job lined up for the day – for once – and getting there early won't hurt anything.

"Wow. Going back already? Grams said you just got home from work."

Behind Bran, Nate freezes in the act of slipping Sophie's backpack over her shoulders.

"Very true," Will lies smoothly. "I work several jobs, Bran. Sometimes that's the only way to make ends meet."

Bran nods, and Will sees he's turning it all around in his head. He preempts any further questioning by bending down to hug and kiss Sophie. "Pay attention, but have fun," he says. "Make me proud." He's spoken those exact same words in the past, many times, in fact, and it feels natural and right to say them now to Sophie.

"I will," she promises, then drags Nate out the door by the hand. Bran follows with a grin. At the last minute, when they've reached the sidewalk, Nate stops and turns back, but Will forestalls him with a gesture, knowing already what has only just occurred to the boy.

"I'll lock the door when I leave," he says. "Do you have your key?"

Nate swallows heavily, then nods. When Sophie pulls him forward, he goes without a fuss.

Will watches until they turn the corner, fully expecting Nate to come rushing back at any moment, but he never does. The implied trust is huge, bigger than either of them is ready for, perhaps, but to Will, it's the best gift he's received in years. It might even be, he thinks, the first step toward redemption.

***

Someone trusts him. He's still riding high on the emotion when he arrives at the site. The firm that's hired him for the day is new to the area. Will's noticed their name more and more, mostly in the east end of town, where big money has been trying to reclaim the area for upscale housing and shopping. What sets this particular company apart, so Will has heard, is their alternative focus. Simple, affordable housing and middle-class retail. It's caused quite the stir.

Having his own home again is still a pipe dream, but at least this new construction is not so far out of reach to be laughable. It makes him favor the job before he's even started, which is some brilliant marketing, he thinks with a chuckle. Either that, or brilliant manipulation. Regardless, he has high hopes for today. It will be good to have some money in his pocket.

Protocol dictates he check-in with the site foreman. Skirting the edge of the property, he heads toward the trailer near the back, seeing several familiar faces along the way, knowing they're thinking the same thing he is. They're lucky to get in on this phase of the project. For those who prove themselves in the initial stages, there could be work all the way through to spring. Personally, Will can't remember the last time he thought more than a week in advance, but suddenly he's calculating the steady pay in his head, wondering how much he could spare for Nate and Sophie.

A loud yell and a crash pull him from his reverie.

"You know the rules! No drinking on the site."

"I wasn't drinking. You got it all wrong." Will frowns when he recognizes Marty's voice. He breaks into a jog just as something else shatters, and turns the corner just in time to see a large, burly man in a hardhat manhandle Marty to the ground. "You're finished, buddy! I'm calling the cops."

Will curses under his breath and rushes forward. "Wait a minute. Hang on." He slows down as he approaches, hands out. "I know this guy, okay? What's going on?"

The site foreman – Will can see his nametag now – glares at him. "He's violent, and he assaulted me!"

Will swallows a groan. He squats next to Marty and takes his arm in a firm grip, dismayed when he smells alcohol on his breath. "God damn it, Marty," he grumbles. "You know better."

"It was just one swallow," Marty says. He coughs once, then curls up in the dirt. Will pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks up, another apology on his lips. His heart jumps into his throat when he sees another man has joined the foreman and is staring disapprovingly at him and Marty. This one looks to be about Will's age, well-built, and dressed in khakis and a long-sleeved dress shirt.

"What's going on?" the new man asks.

"Caught this one drinking, Mr. Parks. And even if I hadn't, you can smell it on him."

Jon Parks. Will's familiar with the name. The owner of the whole god-damned corporation. "Only you, Marty," Will says as he drags his friend from the dirt, "could get me fired from a job before I even get to work." He slings an arm around Marty's waist and gives the other two men a clipped nod. "I apologize for this. Don't suppose you'd believe he's usually more responsible."

The foreman snorts. He dismisses Will and Marty with a wave and stalks off, but the other man – Jon – stays, feet spread and arms crossed over his chest. He jerks his chin at Marty, but addresses Will. "Friend of yours?"

It could be a test, and likely is, but Will's not so bad off that he'll turn his back on a friend. Even if guilt by association is one of the cruel truths of human nature. "Yeah. He's a friend."

"I have a few simple rules. No drinking on the job is one of them. I was sure I made that clear to the people at the agency."

Will nods. "We were told."

Jon sighs and turns his back on them for a moment. The move surprises Will, because it looks as though the guy is struggling with something, when there's really no gray area to the situation. No drinking on the site. No coming to the site drunk. He remembers having it hammered into him by the personnel at the agency.

"Are you working today?"

Will's head jerks up at the question. "I—I was going to."

Jon's eyes pin him in place. Will's happy for Marty solidness next to him, because he suddenly feels powerless to look away.

"When?"

The question is clipped, so Will gives a quick answer. "Ten to six."

Jon's left eyebrow arches. "You're early."

There's not much to say to that, but Will nods. Beside him, Marty sniffles, then stumbles. Will catches him by the arm. He hears Jon sigh. "What's your name?"

"Me?" Will asks.

Jon's mouth turns up in a small smile. "Yes," he says quietly.

"Will."

"Well, Will, I'm sorry. Your friend won't be welcomed back on the site. But if you want to take him home, then come back, I'll make sure you get the work you were promised for the day."

It's unbelievably fair. And kind. So much so that Will forgets his place for a moment and becomes like Nate, unsure and untrusting. "Why?"

Jon shrugs his shoulders. "I like you. You stood up for your friend, even though he made a stupid mistake."

Will tries to cough up a suitable response, but fails. He's stuck on 'I like you' and trying to ignore how it makes his chest tight. The very inappropriate desire to laugh steals over him. He likes Jon, too. More than he should. "No one's got a corner on the market when it comes to screwing up," he says.

Jon nods. "Truer words."

Will inhales sharply. Jon's tone doesn't drip with sarcasm, something that wouldn't be amiss in this situation. Instead, he sounds sad. Resigned. Will stares at him, taken aback by a hint of kinship that shouldn't be there, but somehow is. Jon stares back with an enigmatic smile.

"Well, I'll do that, then," Will manages after a minute. "I'll be back before you know it."

"I'll be waiting." Jon gives him one last look and turns to head back toward the trailer. With a deep sigh, Will hefts Marty against him and begins the long walk back to the bus stop.

***

It takes longer than it should to get his friend settled. Most of that is due to Marty's insistence that Will blow off the job for the day and spend the afternoon at Rick's. They're replaying the Steelers game, and wouldn't it be great to take a load off, have a few beers (come on, Will, just one), and watch the Bengals take their medicine like good little kitties.

"No," Will says, his voice firm. "You're going home."

It's hopeless, probably. Marty will likely be out of his room and down the street before Will has even made it back to the site. But he has to try. Because when people stop giving you the benefit of the doubt, there's nothing left.

The temptation to make a side trip to his own apartment for a shot or two of vodka is a physical thing, like a leash tugging him one direction, even though his feet are going in another. He doesn't dare. It would be the ultimate insult to a man who's already given him more leeway than most others would.

The bus drops him at the corner with ten minutes to spare, and he gets back to the site at the exact start of his shift, though he's panting from the long run. He stands outside the door to the trailer for over a minute, eyes closed, head bowed, trying to get his breathing under control. "I'm quitting the cigarettes." He says it out loud for good measure, like a promise.

"They'll kill you, no doubt about that."

Startled, Will opens his eyes and looks up. He's still bent over, one hand on the doorframe, but the door is now wide open and Jon is standing on the other side. Will snorts at the words. "Let me guess, you never smoked."

"Like a chimney. Pack a day. I haven't been able to cut it out completely, but I'm trying." Jon laughs when Will rolls his eyes. "Come on in. Have a seat, and we'll get things rolling."

Will drops into the cushioned seat by Jon's desk with a grateful sigh, then glances around. He's been in construction trailers before. Many of them. They tend to smell like smoke and have that cluttered, disorganized feel that would make most people believe not a kernel of organization exists, when really the opposite is the case.

Jon's trailer is different, yet the same. It's cleaner than most, and the smell of smoke is noticeably absent. The space has been split into two rooms – one larger one near the front, where they're sitting now, and one smaller near the back. Will assumes it's Jon's office. There's a coffee-maker gurgling at a small, round table, and papers are scattered into short piles over the rest of the surface.

Jon chooses a seat opposite him. The dejected look he casts at the reams of paperwork covering his desk pulls a low laugh from Will. "Looks like you need a secretary."

"Had one." Jon runs a hand through his short, brown hair. "Useless. I thought she was entering everything into the computer system. Turns out, she didn't know a damn thing about the programs I used. By the time I realized that she wasn't doing it right, the records were a month behind."

Will winces.

"Yeah," Jon says in agreement. "Don't suppose you know anything about computers?" Then he laughs.

Will doesn't laugh, though before this morning, he would have. In all likelihood, he would've shrugged his shoulders, accepted his mindless, hard labor for the day, and never looked back. He's still trying to figure out why this one morning is different when Jon cocks his head and asks, "You don't, do you?"

"Some," Will admits. "But it's been a while."

Jon doesn't ask why. "Any formal training?"

Will's bitter laugh fills the trailer. "Yeah. Some."

A weighty silence descends, one that makes Will more nervous by the moment. Regret for speaking the truth leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but he wants to be honest with Jon – and he isn't completely blind to the reason why.

Then Jon grins at him and rocks back in his chair. The spell is broken, and reality slams back into place. Why had he let his thoughts travel in such a ludicrous direction? Jon Parks doesn't look the sort to frequent the men's room at Rick's, even if he felt so inclined. In point of fact, he probably has a pretty wife, a handful of kids, and a charming house in the suburbs. He probably tries to pretend men like Will don’t exist.

Rather like Will had, in the life he led before this one.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know a thing about them these days," Will says. He waves his hand at the computer – state of the art, if his experience is worth a lick. "Technology changes overnight, you know."

"I do." Jon stands and Will almost does too, convinced the meeting is over, but Jon waves him back into his seat. He produces two mugs from a cupboard above Will's head and fills both with coffee from the pot on the table. He doesn't speak until he sits back down and pushes a red pocket folder and one of the coffee cups in front of Will. "Those are the specs for my inventory program. There's also documentation in there for some of the other programs I use. Permit tracking, city council meetings, safety inspections, that type of thing. It's supposed to be fully integrated."

Will runs his hand over the folder. He doesn't open it. Here in the trailer, the sounds of man and machine, near deafening outside, are muted. Like background music, they serve to sharpen his focus rather than distract. The aroma of the coffee soothes his nerves. He can do this. With a deep breath, he reaches for the file.

He takes several minutes to peruse the material. It's the first time in years he's touched such things, and the knowledge returns, albeit slowly. Every once in a while he glances up at Jon, but the other man waves him back to the folder and sits quietly, sipping his coffee.

When he can't stall any longer, Will closes the folder. He raises his eyes slowly to Jon.

"Your coffee's cold," Jon says. "Would you like some fresh?"

Will shakes his head. "No, thanks. This is structured very well. The individual programs you've chosen have been on the market for years, and with good reason. They're reliable, even if they're not the fanciest. But the program that integrates them . . . it's more complex."

Jon stares into his coffee mug. "Yes, it is."

"Who wrote it for you?"

"Someone who's no longer available to help me manage it." Jon set his coffee down with a sharp crack. "Is this something you're qualified to do?"

Will blinks. If, in the distant past, someone had asked him such a question, he would've laughed in their face. He'd managed people who could handle more challenging tasks. "Complex, I said. Not brain surgery."

Jon's eyes light up. "So you could?"

"Probably," Will hedges, "but so could a wide range of people. I'm sure there are plenty of qualified techs out of work who could do this."

"Are you saying you're not qualified?"

As questions go, it doesn't get much more straight-forward. Will clenches his teeth. It would be a commitment. Just the thought of it chokes him with self-doubt. Already, he can feel the beginnings of withdrawal, and he's barely been on the job an hour. "I don't think so," he answers and pushes back from the table.

Jon stands as well, sharp eyes taking in everything. He holds out his hand, and Will curses himself when, despite the awkward situation, he lets himself enjoy their handshake a little too much. Jon's palm lingers in his. "Are you sure, Will? I’m willing to be flexible on the hours."

An embarrassed blush creeps up Will's neck. So much for not being recognized as a drunk. Still, he's no fool; he knows what's being offered. What he doesn't understand – again – is why. "You have the most unorthodox hiring practices I've ever seen," he tells Jon.

Jon's grin makes a reappearance. "People have said so before, and not just about my hiring practices. But it's never much bothered me. I appreciate honesty."

Fine, then. Will can do honesty. "I think you'll be better off with someone else." It is, after all, nothing but the truth.

"And I think I want you," Jon rejoins, making Will choke in surprise. Jon gestures at the stacks of paper and at the computer station in the corner. "What do you say? A trial period? You're too young to curl up and die, don't you think?"

Mortified, Will finally jerks his hand away. "And you're too young to be treating me like a child." He doubts Jon has more than one or two years on his own thirty-six.

"Point taken." Jon nibbles his bottom lip. "I didn't mean to insult you. Will you reconsider?"

Should he? Will turns in a slow circle, taking in the mass of paper backlog. The implied weight of the responsibility makes his heart race. Feeling discomfited, he moves to the trailer's only window, barely registering the buzz of activity occurring beyond. Yesterday, he would have walked out the door. Yesterday, he would have laughed at Jon's offer. Strangely, inexplicably, today he does neither of those things.

Courage comes from the unlikeliest of places, his mother used to tell him, and for the first time in his life, he thinks he understands. If a teen-aged boy can risk everything to save his sister, then Will can take this one small step toward saving himself.

He spins around to find Jon watching him warily. "I'll do it," he tells him. "When would you like me to start?"