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High School Freak

By Aaron Grunn

Copyright 2012 Aaron Grunn

Eiso Publishing

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead or otherwise, is purely coincidental.

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Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

More Books

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"What're you looking at?"

"Nothin'," John said and stared at his shoes. He hadn't meant to look up at Smitty, but he did, and now the upperclassman was in his face.

"Yeah," Smitty said, pushing John. "You were mean-muggin' me."

"I... I..." John couldn't think of anything to say. They were in the hallway leading to his class, and if Smitty kept pushing, he would be late. It wasn't like John could push Smitty back. The upperclassman played on the varsity football team, and more importantly, he was a foot taller than John, and weighed twice as much.

"Smitty." Mr. Cox peeked his head out of the classroom. "Don't you have class to go to?"

Smitty looked at the teacher, then back at John. He leaned forward. "All right, wimp. Next time you won't be so lucky."

John kept his eyes on his shoes as Smitty brushed by him, knocking his notepad out of his hands.

"Come on John, you're late for class," Mr. Cox said in a tone that sounded disgusted.

John shuffled into class, wondering why Mr. Cox was angry with him, and sat down in his chair. He was in the back, where he liked it. In the front sat the students trying to kiss up, as well as the ones that proved too troublesome in the back. John pulled out his binder, and Mr. Cox started to drone on about biology. They were learning about insects and the process of metamorphosis. John'd already learned about this in a book he read at home, so he started to draw circles, then ovals, then lines, then a large man, then a smaller man beating the large man. He scribbled over that and turned the page.

Bored with drawing, John tilted his head and strained his eyes to look over. Sitting two seats to his right and one up was Jessica. From his seat he could see the side profile of her lips, and the tight shirt she was wearing today. _This_ was the main reason he liked sitting in the back. He went back to drawing circles, ovals, small circles in ovals, then hair and lips and legs.

"John?"

"John?"

John looked up. Mr. Cox was staring right at him. Everyone else turned and gave him weird looks. In his periphery, he could sense Jessica glancing at him. She was looking at him! Did she even know that he existed?

"Yes?" John asked, though the words only came out in a whisper. He never liked talking out loud. His heart started to beat fast.

"Speak up John," Mr. Cox said, again with a look of disgust.

"What?" John said, or almost shouted. His voice cracked. The other students jumped back, then giggled.

"Class, silence. Were you even paying attention, John?"

"I was," John said, though he knew it was a lie.

"Then answer the question."

"I couldn't... hear you... back here," John said, and gulped. He could feel himself turning red. Why did Mr. Cox always do this? Why did he want to make John look like a fool in front of the class, in front of Jessica? The class laughed again. John didn't know if it was with or at him.

"I asked if you knew the last classification of animals that undergoes metamorphosis in its lifetime."

John stared at the board. Why did any of this matter? Sometimes he wished he could undergo a metamorphosis and not be such a loser. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, most of them filled with contempt, only a few with concern. He swallowed and hoped that he wasn't beet red yet.

"Anytime, John."

The board had a list. Insects and amphibians were already taken. John knew the answer, and he knew why no one else had said it yet. But did _he_ want to say it? The eyes of his classmates and Mr. Cox burned, into him. If he said the right answer, he would only be picked on even more by the other kids in class. He looked at Mr. Cox. Mr. Cox had helped him in the hallway and John didn't want to let him down. Mr. Cox's forehead furrowed, and John realized that the teacher had a very sharp face, like a knife, with matching eyes. John also realized that Mr. Cox scared him on some level.

"Echinoderms," John said, his voice suddenly low, and he looked back down at his desk hoping that the attention would be taken away from him.

"That's correct, John. Very good," Mr. Cox said and turned to write the word on the board. John waited until he was sure he heard everyone else shuffle their bodies, and lifted up his head. Jessica's eyes were on him.

John's heart dropped. He froze and stared at her. She had brown hair down to her shoulders, green eyes, and lips that were almost too big. She smiled and John held his breath, he was sure it was directed at him, but he could feel himself turning red again, so he turned his head back down to his desk. He glanced up a few minutes later, and she was writing on her notepad. Could it be that she was looking at him? No way, he thought, she probably didn't know that he existed. Maybe she thought he was a weirdo after the exchange with Mr. Cox.

He went back to his notebook and wrote a few random words, shaded them in, and turned them into people. Girls. Or more like replicas of Jessica.

John took a look at the clock. They had ten more minutes. He tilted his head again and strained his eyes to look at Jessica.

He flinched. She was looking right at him. But she wasn't straining her eyes like him. Instead, she had twisted her body half way, as if she didn't care that she was looking at him. John glanced at his desk then back at her. She was still looking, and she smiled again. John couldn't help but smile back.

"Jessica, perhaps you would like to name the book?" Mr. Cox said.

Jessica snapped her head back to the front of the class.

John looked at the board. The topic seemed to be metamorphosis in popular culture. One of the topics was novels. Mr. Cox was _always_ trying to tie a subject to something in the greater world.

Jessica was turning red. For some reason, John felt protective of her, yet he didn't dare say anything.

"Well?" Mr. Cox said, as if he didn't care how much he tortured his students with these questions of his.

John felt a surge of anger at the teacher and leaned forward, almost out of his desk.

"Kafka," John whispered.

Jessica twitched.

"Say Kafka," John said in a louder voice.

"Kafka," Jessica blurted.

"Very good Jessica, thank you," Mr. Cox said and flashed John a smirk, before he turned to the board. "And thanks to your friend."

John swallowed hard. The smirk, almost smile, on Mr. Cox's face wasn't something he'd seen before. Mr. Cox was always serious and never smiled, he only liked to torture students with his questions, or stern stares. Did the teacher hear John giving the answer to Jessica? He usually punished such 'cheating'. Why did he smile this time?

The bell rang and John could barely hear what the assignment was over the rush of his classmates heading out. He packed his books and almost bumped into Jessica who stood right in front of him.

"Thank you, John."

John didn't know what to say. He was surprised that she even knew his name. She smelled like fruits. Her eyes sparkled and gave off a magical effect that sapped all the air out of John's lungs.

"Oh, it was nothing," John said, glad that his voice didn't crack. He was sweating, and could feel the dampness of his t-shirt. Why did his body have to react this way? Suddenly he felt blood rushing and pushed his notebook down to waist level. His mother'd warned him about all these changes, but she made them sound dangerous, like something he should hide from others. She never said anything about how embarrassing they were.

"No, it was _something_. I mean, who knows who Kafka is?"

John felt himself twitch. Was she making fun of him? Maybe she just thought he was a nerd who read too much.

"I do," he said and walked past her and out of the room. He wanted to go home, but there was one more class before school was over. He spent it coming up with equations on how to get a girl in his notebook. The bell rang, and he felt the release of tension as he walked away from the school building. He thought he saw Jessica in the parking lot, but he made sure to walk the other way. She was with a group of upperclassmen. He heard them laughing, and felt that they must've been talking about him.

He headed back home, his backpack slung over his back, staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. Spring was cutting into winter, and the day was exceptionally warm. The sweater he wore in the morning hung over his shoulders, and he could smell the flowers blooming. It was only March here in Michigan.

John liked walking through this neighborhood. It was next to where he lived, but the houses here were nice, big, and the lawns were always clean. It used to be that he'd see Jessica walking through here to her house too, but now that she'd access to a car he walked it without any enhanced views.

John stopped to observe some ants. They were running around between a crack and around some crumbs of bread. He had an impulse to step on them all, then remembered that his mother had told him to never kill anything, never raise your hand or foot in anger. He watched them break apart the crumb, and he thought about getting a job soon. If his mom would let him. He walked by them.

John's heart jumped when he heard wheels screech. This was a quiet neighborhood. People usually didn't speed here. John turned his head. A car was speeding towards him. No it couldn't be, he thought. He felt his brain tell him to run. He felt his body freeze. And the car came for him, the wheels jumping the curve. John could now see Smitty in the front wheel, a group of other upperclassmen leaning out and yelling at him. The car skidded on the grass and came to a halt. Smitty and five of his friends, all large football players, jumped out of the car.

"Hey dork," Smitty said. He was drinking a can of soda and threw it at John's face.

John ducked and the can flew by him.

"Hey, he doesn't want your drink," one of the guys said. He had a sneer, thick jaw and close-set eyes.

"What's wrong? You don't wanna drink?" Smitty said.

John looked at him. There was no way Smitty had meant to offer that drink.

"I..."

"Well," Smitty said and stepped up to him, placing a finger on John's chest. "You think you're tough when Mr. Cox is around, but how about now, huh?"

John looked at the other guys; none of them had nice faces. Perhaps this was all a misunderstanding. "I wasn't being tough. I didn't say anything."

"Yeah you did," Smitty said and pushed John. "You said I was a punk."

"N... no..." John said. He was getting dizzy. It seemed like Smitty wanted to hurt him and there was no getting out of it. John'd always been picked on, but he was usually quiet, so people left him alone after making fun of him. He'd never been beaten. Now, however, he'd an inkling that he was going to experience just that. He hated high school, why couldn't he just stay home and read? He'd learn more that way.

"Please..." John said. "I... please..."

"Aww," another thick-necked blonde boy with aviators on said from behind Smitty. "I think he's gonna cry."

Everyone laughed.

"You gonna cry?" Smitty said. "You going to tell your mommy on us?"

"No... Please, I didn't say anything."

"Yeah right," the guy with the sunglasses said. "I saw him hitting on your girlfriend in class."

"I didn't hit on her," John blurted out, knowing they must have been talking about Jessica. Didn't they hear her and her friends laughing at him earlier?

Smitty stepped forward and grabbed John's curly hair. "You were trying to score with my girl?"

"N... no."

Smitty cocked his fist.

John looked around, but it seemed like there was no one around to help him. His mom had always told him not to fight, not even to defend himself. He closed his eyes.

The sting and punch took him out for a second, and he felt some of his hair being torn from their roots, then the ground smacking him on the ass. Pain shrieked through his body. It was then that he felt a surge unlike ever before. It was anger, and energy—like he was flying through the air. This feeling scared him even more than Smitty. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could.

Then the feeling evaporated, and he looked up.

Everything was different, quiet. Smitty and his friends were no longer looking angry. Two of the boys were piled on top of each other on the grass with their jackets ripped, and bloodied faces staring at the sky. Another was on top of the dented car roof, groaning. Yet another was face down in the grass next to the car. The fifth one was lying half inside the car, half out, in the broken windshield. Smitty was in front of him, looking up and shaking his head. His face trickled with blood.

"No, don't," said Smitty.

John looked at Smitty, stunned. John then realized that his hand was cocked behind his head. He lowered it and stared at it. It felt like it wasn't his hand. And yet it'd blood all over it.

"No," Smitty said again.

John turned and ran back to his house as fast as he could. If his mom found out about this he was going to get into some serious trouble.

He got to his small apartment on a crumbling building at the edge of the neighborhood. It was like a different world here. You crossed a street and suddenly the beautiful lawns were gone and there were beer bottles broken on the ground and cigarette butts between.

He opened the door to his apartment and was glad to see that his mom hadn't come back. Not that she usually came back early, but sometimes she did and today he didn't need that. He washed his face and after he was sure he looked presentable, he cooked up dinner.

Cheese and macaroni. He loved it, and his mother never complained that she had food for her when she got back. He touched the lip that Smitty had cut with his punch. It'd healed up completely; he touched it again, and ran to look at the mirror. It was as if he'd never been punched. He had always been special, his mother always told him, but _this_ was weird.

John decided that perhaps he hadn't been punched at all. He finished his homework and started to work on a few equations that he'd been hatching up.

"Hi sweetheart."

John ran out to the living room and hugged his mom.

"Hi mom. How was work?" He looked at her and smiled. He loved it when she arrived from work, and especially loved her face when she smiled.

"Great honey, how was school?"

"Nothing. I made some food for you."

"Oh honey." His mother smiled. "You are such an amazing kid. You know that?" She kissed him on the forehead.

John blushed; he loved it when he could make her happy. He wished that she would smile more, but she always seemed to be thinking thoughts that made her sad. Sometimes he'd catch her staring into the mirror, tracing her finger over a wrinkle, and sighing deeply. It hurt his heart to see that. He'd seen pictures of her when she was younger, always smiling, always looking young and pretty. There'd never been, however, any pictures of his father. And if he asked about _him_ , she would shut down. John always wondered if it was his dad who made her sad.

They ate dinner with the television playing.

"How's that girl you're always talking about?" his mom asked.

"Mom. It's no one." John felt himself getting red.

"You should talk to her," his mother said, playfully tapping his shoulder.

"No mom," John said forcefully and stared at his plate.

"Well, that's what your mother thinks," she said and went back to eating.

John looked up, he didn't mean to be so mean. His mother was picking at her food. "I'm sorry mom, I didn't mean it." He touched her arm. "I don't know about the girl. I don't think she likes me, though."

His mother nodded. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"You should be more confident," she said.

John shrugged.

After they were done, John cleared the table and pulled out his books and started to study in the living room. His mother sat and read a book. John could feel her looking at him.

"What are you working on? You're always so into those numbers."

"It's an equation for data manipulation, mom," John said, and then kept quiet. Whenever he talked about these equations his mother would look at him like he was someone she once knew. And it wasn't in a good way.

A loud knock sounded on the door.

"Are you expecting anyone?" his mom asked.

"No," John said, turning back to his equations.

He heard his mother unlock the door and heard a man talking to her.

A pause ensued and John sensed tension drifting his way.

"John, honey, can you come here for a second, please?"

John felt a jolt in his chest. He knew when his mom sounded stressed.

John got up and came to the door. There was a policeman in front and Smitty was behind him.

The policemen looked at John, then Smitty.

"This him?"

Smitty was staring at the ground. He glanced up at John, then stared back down at the ground. "Yes."

"John," his mother spoke. "This young man says you beat him and his friends up. Is this true?"

John stared at Smitty. Why would he rat him out like this?

"Sorry mam, it's obvious that my son is trying to pull some joke," the policeman said then rapped Smitty on his head. "You mean to tell me this boy beat you and five of your friends from the football team up? Huh? He probably weighs one-twenty, max."

"One thirty five," John blurted out.

The policeman looked at him and smiled. "Of course," he said. He slapped Smitty on the head. "Get in the car. Now!"

Smitty turned and left.

"Sorry about that mam. And you too." He gave a half smile to John. "Take care."

John's mom closed the door and as John turned to go back to his books he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"John, what happened between you and that boy?"

"Nothing," John said, trying not to turn or to look at his mom. She always had this ability to drag the truth out of him. She would stare at him, and he would start to squirm.

"John, look at me."

John turned.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I... They... They started it."

"So you _did_ do that. To that boy, and five of his friends?"

"They started it. They came at me and even when I said please they—"

"John!" his mom said, so loudly it seemed to startle even her. "What did I tell you about fighting?"

John looked down. His mother grabbed his arm. "Answer me, dammit!"

John jumped. He'd never heard his mother swear.

"Not to do it," he said.

"Not even to defend yourself, right?"

"That's right."

"Then why did you disobey your mother?"

"I didn't."

"Don't lie to me, John."

"I... It wasn't me. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them they were lying everywhere. I swear ma, it wasn't me." John felt a tear coming down his cheek.

He felt his mom's eyes all over him.

"I'm sorry honey." His mother hugged him. "I'm sorry."

"I don't know what happened."

"It's okay."

John shook, then felt his eyes dry up. "And look." He showed her his lip. "He punched me and there's nothing."

His mother nodded; she was looking at him like he was another person again.

"What is it mom? Why am I such a freak?"

His mother stared at him, mulling something over in her head. "I told you that you were changing, right?"

"Yes, but they didn't talk about this in class."

"I know, but you're..." His mother rolled her eyes up to think of a word. "Special."

"How? Why? I don't want to be special."

"Listen, John. Promise me you won't get into a fight again. If someone wants to fight, you just run away. All right?"

"Why do I..."

"John! Promise me, okay?"

"Okay, I promise."

"And don't stay in school any longer than you have to. You come home right away."

"But..."

"John! Promise me."

"All right, I promise."

"Good. You don't want to move again, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Then please, listen to me."

The next day at school John tried to keep his head down and not look up. In biology class, he couldn't help but want to see Jessica again. He waited until Mr. Cox turned to write on the board before he tilted his head and strained his eyes to see Jessica.

She was looking right at him. Smiling. This time, for some reason, John didn't look away; he stared right at her and smiled back. His heart raced. It felt good. There was a tightening sensation in his chest, but there was also giddiness in his head. Mr. Cox droned on for the rest of the class. John didn't pay attention and managed to get a few more looks at Jessica.

Only towards the end of the class did he remember what his mother had said about keeping his head down. Then he thought about Smitty and how he'd said Jessica was his girlfriend. John couldn't get into any more confrontations. That thought in his mind, he ran out of class as soon as the bell rang.

Walking home, down the same road, he stopped to look at the ants that he'd observed the day before. The wheels from Smitty's car had smashed half of them. John wondered why the world was so cruel. He placed his hand above the ants hoping that somehow he could make them feel better. Then something started to happen. Like the day before, he felt a surge. This time, however, he kept his eyes open and watched as the ants started to move towards his hand.

Did they think he had food? No, ants didn't do this, not that John had seen or read, anyways. The ants got in a circle, then in a pile, then they started climbing towards his hand, one on top of the other. John held his breath.

The rumble of a car engine sounded. John glanced up, half expecting to see Smitty's car. But turning the corner of the otherwise abandoned street, was an old, shiny car that emitted a deep growl as it throttled. The man at the steering wheel didn't seem familiar. He didn't have the appearance of a man who belonged in this neighborhood, or the town. He had a face carved like marble, a wide jaw, and a large gorilla-sized hand on the steering wheel.

Except for a few birds, the neighborhood seemed quiet, as if it was holding its breath just for his sake. John stared at the houses with their perfectly placed trees and soulless windows. This man did _not_ belong here with these houses. His mother had warned him to be wary of men who seemed out of place. It had been the reason they left the last place: he'd mentioned an odd man in a suit and before he knew it, they moved here.

John turned his attention back to the man and the car. There was something about the stranger that drew John to him. He stepped out on the road. He knew what his mother would say: run away, but he couldn't, not this time.

The car picked up speed and came to a halt next to John.

John stared at the man. The man sneered, and looked every part as mean, but he somehow seemed like a friend. The man's dark brown hair shone in the light, and his almost-black eyes seemed to glow. John assumed it was from a special pair of contacts like some kids wore to school; though this man seemed to be too old to be a raver. His face and hands had scars all over them, and he had a leather jacket on and a day's worth of stubble. The car, close now, was an Impala. It was a car from the seventies, if John guessed correctly.

"Hey there young man," the man said. He glanced over to the skid marks in the grass, where Smitty had confronted John and stuck out his lip, nodding in an approving manner.

"Hi," John said uncertainly.

"What?"

"Hi."

"Better learn to speak up."

A strange aroma hit John's nose, and he realized that something was wrong about the man. He took a step back, and yet he felt like it was too late to run. "Who are you?" John asked.

"You don't recognize me?"

John looked over the car again. In the backseat he noticed an ax and the barrel of a shotgun sticking out from under a tarp. "Who are you?" John asked, surprised that he was so calm.

The man grinned, revealing three teeth that were gold.

"I saw what you did to those kids. Nice work. One against five, not many people can do that. Not when the five each outweigh you two to one."

"Y...you saw?"

"Oh, I watched. Like I said. Bravo," the man said, smiling again. Though this time John felt there was a certain level of sarcasm behind it.

"What did you see?"

"Oh that's right, you had your eyes closed," the man said and laughed out loud. It was a raspy engine-starting laugh. "How many people in the world can do what you did with their eyes closed, huh?"

John was starting not to like this man. "A few."

"A few?" Again he laughed. "I would dare say no more than one. You?"

"You can do it?"

"Oh, I wish I could." The man shook his head and stared at the road in front of him.

A car honked its horn and the man snapped his head with a deep sneer on his face.

Behind the Impala was a car of upperclassmen, and John could see Jessica in the back. He didn't know what to do. Whoever was driving decided to honk the horn again.

"I think they want you to move," John said to the man.

The man huffed through his nose, stepped out of the car, bumping John out of the way and raised his hands. "Honk the horn again, kids."

The man, now that he was standing, was huge in a menacing way. It wasn't just extra pounds, but the width, the wingspan-of-an-albatross-shoulders, and the way he moved lightly on his feet. He was at least over six and a half feet tall. The car full of kids had nothing but white eyes, and they immediately reversed the car and sped off.

"Punks," the man muttered. "Is everyone at your school like this?"

John shrugged. "You shouldn't be so mean."

The man looked at John. "I should be like you instead eh? Send those kids through a windshield?" the man said with a chuckle and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He packed them with a cusped hand, pulled out one, offered it to John who refused, and lit it for himself.

The man got back in the car. John didn't want him to leave. There was something pulling John to him.

"Who was the other person like me?" John asked.

The man regarded John as if it were he who was acting out of line and started to adjust his radio. "The channels in this town are crap," the man said.

"You're being rude. Who were you talking about?"

The man chuckled when John said rude and fiddled with the car radio some more. He pushed his cigarette out of the car and tapped ashes on John's feet.

John felt anger rising. He knew what his mother had said, but it seemed like the right thing to do. He grabbed the cigarette and threw it into the lawn behind him; with his other hand, he grabbed the man by his collar. The man must have weighed two and a half times his weight, but John felt no fear running through his bones. In fact, he felt like he could do anything to this man.

The man grinned and put up his hands. "Please, don't," he said in a whimpering voice, then broke out laughing.

"You're crazy," John said.

"Me?" the man said as if he was truly shocked and laughed even harder. When he was finished, he shook his head.

John twisted the jacket even more.

"Easy," the man said, some level of seriousness returning to his voice. "Christ, you really are your father's son."

John pulled his hand away and felt dizzy. He leaned against the car door. "My father?"

"You're just like him."

"You knew him?"

The man studied John for a second. "Yes, of course."

"My father?" John repeated, not believing what was happening. "I was like him?"

"You are."

John fell backwards and landed on his ass on the sidewalk. His vision was darkening on the sides.

"Easy kid."

"You said are," John said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a chamber inside his head.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"My mother never talks about him."

"She hasn't told you anything?" the man said, anger filling the ends of his words.

John shook his head.

"That bitch," the man said to himself. He shifted the car into gear and squealed off.

John, energy returning to his muscles, jumped and sprinted after the car. He could hear the engine revving up. John ground his teeth and suddenly he was next to the car. He reached in and grabbed the man. The man was surprisingly pliable and the car screeched to a halt.

"Take it easy, kid."

"Why did you say that about my mother."

"I'm sorry. But I'm sure she wouldn't want you hurting me, would she?"

John let go of the man. "No."

"Good," the man said.

"Who are you?"

There was only the smell of rubber as the man peeled out and turned out of sight.

As soon as John got back home, he went into his mother's dresser. He wasn't allowed in there, but he didn't care. He pulled out her clothes and looked through them. Nothing. Then he saw a brown wooden box. Locked. He stared at it. He remembered, from the Internet, how to pick a lock.

After rummaging through his study desk for some paper clips, he found one and hammered the end of it flat. Then he started to jiggle the keyhole to the lock. Tumblers. It all came down to jiggling the tumblers out of place and opening the lock like a key would. After twenty minutes, he felt the click and opened the box. This was forbidden, and if his mother knew about it, she would be furious. But that man had known too much, and if his father was alive—that man had used the word 'are'—then John would find him.

When he opened it he found a pile of letters, opened. He stared at the postmarks. All of them were addressed to his mother. He wondered if he should read them. He didn't feel right about doing that, so he set them aside. He saw four passports, and rifled through them. They were his mother's. From Poland, Sweden, Brazil, Switzerland. Some of them had different names, but they all had her picture in them. Why would she have this? Were they different pronunciations of her name? He wasn't entirely certain.

Then he saw a stack of photos. He looked at them. His mother when she was young. One was of a baby that must have been him. He stared at the baby. All babies looked alike to him. Then he saw an old bent photo of his mother and what must have been his father. He was holding a baby and smiling. John's heart jumped. The smile—John knew it immediately. It was exactly the same smile as the man he met today had. The men didn't look exactly the same, but there were some obvious similarities: the size for one, the jaw for another. And then there were the similarities to John. The eyes, the way his father was holding the baby, smiling, but with a certain apprehension. His eyes weren't looking at the camera, but above it. And they weren't looking more so than examining details. His pants were jeans, straight-legged. He had a yellow sweater wrapped around his shoulders and was wearing a green long-sleeve shirt. There was no sign of a watch. For some reason that seemed odd.

John's mother, meanwhile, was looking right at the camera, smiling, so joyful, her eyes completely glazed over, as if she was trying to tell the world that this day was the best, and the ones after would be better. Her arms tried to reach around the man, who John assumed was his father, but they didn't go all the way around. Instead her hands gripped the man's shirt and pulled down. She must have been certain that no matter how much weight she placed on the man, he would never go down. Her dress, a white one with yellow flowers, was pushed against the curves of her body by the wind. The man's hand, the one not holding the baby, appeared on one side of his mother's dress.

The background of the photo was hard to ascertain. There were rolling green hills and white-capped mountains. It could have been anywhere.

John flipped the photo and saw that there wasn't any writing. He sighed and looked at the front again. This had to be his father. So what was the man, a possible relative, doing here?

"Hi honey," his mother said as she entered the apartment. She had a pizza box in one hand and her purse in another. "I brought us some pizza."

John glared at her. She'd told him once that his father was no longer with them. Of course that could mean anything, but this meant that she had misled him.

"Honey, what's wrong?" his mother said as she put down the pizza on the table.

John wasn't certain what to say. He'd placed everything back where it belonged, everything except for the photo. That was on the table, underneath the pizza now.

"John, say something. Was it school? Was that boy bothering you again?"

"It wasn't school," John said.

"What was it then?" his mother asked as she hugged him.

John didn't return the hug.

"You lied."

"What? Honey, please don't say that."

"You lied," John said, this time louder.

"About what?" his mother asked and looked around the place as if she was expecting a surprise.

"About dad."

It was as if the word held a power over her. It took a split second for the recognition, and another before the color was sapped from her face. "Why do you want to mention him?"

"He is my father, right? And you said he was dead."

"He... I... What happened, John?"

John walked over to the table and lifted the pizza box. The photo, stuck to the bottom of the box, floated down to the table.

She stared at it like it was an evil talisman. "What are you doing with that picture, John?" she whispered.

John hadn't been certain whether the man in the car had been lying, or his mother, but looking at her face told him it was her. "You said he was dead, when he's not."

"John, did you go through my things?" his mother asked in a voice that was finding its volume again.

"You said that..."

"John, I told you never to go through my things," his mother said, a hint of violence in her voice.

John could hear his mother's anger, and usually that was enough to silence him, but he didn't feel any need to keep quiet today. "I've never even seen a photo of him, and I thought it was because you didn't have one." He pointed at the photo. "Is that him?"

His mother was staring at him.

"Mom! Is that him?"

"Yes."

John picked up the photo again and stared at it. Now that he was certain, knew without a doubt that this was his father, he took in the man's face again. He tried to smell the picture, or picture what the wind whipping about his mother's dress must have felt like. "Is he alive?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, as she sat down at the table and stared at the back of the photo.

"You don't know where he is?" John asked, disappointed.

"No."

"Why didn't you show it to me? Why don't you ever talk about him?"

"I don't want you to know anything about him," she said.

"So he was right."

"Who?" his mother asked as she jerked out of her trance to shoot a sharp look at John.

"The man, today."

"A man asked you about your father?"

John could hear the edge on her voice.

"No, he mentioned him. Said I was just like him."

"John," his mother stared at the door. "What did this man look like?"

"A little like dad. Very big, and he laughed like he was crazy."

She didn't seem to relax. "What did he say?"

"He saw—"

A knock came on the door. It wasn't any knock but a hard raspy, shake the door off the hinges knock.

John started for the door, but his mother placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her. She was trembling, and placed a finger on her lips to tell him to be quiet.

The knocking got louder.

John watched as she walked into the bedroom and came out with a gun in her hand. He had to look twice. He'd never seen a gun here before. Weapons were something else that she told him not to touch. Part of him was angry that she would tell him so many things, and yet violate the same rules herself. She was starting to act like all the kids and teachers he hated in school.

The knocking now resembled kicking. John wondered who could have been on the other end. Unfortunately they had only one exit: the door.

"Honey, get behind me," his mother said.

"Mom, what're you going to do?"

"If something happens, just run, okay?"

John felt his insides churning. He felt light-headed, and all the energy drained from his body. What did his mother mean?

"Who is it?" his mother finally said.

The knocking slowed down, but there was no answer, and the door continued to shake.

John's mother leaned over to the door and put on the chain.

"I can hear you," a man on the other side said.

It didn't sound like the man John had met earlier in the day. He wanted to tell his mother that, but the knocking started back up.

"Tell him to leave us alone," John whispered. The parking lot next to their apartment building was frequently used by teens trying to get drunk, or junkies shooting up. Occasionally there were a few who would knock on the door. They usually left when John or his mother threatened to call the police.

"We're going to call the police," his mother said.

"Katherine, open up."

This time it was as if his mother was hit by a wave. She stared at the door as if it was transparent. Then stepping back, the gun still pointed at the door, she cracked it open.

"Tom?" She undid the chain and opened the door. The man from earlier in the day stepped inside. She locked the door then looked at the man.

John nodded at the man who nodded back. John could see that his mother knew him. His mother hugged the man, then pointed the gun at him again. John stared on. Sometimes adults just didn't make sense.

"Easy, Katherine." Tom had his hands raised.

"You scared the hell out of me," she said, now holding the gun as if she was going to shoot him.

John felt confused. How she could hug him, then act like she wanted to hit him? She hit the man twice, and he snatched the gun away from her.

"No playing with this in front of me."

"You're an asshole for knocking like that," his mother said, still acting angry, though she smiled when she finished the sentence.

Tom let out a howling laugh, and his mother hit him again.

"You shouldn't scare her like that," John said, his voice hitting a new record for bass.

Tom flinched and raised his hands. "You're right little man. Sorry Katherine."

His mother just smiled. And John saw a look of pride swell up in her face, and she flashed a smirk at Tom. John wasn't certain why.

"So who are you?" John asked.

"Is this how you treat guests?" Tom said. "I need a drink," he said with a smile.

John's mother went into the kitchen and came out with some water.

"Vodka, eh?" Tom said with a smile. He took a sip and pantomimed gagging. "Water? You really _are_ angry with me," he said.

John smiled too, then remembered that he was supposed to be angry at both of them. They were keeping _something_ from him.

"Stop it, you," John's mother said and hit Tom on the arm.

For John, it was weird to see his mother act like this, as if she was a young woman, as if she was no longer his mother. He didn't like it.

"Sit down," she said and pointed at the couch.

"You didn't answer my question," John said, louder this time, and he stepped so that he was blocking Tom's path to the couch.

Tom glanced at John's mother. "You really haven't told him anything, have you?"

John's mother let out a huff of air. "What do you expect?"

"He has to know," Tom said.

"You know I'm in the room," John said, feeling blood rush to his head. "You can answer my questions without treating me like a child."

Tom raised his eyebrows and looked at his mother.

"He's your uncle."

John stared at him, then walked to the table and picked up the photo. His initial instincts had been right. "So why didn't you say that to begin with?"

"Honey..."

"Don't honey me," John snapped. "Why was I kept in the dark about my own father?"

John's mother didn't answer, and Tom gave her the raised eyebrow look and walked to the couch.

"He's so much like him it's scary, eh?" Tom said. "Can't keep him away from what he is, Katherine."

John could feel his mother gazing at him like he was another person again. Was that it? All the times she gave him that stare, had she been thinking about his father? And what was so wrong about being like his father, his flesh, the man who gave him life? Was it a crime?

"Huh?" John said.

"I'm sorry honey."

"Is he still alive?" John asked, this time looking at Tom, who was looking over the couch.

"I think so," said Tom.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Why should I believe that?"

"I. Don't. Know," Tom said.

"No one knows, honey," his mother said.

John was unsure as to what to say, or how to react. The thoughts in his head were swirling in a vortex, and he couldn't understand anything. He rushed out of the living room and to the bedroom and buried his head in the bed.

He could hear them talking and was mad that they were talking as if nothing had happened. Of course, he knew that he would be mad if they'd talked like they were concerned, and angrier still if they came in here to console him. He wanted to be away from them, and also be around to see them suffer his being away. Nothing he was feeling made sense.

He fell into a fitful sleep and woke up to hear more voices. He walked into the living room and saw his mother sitting on the couch with Tom. A half-finished bottle of wine stood between them, and John noticed that his mother's eyes drooped half shut.

"John!" she said and opened up her arms.

John had never seen his mother drink and stepped carefully towards her. He glanced at Tom and gave him a mean stare.

"Easy kid," Tom said and laughed. "He's gonna rough me up Katherine, and you're the only one who can stop it."

"You're an amazing son, you know that?"

John sat next to his mom and felt her arms around him. Her breath smelled like alcohol. She kissed him on the cheek.

"Isn't he great?" she asked Tom.

"He's becoming a man," Tom said, raising his glass of wine. "You want a sip?"

"No, Tom," John's mother said.

Now John wanted to sip, so he took the glass from Tom's hand and drank. It was a foul concoction. John scrunched up his face and swallowed it.

Tom laughed, and John's mother took the glass away from him. "That's enough."

In his throat, John could feel the liquid working its way into his blood, sinking to his stomach, and suddenly he was light-headed.

John smiled.

"Like it?" Tom asked.

John swayed his head. "A little."

"Well, you be careful. Drinking isn't good for you," his mother said.

John felt there was some hypocrisy somewhere in there, but he didn't say anything. He wanted to ask questions, but instead he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was morning.

He kept his head down for most of school. During biology class he expended a lot of energy trying not to look Jessica's way. Mr. Cox was talking, and though John usually never tried to participate, and hated it when he was called on, he felt the urge to say something in class. But not just anything. He thought about his mother's hypocrisy, and somehow that tainted not only every word and order she'd dictated to him, but the words that every adult ever spoke to him. And suddenly he wanted to strike down everything that they, Mr. Cox included, said. And in addition to that, having seen Tom's easy manner, and knowing that he was John's blood, similar to his father, gave him a lot of verve. He wanted to be bold like that.

"And these plants that grow on the sea bed..." Mr. Cox spoke.

"They aren't plants," John said, his voice hitting another new low. He could even hear and feel it rumble off the other students' desks. He knew that Mr. Cox hated it whenever someone talked without raising a hand, or interrupted him.

"Excuse me?"

"I _said_. They're not plants. They're classified as animals," John said and stared Mr. Cox right in the eye. John could feel the looks of everyone on him. But he didn't care about them.

Mr. Cox was speechless for a second. "Is... Is that a fact?"

"It is," John said, then made a point of looking down to his notepad and pretending to be unconcerned with the rest of the class.

"All right," Mr. Cox said and rifled through his book then returned to his lecture.

When the bell rang, John got up only to find his path impeded by Jessica.

"You're quick," she said.

"What?" John asked.

"I said: you're quick. You're hard to catch. I always see you going."

John stared at her. "Well it's me, I guess."

"Do you not like me?" she asked.

John, so confident after the altercation with Mr. Cox, didn't know what to say right now.

"I don't know," he said, as if to himself.

"Are you walking home today?"

"Yeah."

"Do you mind waiting for me? Out near the parking lot?"

John nodded then watched as she walked out of the room, her hair bouncing. He took his steps slowly as he exited through the same door.

"Be careful."

John glanced up to see Mr. Cox looking at him and smiling.

"What?"

"I said, 'be careful'."

John said "sure" and moved on to his next class.

When school was over, he sat out side near the parking lot. Was this real? Everything that had been happening lately seemed like something from a dream. He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes since school ended. Was it a joke? Was she going to drive by and laugh at him?

John felt himself getting red. What would he do then? He should listen to his mother and just keep his head down.

"Hi there."

John looked up and saw Jessica.

"Hi," he said.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Parker kept me after class."

"Oh. He's a prick."

Jessica laughed. "For a quiet guy, you can be confrontational sometimes."

"I guess," John said. His mind refused to work in front of her. He couldn't think of what to say next.

"You had Mr. Parker already?"

"Yeah. Calculus."

She screwed up her face like she was confused.

"Aren't you a freshman?"

"Uh huh."

She smiled. She seemed nervous.

John took in the students walking by him. He could feel them looking at him. Probably wondering what she was doing with someone like him. There was no way he could relax with the eyes of the school on him.

"Let's walk," he said and started to walk back to his home. He wasn't certain if she was going to follow. To his surprise she skipped, caught up to him, and walked beside him.

They left the school grounds and were soon heading through the neighborhood that he always moved through.

John saw the skid marks in the grass left by Smitty's car. He flinched as he remembered what was said about Jessica. "Are you Smitty's girlfriend?"

Jessica reacted to the question like it was made of rock. "Smitty? The football player?"

"That's the one."

"No. Who told you that?"

"No one," John said, almost wanting to smile.

"Who was that guy yesterday?"

John remembered the altercation, and again started to feel blood rushing to his face.

"He looked like a friend of yours," she said.

John grinned. "You could call him that."

Jessica laughed. "That's no kind of answer. Who was he?"

John paused. He loved the way she threw her head back to laugh. "He's my uncle."

" _He's_ your uncle?" she asked.

"I..." John paused. Could he trust her? "He is," he said, turning away from her. A cold wind blew, and he could smell her. Her aroma squeezed his insides; though he wasn't sure how. It was a flower-like perfume and something more organic. Whatever it was, it was titillating.

"He's mean."

"Did he scare you?"

"No, I wasn't scared, but Jerry was scared out of his wits. That car he had, was it a 1970 Impala?"

John wasn't certain. "Yes."

"That's an awesome car."

"You're into cars?"

"I love cars. Your uncle's car is one I've always wanted to drive."

"Well, I'll ask him."

"Thank you," she said and tilted her head at him.

John gulped. Was this really happening?

"Are you going to do the biology homework?" she asked.

"The one due on Friday?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe," John said. It was another boring assignment.

"Maybe?"

"Mr. Cox doesn't know how to teach."

She stared at him for a second, as if she was trying to make up her mind. He felt himself squirm.

"You really just do what you want," she said.

He didn't know how to reply.

"Well if you want to do the homework with me—"

"Jessica!"

They looked up and from the second story of Jessica's house, her mother's upper body leaned out.

"I'm coming mom!"

"You need to finish the lawn."

"Well let me know," she said, hugged him briefly pressing her breasts against him, and ran into her house.

John waved at Jessica's mother, who was now regarding him with something that bordered on hostility. She disappeared, and John looked down on his clothes. His jeans and shoes had holes, and his hoodie had a skull drawn on the front. They were baggy clothes, not because he was trying to look like a gangsta, but because his mother refused to buy him clothes he would outgrow within a year. He was sure that Jessica's mother, living a rich life, thought he was not the kind of guy for her daughter. Best to leave her for the Smittys of the world. His heart sank.

On the way home he tried to recreate the way Jessica had smiled at him, hugged him, and the aroma she emitted. Did she really want to do homework with him? Again there was a bulge that embarrassed him, and he walked with his book bag held in front of him the rest of the way home.

In the parking lot he looked at the Impala. He would ask his uncle to teach him something about the car. It was about time that he got his learner's permit anyways, though he was sure his mother wouldn't allow that either. He liked knowing that his uncle was around. It made life, somehow, seem fuller.

"Hey there," John said and threw his book bag down.

His uncle was reading a novel on the couch.

"What're you reading?"

" _Ulysses_ , great book, you should check it out sometime."

"I read it."

Tom stared at him for a few seconds. "I believe you," he said, then shook his head. "Christ, kid. Do you have any fun? Or do you just read?"

"Just read."

"Why?"

"Life sucks otherwise," John said and joined him on the couch.

"You're young, you should be out there having fun."

John shrugged his head.

Tom leaned forward and sniffed John.

"Stop that," John said.

"You smell like pussy."

"She's not pussy," John said, offended that his uncle would use such a word.

"You do," Tom smiled and shook a finger at John. "You little dog you. You used a condom, right?"

"No!" John said, turning red. He couldn't believe this.

"No, eh? You dirty dog, you."

"Stop it," John said, squirming in place.

"All right," Tom said, that crazy laugh filling the apartment again. "What's her name?"

"Jessica."

"Cute? Perky tits?"

"Don't talk about her like that. She's nice, and has a great smile."

Tom screwed his face like he didn't understand, or like John was crazy. "Right, but she's cute, I bet."

"She is, but I only like her because she's nice."

"Right," Tom said, sounding like he didn't believe John.

"It's true."

"Yea, yea, yeah, of course it is."

John shook his head and looked away.

"Can you teach me something about your Impala?"

"Why?"

"She likes it. She was in the car you yelled at yesterday."

"Why's she hanging out with those dorks?" Tom twisted his lower face and looked up like he was pretending to think really hard. "Oh, wait, she was the one in the back, right?"

"Yes."

Tom laughed. "She was cute. I'm sure she has a great personality too."

John waited for his uncle to finish laughing. He didn't like that he laughed at almost everything. "Are you going to teach me about the Impala?"

"Sure. Nice personalities love the Impala."

John, not understanding what it was that his uncle was trying to say, pursed his lips and waited for more. If his uncle wanted to speak like a madman, then he would let him.

"Well, what do you want to know?"

"Is it a 1970?"

"Hell, no. It's a 1968. She say it was a '70?"

John nodded, feeling like he was betraying Jessica.

"Not, too bright, eh?"

"She's smart."

Tom stared at John.

"Well, let's take a spin," Tom got up.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Tom said, a grin on his face.

They got in. "Are there any seatbelts?" John asked.

"Seatbelts are for losers. Remember that."

John felt something heavy on his chest, but that was soon replaced with a thrilling feeling as Tom squealed the car out of the parking lot and into the road. Several cars swerved out of the way.

"Are you nuts?" John yelled.

Tom yelped at the top of his voice, and they went screaming out of town. Within a few minutes they were in the middle of farm country. Tom drove until they reached a windy road, before pulling to the side.

"Switch."

"What? I can't drive. I don't have a license," said John.

"You do now," Tom stepped out and pulled John's door open. "Get out. You walk home, or you drive home."

"You can't do that," John said, staring at his uncle, scared like he was when he first saw him.

"Come on kid. I'm gonna show you how to drive."

John got out and sat in the driver's seat. He could see over the wheel. That was good.

"All right, it's manual, so that makes it harder to learn. You know the levers?"

"Yeah," John said. He'd memorized them for a class, though he couldn't remember now.

"Good. Press clutch, move into gear, then release clutch while pressing gas. Got it?"

"Got it." It sounded simple.

He released the clutch, pressed the gas pedal and the car lurched forward and died. "What happened?"

"You stalled it kid. Try again."

"Is it dead?"

"No. Start it up again."

There was a learned patience in Tom's voice. Something that John hadn't heard before. John started the car and tried it again. The car shuddered, and came to a halt.

"Again."

"Why?"

"Just do it John. This time give it more gas."

John did it and the car lurched forward, squealed, and when he pulled back on the gas, the car shook and stopped. John could smell the rubber burning.

"Again. Don't release the gas so soon."

He did it again and the car started up. "I did it!"

"Stop. Again."

It took several turns before John had the hang of it.

They drove around the empty country roads as Tom taught him how to upshift and downshift.

"You're a natural."

It was getting dark. John knew physics, so in his head he calculated the fastest speed he could take a corner, or the time it would take to brake. Tom told him it was outfitted with a six hundred horsepower engine, and that its max hadn't been tested out.

"Remember, never stay in the red for too long," Tom said.

John gunned it, and soon was in sixth gear. When the gas pedal wouldn't go down any more, he looked at the speed.

"One eighty!" John yelled; he looked over at Tom who seemed frozen to his seat. John grinned. He was in control.

"We're coming up to some turns, slow down."

John knew these turns, and made a calculation in his head.

"John, do you hear me? Your lights aren't even on."

John let up on the gas. They were about to come to the thicket of trees where the road twisted. As a kid he once pointed out a cockroach in the dark to his mother. She couldn't see it. Right now, he could see with far more clarity and detail than he ever remembered.

"John!"

John turned to his uncle and smiled. It felt good seeing his uncle sweat. "Take it easy," John said, his voice dropping low.

The car lurched into the first corner. Coming out of it, John hit the gas, then the brakes. One fifty miles an hour. Another turn, this was sharp, John slammed on the brakes, felt a drift and turned into it. He could feel himself planted to the side of his seat. When the car gained control, they were on the other lane.

"Truck!" Tom yelled.

It was too dark for the trucker to see them, but John saw a gap on the shoulder and gunned for it. There was a grinding sound, and John jerked the car the other way as they barely passed the truck and heard it screeching its brakes. The back of the car fishtailed the other way, barely missing the truck's rear, and John felt the loose uncontrollable glide as it drifted to the other side and out of another corner.

John's heart was pumping, and yet his mind was clear. There was the touch that he felt run through his bones when he closed his eyes and Smitty was about to hit him. Except this time he knew what the touch was, and it was as if he could almost control it.

"Okay, time to switch," Tom said, in a small voice.

"Look, uncle, no eyes."

"John!" Tom yelled.

John closed his eyes. He couldn't see, but he could feel the road. He pressed the gas and turned into the corner, he hit the brakes, and suddenly couldn't feel anything. He opened his eyes and saw a tree. He jerked the wheel, and the car spun out of control.

The world swished around John, and he felt himself pushed against the door, except that this time, without any control he felt nauseous. Turning the wheel didn't do anything. Suddenly, they stopped. John felt himself thrown against the steering wheel, and saw Tom's head hit the dashboard. The air was knocked out of John, and he thought he heard a rib crack.

They were on the shoulder, half the car leaning over a ditch.

"Don't move." Tom said, looking over his side of the car.

"Come to my side," John said. He could feel the sweat pouring down his armpits. He could smell himself. It was a foul stench. He gulped. The ditch seemed pretty deep. At least twenty feet. Enough to crunch the car.

"Come to my side," John said, surprised that his voice worked.

Tom slowly shifted his weight the car swayed slightly. Tom froze.

"Move when it sways back," John said.

Tom nodded and when the car swayed away from the ditch, he lifted his leg and placed it between John's legs. Then his arm. He waited as the car swayed, less this time. Next, he lifted and placed the other leg on John's side. The car stopped swaying.

John started it back up. It didn't start. He tried it again. Nothing. One more time, he thought. And it started. He turned the wheel and moved away from the ditch.

"My turn," Tom said.

They drove back under the speed limit. John watched the dark outlines of the countryside pass him by. He was surprised that Tom wasn't angry. In fact, he only seemed shaken, and hadn't blamed John yet.

"Sorry, I thought I had it," John said. His ribs really hurt.

Tom smiled. "Not to worry."

Tom had just given him that look that his mother gave him; that look like they weren't looking at John, but something, or someone else.

"You're _just_ like him."

"My dad?" John said.

"Yeah, your old man. He could see in the dark. Like you. Though I don't think he could do it as well as you. He never drove without headlights," Tom said and shook his head.

"Do you think he's still alive?"

"He's a survivor, like you."

That felt good, as if "like you" was a phrase with magical powers.

"How so?"

"For one, he did the same thing you just did. Drive with his eyes closed. Claimed he could do it, feel it, as he said."

"Driving?"

"Yeah. Scared the crap out of me. But he wasn't going as fast, and he didn't even make it through one turn," Tom said. "You did."

John noticed a bump and dried blood on Tom's forehead, but decided not to mention it. "Did you crash?"

"Oh, it was a softer landing than this one."

John nodded and looked out the window. They were returning to the main strip of the town. There were teenagers hanging out in the parking lots of the supermarket, and ice cream store. The well-lit area soon gave way to the darker parts where John lived. He felt a surge of pride; he was finally connected to his father with something he did.

"You said that you saw me fighting those boys."

"What about it?"

"What did I do?"

"You threw them around. I thought that was obvious."

"I... I don't know what happened."

"Your dad said the same thing when he was first thrown in jail. That he didn't know what happened."

"He was in jail?"

"They had a video of him doing it. Not much he could say, even if they were bigger than him."

"Was he defending himself?"

"Doesn't matter, kid."

"I'm not a kid."

"Right," Tom said as turned into the parking lot. "Listen to your mother. I know she probably sounds like some nagging old lady to you. But she's right. You're special, and as soon as they find that out they are going to want to put you away. It's why no one knows where your father is."

Tom got out, then leaned his head into the car. "Also don't tell your mother about what we did, she'll kill me," he said with a smile.

John stepped out, his legs feeling weak, and followed his uncle. He wasn't certain who Tom was talking about when he said 'they'. What would his mother say about the bump? He realized that his ribs didn't hurt anymore.

"Well, where have you two been?" his mother said as they entered. "My God! What happened to your head?" she said and reached out to touch Tom's head. "Did you get into an accident?" She walked over to John touching him all over.

"Mom, I'm all right. It's only Tom."

"What did you do?" she said pointing a finger at Tom.

"I took John for a spin in the Impala. Might help him with his new girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," John said.

"Cute thing. Apparently she has a great personality too. Who'd have thought, eh?" Tom said winking at John's mother.

"Leave him alone. Have you done your homework, John?"

John nodded.

"Well I have dinner ready, but I already ate. Eat and get ready for bed," she said.

John looked at the time. To his surprise, it was already ten.

"Mom, how come you never talk about dad?"

It might have been the wrong thing to say, because it was as if he had dropped a time bomb in the room. Tom and his mother froze, then moved only to look at each other. His mother seemed especially affected by it.

"John, now's not the time."

"When is the time, mom? Because I've never even seen what he looks like until the other day. Why won't you tell me anything about him?"

"John! Not now!"

"You never talk about him!" John yelled back. He hated her right now, and could only see her not telling him as part of her wanting to hurt him. "Why?"

"John, don't yell," Tom whispered.

"Just leave it alone, all right John? I don't want to talk about him," his mother said.

"He's my father!" John. "I have a right to know about him."

"Don't talk to me about rights. What do you know about any rights? About this world? Huh?"

John felt like he'd been slapped by his mother's words. She spoke them in a condescending voice he'd never heard before.

"Katherine," Tom said, now in a louder voice. "He has to know about his father. You can't keep it from him forever. Not with the way he is."

"Then you tell him," she said and walked into the kitchen.

"I hate her," John said, out loud.

Tom shot him a look of hate. "Come," he said and held out his hand.

"Why should I listen to any of you? All you do is lie!" John said, shouting out the last part so that his mother could hear it. He wanted to hurt her as much as he could.

"Please," Tom said and walked to the front door and opened it.

John decided to walk out, but only because he wanted some fresh air, and to be away from his mother.

"I want to leave this place," John said when he shut the front door.

Tom regarded him casually, then pulled out a cigarette and sparked up. After a few clouds of smoke disappeared into the air he spoke: "You shouldn't be so rough on your mother."

"My mother? What about me? What about what I've been through? It's always been like that... I always have to bend over."

"John, your mother has been through a lot... At least treat your mother with the respect she deserves."

"Everyone always says I can't understand because I'm too young. Well, why don't you try to explain it for once?" John said, his voice cracking.

Tom didn't reply, he only tightened his lips together.

"Is it because you can't explain it? Is that it? Everyone here is full of it, and I'm tired of it all," John said, and when he finished he couldn't think of what else to say, so he walked off. After a few steps he looked up and saw two men in hoods standing between two cars and talking to each other in whispers. They both looked up and shot him looks of venom. John stopped. They had faces like rats, and something gleamed in their hands.

John turned, headed back and looked at Tom who was staring at him, though his mind seemed to be grappling something else.

"What do you want to know about your father?"

John wasn't certain.

"Why doesn't he want to see me?"

"It's not that..." Tom started.

"No. He's alive, right?"

"I'm sure he is."

"Then why didn't he ever come back?"

Tom's eyes darted around the parking lot as if he was worried about being heard out.

"He doesn't care, does he?"

Tom shook his head. "No. Well... Your father was always a hard man to get along with. But it's not that."

"Then what?"

"Listen. All right," Tom said, acting like he was speaking to himself as much as he was to John.

"I'll listen. I always listen. Isn't that what you adults want? For me to listen and never get a chance to tell you how wrong you are?"

Tom raised a hand. "Your mother told me about how many times you've moved."

John nodded. He heard a scuffle and turned around to see the two men in a half fight: not on the ground yet, but each had grabbed the other's sweater and was pulling and pushing.

"Well she's scared of being found out."

"By whom?"

"Men. Company men. Though even I'm not certain who."

"Why her?"

"Not so much her, but your father's family. In other words, they want him and are willing to do anything to achieve that."

"Hurt her? Us?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure they're willing to hurt anyone. Especially you," Tom said and pointed at John's chest. "And now you're too much like your father for them to let you go. That's why your mother doesn't want you getting into trouble."

"The reason I'm so special."

"That's right, like your old man."

John mulled this over; it was a hard fact to swallow. He could feel a rush through his head, his blood, and—something he hadn't quite felt before—his balls. He startled when he heard a thud and turned to see the two men in hoodies on the ground now, yelling and trying to punch each other. John's anger multiplied.

"Hey!" John yelled as loud as he could.

The two men jumped to a stop and looked at him. A street lamp shone on their bloodshot eyes and decayed teeth.

"Do you live here?"

The two men looked at each other.

"No? Then get the hell out!" John said.

The men didn't seem to listen.

"Better listen to him," Tom said in an extremely gruff voice.

The two men looked at Tom, got up and ran off.

"Where was I?" Tom said.

"Why don't we just call the police? Get into witness protection or something like that."

"If only," Tom said with a shake of his head. "That's not the way the world works, John. These men. They're powerful. No police force is going to help us."

"Us?"

"I'm his brother, so they're after me too."

John nodded his head. It made these men sound all-powerful, now that he knew that they were after Tom too. But it also made him feel a little better knowing that Tom was in this with them.

"Mom never forgave my dad. Did she?"

"Can you blame her?"

"You'll tell me more?"

"Anything you want to hear, I'll tell you."

John nodded. "I'd better go inside."

"You're a good kid, John. But from here on out, you're going to have to be more than good."

John stepped inside the house. In the kitchen he could see his mother standing, her face in her hands.

"Mom. I'm sorry," John said. He stepped closer. Her eyes were red, and her face was sucked of life. He would even go so far as to call her ugly. He felt a sharp pain inside. "Mom?"

She half-turned away from him. He'd never seen her cry before. Even when they moved out of a town in the middle of the night, trying to keep as quiet as possible, she always maintained a stoic face. And now, knowing what she'd been through and that a few words broke her down, he felt horrid.

He reached for her and touched her waist. "I'm sorry mom. I'll try to be better," he said and leaned in to hug her. His heart grew heavy.

She seemed stiff at first, but then she finally hugged him back. "It's okay John," she said in a slight voice. "It's going to be all right."

John did everything to keep his eyes dry. "I love you mom, and I wouldn't want you to ever cry because of me."

She shifted away from him, holding his head in her hands. "You're the best son anyone could ever ask for," she said then kissed him.

John wasn't sure why she said that, or how that could possibly be true after he made her cry.

"If you have any questions about your father, John, ask me."

They made their way into the living room where Tom was sitting with another bottle of wine. "Nothing cements a detente like some liquid courage."

"Tom, will you ever learn?"

Tom laughed. "No. Life's too short to really learn anything, so why try?"

John gave him a wry look and said: "Thousands of years of civilization says you're wrong."

"Oh, the bookworm strikes again!" Tom said with a yelp.

"Leave him alone," John's mother said.

"Mom, I can handle him."

His mom smiled at that comment and patted his head. "I'm sure you can," she said and kissed his forehead.

"Awww," Tom said, taking a swig from the bottle.

John's mom kicked Tom in the shin. "Use a glass like a normal gentleman, you."

Tom rolled his eyes and pulled out three glasses from the kitchen.

"Only two," she said with a rigid voice.

"As you please," Tom said and placed one of the glasses on the floor.

John's mother took her glass after Tom poured and took a sip. She handed it to John and smiled. "Take a sip, but remember what I said."

"I'm fine mom," John said, raising his hand. He wanted to act like a grownup and drink, but he wanted more to hear stories about his dad and remember them. "I have a question."

"Shoot," Tom said, taking a gulp from the wine bottle.

"You're on the run, right?"

"Yup."

"So why the car? I mean they're trying to find you, why not a common car that will fit into the background. A classic car that no one usually sees, doesn't seem smart."

"This one is always thinking," Tom said in a nagging tone and shook his finger at John. "You're right John. Why? Why live life as anything but a mole, a ghost slinking from shadow to shadow?"

Outside, the sound of scurrying and voices yelling, though obviously trying to be hushed, sounded up. Tom cocked his head for a few seconds. It drifted into nothingness, and Tom continued: "Well the thing is these men who are after us aren't exactly the best. We don't have the world's finest after us. We just have a lot of them after us, and a lot of them who are consistent. You get it?"

John wasn't sure if Tom was being too cocky, or if there was wisdom in his words.

"But he who is consistent is the one that wins this race. They will catch up with me sooner or later. So why should I give up a few pleasures in life for them?"

"I'm not sure," John said. "If you're right then why would you even try to run? This is a way to decrease the chances of you dying," John said.

His uncle didn't reply; he finished his glass of wine and smiled at John as he filled up another glass.

John hated that about adults. Whenever he managed to stump them, they would get sullen or ignore his questions like they were below them.

"Well? It doesn't make sense to me," John reiterated. He could feel Tom and his mother exchange a look.

"Some things don't make sense," his mother said.

John shook his head. _He_ would make sense, always. He would face this world with his special abilities, and he would make sense of the whole damn mess, and if they didn't want to make sense with him, he would teach them. All it took was a little patience.

"Can either of you explain who these men are?"

"Hard to say," Tom said and took a sip. "They're an extension of a conglomerate of companies, from what I hear."

"Then why can't we call the FBI or someone? People can't just do what they want outside the law," John said. He was getting frustrated with how his uncle and his mother seemed so resigned to this greater force. After all, he'd just taken a class about the role of law in America. It'd been Franklin who cemented the country's faith in law when he defended those British soldiers in a court of law. He took a deep breath and told himself that he would just have to teach them.

"They work with them, John. Look, I know you want to think that things are fair, and that there is a way to work with the system, but there isn't. There is no way you're going to get help from anyone. That's why we run."

John felt the air in the room get thicker and heavier. There was some more scuffling outside. It sounded like those two hooded young men where fighting again.

"Damn junkies," Tom said. "It always this bad here?"

"At least there's only a couple tonight," John's mother said. "Usually there's a whole horde, and they make a din the entire night."

The scuffling faded away, and John thought of more questions, though he was becoming less certain about whether to ask them. There didn't seem to be any straight answers.

"How did you meet dad?"

His mother shifted a leg under her ass, and brought the other one to her chest and hugged it. "How did we meet?" She smiled.

"Keep it under PG-13," Tom said with a grin.

"Hit him for me," she said to John.

"Sorry," John said, then reached over and punched Tom on the arm.

"Going to have to teach you to hit," Tom said.

John tried to ignore him.

"Well, I was working in New York when we met."

"City?"

"That's the one. I was a student at NYU, and he was, well, a guy I saw very often just walking around not doing much." She paused to take a sip and look at Tom with a thought on her head. "I don't remember seeing any of you at first."

"No. I always kept a low profile."

"Your dad was something else. Stood out, even in a city as large and crowded as New York City."

John tried to keep as quiet as possible. He attempted to picture his mother a little older than himself, and he couldn't quite do it. Her face changed as she spoke about his father. Her voice bordered on fragile. It was obvious how much even talking about him flustered her, as if a ghost was in the room as she spoke, filtering through her heart and sapping a piece of her life away.

"He was a large man, but it wasn't only that, he... he carried himself in a stately manner. I always pictured him as a sort of diplomat, or statesman. A senator even. Wouldn't you say?"

Tom nodded his head, his eyes were drooping, not from boredom; he seemed to be thinking about the man John's mother was describing. "He was. My bigger brother. Always the calm collected one," he said.

John looked at him. There was a hint of sadness in his voice, was it mixed with jealousy? If the adults John looked up to were so full of doubt, what could he ever aspire to?

"We met in a cafe. He surprised me when he looked at me over a cup of coffee and asked about the book I was reading."

"What book?" John asked.

" _Lolita_ ," she said with a smile.

John nodded. He would buy that book. This was the path to certainty.

"He then asked me out on a date to Central Park."

"There and then?"

"Yes, your father wasn't one to mince words." Her face flickered with pride and happiness.

Silence filled the room. John took in the two adults. It felt good to have them tell him something about his father. He could feel a hollow part of his brain filling up. He wanted to ask his mother about how his father came to leave her, how things became what they were. But from her look of the fragility, he decided not to.

He glanced over at his uncle who was pouring himself another glass of wine.

"Where were you from?" John asked Tom.

"Us? Born and raised in Montana."

"When did you head out to New York?"

"When your dad got a warrant for his arrest put out in Montana," he said with a smile.

"I've never heard about this," John's mother said, jumping out of her dream-like state. "He always told me that he was sick of the country."

"That may have been. But he was sick of it because of the arrest warrants."

"What did he do?" asked John.

"He was known for fighting. Which in the bars of Montana isn't anything new, but for a sixteen year old it meant he made enemies quick. So by the time he was seventeen, he'd been in jail for so many fights that our local sheriff said one more and he'd lock him up for good. One bad apple and all that. Mainly it was because your old man roughed up a local rancher's son. Rich man, so you know, more consequences."

John waited as his uncle took a sip. Hearing about his father when he was near John's age made John feel like he was older, like a father, or his father, and he pointed at the glass of wine and when Tom handed it to him, he took a sip.

"Well, he got into another fight and found himself in jail. Looking at a long stretch. Something like a few years," Tom said shaking his head. "That's your law for you."

"Then what?"

"Then I helped to break him out. It was a small local jail, so all it took was walking in on the deputy, who was asleep, and knocking him out. Got the keys and we drove off to New York. Made it in two days."

"The Impala?"

"That's right, the Impala."

"That makes more sense," John said.

"It might, it might not. But it is what it is," Tom said.

"When you came to New York everything went well?"

"As well as it could. We moved into the Bronx trying to stay away from trouble, and started a company as movers. Easy enough work, and plenty of it in Manhattan at least."

"Nice."

"But your old man was never good in a small cage. He had to push the limits."

"How?"

"He became a fighter in one of the underground fighting rings in the City."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, unless you're trying to keep a low profile," Tom said as he shook his head and finished his glass of wine.

John's mother gave a slight snore. Her neck was bent at an angle and she twitching, sleeping with apparent exhaustion.

"How did he get caught? Why did you leave the City?"

John's mother woke up and looked at them both, the birth of a smile on her face. "All right it's late you two. John, get to bed."

John wanted to argue, but decided that he'd put her through enough for a day. He took in a deep breath, trying to remember this moment. It felt good, and he'd never felt closer to his mother before in his life. He gave her a kiss and went to bed.

As John drifted to sleep in his small bed, he wondered if there was a reason they'd told him all that they told him tonight. There was something else lurking in the words they'd spoken.

John woke up to hear some voices arguing. It was Tom and his mother, and though they were trying to be quiet, they were hissing at each other in sharp frequencies that pierced John's ears.

"What's going on?" John said rubbing out the crust in one of his eyes as he walked into the kitchen. They jumped. John looked at the clock and saw that it was four in the morning. "Why're you up so early?"

He looked at Tom's breakfast, half eaten eggs and bacon, on the kitchen counter.

"You can tell him," his mother said in a hurt voice.

"I'm heading out today."

John stared at Tom, the sound of his own heart beating, the feeling of his blood coursing through his muscles and brain, slowing everything down. "Why?" John managed to say. His voice threatened to crack; his eyes threatened to tear up, but he maintained a stoic face. He would not feel anything for this man who, for a split second the night before, he saw as his father.

"I've to keep moving. I'd a call last night and they told me..."

"They?" John jumped in.

"People I know as sources."

John felt slighted again, though he shouldn't have been. It was only natural that Tom would not have told him everything. But given that his mother and uncle had waited so long to tell him about his father, he couldn't help his reaction. "And they said?"

"That I need to get moving. I usually don't stay in built up areas for more than a day. I made an exception."

John knew he should've taken it as a compliment. Instead, he took it as a slap to his face. "Well thanks so much," John said, laying the words out with the kindest voice he could fake.

"John, don't be rude."

"Are you ever going to come back?" John asked Tom, ignoring his mother, because he also blamed her for Tom wanting to leave.

"Not likely."

"No, then."

Tom looked down at his plate of food and started to eat it.

John felt his tears overwhelming his willpower. "Where are you going then?"

"I don't know."

"Or you won't say?" John said.

"I won't say because I don't know where I'll go. I've never known where I'll go. That's the simple truth of the matter."

John believed him and didn't reply.

"John, he has to get moving, and that's his decision," his mother said.

John studied his uncle's face. In his mind he was slowly waking up and realized something: he would become his uncle. There was no way around it. Was that all he had to look forward to in life? "Are they coming here?" John asked.

"That's the word," Tom said his mouth half full.

John stared at the food, the smell of the bacon hit his brain and he felt his stomach rumble. As if to second the thought, his head went dizzy for a second. "Because they saw you?"

"Yup."

"What about us?"

"I don't know."

John glanced at his mother. "Are we in danger?"

"We've always been in danger," she said.

The thought of men, multiple men who didn't care one lick for his life, scared John. "They're looking for dad, right? Why don't you tell them that he doesn't have anything to do with us?"

"They're not going to listen," Tom said, his voice turning on a nagging tone. "Do not try to talk to these people. Besides there is a reason they're after your father, and that's the same reason that they will soon be after you."

"They know about me?" John asked, still trying to come to grips with this situation.

"No, they don't. But they know your mother, and if they find that she's given birth, they'll know whose son you are."

"But they don't know I'm..."

"John," Tom said, his voice low and stern. "This isn't something you want to test. They will know that you are your father's son, and they'll test you until they find out how special you are."

"Then?"

Tom's head fell down on his feet. "They'll use you until they can't use you anymore and that will be that."

"And mom?"

Tom shrugged.

John knew what that meant, or at least he thought he did. An invisible hand gripped his heart, and pushed it up his throat. He wanted to vomit.

"Eat something," Tom said and pushed his eggs in front of John.

John's mother placed her arm around him. "I'm sorry John. I really am."

It took a few seconds before John's thoughts could reach out and grasp what was happening and a few more seconds before he calmed down and his heart stopped having a seizure.

"And you're just going to let them do that to us?" John asked Tom.

"You're both more than welcome to come with," Tom said.

"No," John's mother snapped at Tom. "Don't even think about it. I've given him a normal life for this long, and I'm not about to stop."

John heard the hurt and defensiveness in his mother's voice. He now wished that he could've severed all ties with his father and his uncle.

"So you're leaving," John said with as little emotion as he could force into words.

"That's right. I'll drop you off to school. Is that all right?" asked Tom.

John wanted that. Just another moment to talk to his uncle would be so therapeutic, but he felt he would only get more attached and make saying good-bye that much harder. Perhaps, he thought for a second, he should try to never talk to another human being again.

"Don't worry," John said. "You should head off." As he spoke he felt tears rise up and one rolled down his cheek. He turned, hoping that Tom didn't see it.

"Hey there," Tom said and embraced him. "Take it easy. I'd like to drop you off, but if not, that's fine too."

John nodded.

"Another thing, love," his mother said. "We will have to be extra careful from now on. I want you to come back right after school. No hanging around anywhere. And if you see someone odd, give me a call. All right?"

John smiled for his mother and hugged her. He watched, as if in a movie, as she got ready for work and drove off. John sat on the couch and closed his eyes. Inside his body he felt, as he drifted off, all the recent information rearranging his insides.

"John, John."

John awoke and for a second thought he was staring at his father, the one in the picture.

"You've got to get going, John."

John looked at the clock on the wall. He was late.

"What time does school start?" asked Tom.

John couldn't get over the idea that Tom could have been his father. "Soon," John said, his voice cracked.

"Come, I'll give you a ride."

John ate some food, brushed his teeth ad locked the door. He felt sure that Tom was observing him like a proud father would.

John hopped in the car, and listened to the engine rumble.

He wanted to ask so many questions that he ended up watching the neighborhood go by instead. He wished that he'd written down the questions from when he was a kid and drew pictures of his father, or when he went somewhere with his mother and wondered why she didn't have a man next to her like the other mothers.

"Take care," John said and opened the car door.

"John, listen," Tom said, his hand grasping John's shoulder. "Take this."

John looked down and saw something that looked like a black matchbox, but it was made out of plastic.

"What's this?"

"It's to contact me. You run into trouble, you or your mother and you press this," Tom slid off the top part and pressed a large button. "Keep it on you as it has a GPS tracker that'll help me find you."

"In case they come," John said, fumbling with the object in his hand. He suddenly didn't want to go to school. Not only did it seem so pointless, but he also didn't want to face the kids since he thought of himself as even more of a freak than before.

"Right. Listen to your mother, and don't stay in public too much. Some of these men tracking you have met your father and it wouldn't take but a glance for them to know."

"Why don't I come with you if there's this much danger?"

"Don't," Tom blurted out. "Give your mother trouble. She's done a hell of a job so far, and she's right to not want to move every day or so. It would make for a horrible life."

"But she's wrong, and all it does is highlight how much of a freak I am..."

"Listen," Tom hissed, turning John so he could see him. "You're not a freak. Do you understand me? And you need to give your mother more of a break. I think she's done pretty good so far."

John felt there was a compliment somewhere in there. "Good-bye," John said and turned and walked into school. He didn't dare look back, because he was certain that he would crumble.

He stepped inside and looked at the abandoned hallways. Class was in session so there were no students. John took in a deep breath. Everything had changed, seemed different; not even the waxed floors looked like what he remembered. Was it because he'd changed, or had something about school changed?

"Hall pass."

A security guard walked over to John. He was fat, with a round middle, and he had a waddle to his walk. His face was red, with a redder pug nose in the middle, a sneer on his face. His hair, black and thick, only highlighted his facial features. John immediately didn't like him. He almost looked like an evil man.

"What?"

"Hall pass," the security guard said, his hand out.

John realized that he had never been late to class, or been in school when the hallways were empty. He, in fact, didn't know that there was a punishment or process to being late.

"I was late. I have to get to class."

"What class?"

John stared at the security guard. This felt like a prison. Was all of life just that? He told the security guard the class, and they made their way over to it.

"You're a good kid, right?" the security guard asked.

"I guess. Why?"

"I've never seen you outside of class, or late. Plus you look scared. Most the kids I see in the hallway aren't scared," the security guard said with a smile.

"Yeah."

The security guard tightened up one side of his nose; it must have been his way of enjoying being correct.

"How did you come about this job?" John asked.

"I went to this school not five years ago."

"And?"

"And then I couldn't find a job except this one," the security guard said with a smile.

"Sorry for making your job harder."

The security screwed his face up at John, then released the tension in his face. "That's all right..."

"John."

"Mike, pleased to meet you," he said.

"You ever have people chase you for reasons out of your control?" John asked.

Mike squinted his face at John, then when he could see that John was serious, he looked at the floor in front of him. "No, I cannot say that I have."

"What would you do?"

"Are these people out to hurt the chased?"

"Yes."

"Are they all powerful?"

"Yes."

"We're not talking about God, or life, are we?"

"No."

"Then run, John, run," Mike said, opened the door to John's class and leaned his body in. "I caught this vandal terrorizing the hallways with WMDs."

Mr. Johnson looked up from writing on the board. "Let him in."

John shook Mike's hand and walked in. "Take care."

"Take care, John."

John sat down and could feel his classmate's eyes studying him. In this class he had to sit in front because of the alphabetical seating arrangement. It was history, but after everything that Tom had told him, he was in no mood to hear about the progression of this great nation.

"We're on page twenty-five," said the teacher and turned to the board. "The Great Depression. Now does anyone know why it was called Great?"

John opened the book and stared at the black and white photos of long lines of people looking for jobs. What a life. And he could only hope for something in his life where something like standing in line and looking for a job would be a luxury.

"John?"

John looked up at the teacher. Mr. Johnson was a bald man with several marks on his face from accidents, assuming they were accidents, which he never talked about. He was also in very good shape, which was unusual for teachers in this school.

"Do you know why it's called the Great Depression?"

John blinked. He heard some one walk down the hallway, and he wondered if someone was coming to get him. Everything was slow motion, and the teacher's voice seemed to be coming from some other world. It was an inane question, and John had half a mind to tell off the rest of the class for not bothering to answer it. He wanted time to think, and to be alone. Why did he even bother coming to school when he knew what awaited him in the future? How would knowing this question help him? "It was the most prolonged and deepest one, in terms of its reach and unemployment."

"That's right..."

John drifted away. Nothing was what it seemed. Nothing he'd ever been told about the world was to be. He stared at the blackboard, then back at the picture. Injustice. He rolled the word around in his head. And what about the justice in what he'd to face? He took in his classmates' faces. Why did his mother think it was so important to come to school everyday? Once again John felt two parts pulling him apart: one part wanted to listen to his mother, if only to make things easier for her; the other was furious at her, for bringing him into the world, for not being logical about the situation they were in.

John raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"When FDR took on some of the establishments, was that his sense of justice at play? Or was he just taking a knock on people he didn't like?"

"Uh," Mr. Johnson sneered at John. "We're not at that stage yet. We're still in the Hoover years."

The droning began again and John stared at his book. What was with adults and their desire to avoid answering questions? Well, John did not have much time. As far as he was concerned, he felt his question was more important. But he would still meet a wall of silence.

He wondered where Tom was headed. If his uncle really thought that people were headed this way then Tom would have to be careful. John's mind rested back on the adults in his life and the way they always avoided giving him what he expected.

For the rest of the day he seethed in his own world. When school finished, he felt relieved. Now he could finally start answering the questions that he cared about.

"Hey there," Jessica swooped in front of him and tilted her head sideways. "What are you up to?"

"Heading home."

"You were going to help me with that homework, remember?"

"Oh yeah," John said. Another look at her, and he felt a rise in his blood. "Where?" he said, his voice cracking on the last word.

"We can do it at my place, if you want."

Her smile was inviting, and though John knew his mother expected him to go home and keep his head down, he was in no mood to listen to her.

"That's fine," John said.

It was cloudy, though surprisingly humid. John could smell Jessica's sweat, and he looked at her eyes as she flashed him another smile.

"You didn't say much in biology class today."

"No?" John said, then wondered when he had ever said much in biology class, or any other class for that matter.

"No. Mr. Cox asked you a question twice, and you didn't even look up."

That came as a surprise to John. He hadn't heard anything from Mr. Cox.

"Something wrong?" she said.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You seem... pensive," she said. "More so than normal."

John looked at her then up at the sky.

"Are you going to the football game?"

"No plans," John said.

"Do you want to come?"

John hesitated. His mother would never allow it. But he couldn't say that. "I don't know. I'll see."

"Well, I'll like to see you there," she said and grabbed his arm, before suddenly letting it go.

John smiled; he couldn't help it. The wind picked up and the sound of a car hit his ears. He turned, and his heart jumped when he saw Smitty driving, slowly, behind him.

"What does he want?" Jessica asked.

"Nothing, I hope," John said.

"Well, he has been bugging me all day. He won't leave me alone."

John remained silent. He couldn't afford another fight. If Jessica saw him act crazy, and beat up a whole group of guys, she would never like him.

Smitty pulled to a stop, and John saw that he was alone. He jumped out of the car.

"Hey, Jessica."

"Get away," Jessica said.

"What're you doing with this loser?" Smitty said and grabbed a hold of Jessica.

John felt his fists clenching together. He could not afford a fight. But when he saw Jessica squirm, he knew that he wasn't going to let anything happen to her. His vision slowly narrowed in on Smitty. Why did he want trouble? Especially after what happened last time?

"Leave her alone, Smitty," John said. He could hear his own voice rumble in his chest.

"Or what?"

"We both remember what happened last time. Don't we? Except this time you don't have your friends," John said. He remembered the pulsating beat of blood pumping by his ears and into his brain, and he remembered how his muscles felt. He remembered taking turns in Tom's Impala at over a hundred miles an hour. He would _not_ let Smitty have his way.

"I don't care what happened," Smitty said and whipped out a stun gun with one of his hands. It was the kind that shot out prongs.

John froze and stepped back.

Smitty grinned. "That's right. Stay out of this."

"No," John said and stepped forward.

Smitty pointed the gun and fired. John could see them coming at him slowly. He let them touch his clothes, and they grabbed his sweatshirt. The prongs started to chatter their electric talk. John smiled at Smitty. Everything was slow motion and he felt stronger than ever. He grabbed the gun and looked Smitty in the eye. "Last chance."

Smitty backed off, released Jessica, got in his car, and drove off.

"Thank you," Jessica said and kissed John on his cheek.

John blushed. "You're welcome," he said, and was further embarrassed when it came out as a series of cracks and squeaks.

Inside Jessica's house, John couldn't help but crane his neck at the expansive high ceiling of the lobby. "This place is large," he said, sounding rather stupid when he heard the echo.

"It's just a house," Jessica said.

John turned his head this way and that, trying to understand what was "just" about this house.

"Let's go. My room's upstairs," Jessica said.

They walked up the carpeted stairs and into a room that John was certain was larger than his entire apartment. "This is your room?"

"You like it?" she said with a smirk.

"It's nice," John said. The house had always seemed huge from outside, but he never imagined the rooms in his head. There was an excessive amount of pink, from the bed sheets to the curtains, while all the furniture was white. The door to the walk-in closet was wide open, and John could see the room sized space for clothes. The bed, a sleigh bed, was neatly made, and the dresser, with a large mirror on it, seemed wide enough for a troop of actresses. There was something excessive about it all. His eyes shot over to Jessica who had taken off her shoes, and pants and walked into the closet to find something to wear.

John tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. He'd never seen a woman's thighs in person before. Once he'd walked in on his mother changing in her bedroom. She had a bathrobe on, and the front was open, only slightly. He turned his head away as soon as he could. He wasn't sure he saw anything, or at least he tried to tell himself that he hadn't. He felt an odd guilt and shame after that moment with his mother, but for the most part he managed to forget it.

Here, with Jessica, and her legs, full and beckoning, he felt a tinge of guilt, but there was something else, something more powerful than he'd felt before.

She closed the door behind her. "Do you want something to eat or drink?" she asked. "I have a fridge in here."

He could hear her rustling inside the closet, and instead of answering, or being amazed that she had a fridge in her room, he tried to picture her without a shirt on. When she came out, she was dressed in short shorts and a t-shirt. John felt light-headed.

"Well?" she asked.

He formed some words to say and when he pushed them out, he realized that his vocal chords weren't doing what he wanted. He could feel sweat coming down his armpits. He was certain that he stunk and that his armpits were soaked.

The look Jessica's mother gave him flashed through his head. "Are your parents here?"

"Oh, no. My mother is out on some social meeting at the club."

John had no clue that there was such a thing as "the club" in this town. "Uhh. The homework?"

"That's right," she said. "You don't want anything to eat or drink?" she asked again, rustling through her backpack.

"I'm fine," John said, taking his eyes off Jessica, who was leaning over and facing away from him, because he wanted to stop sweating and speak properly. He noticed the fridge, a half-sized one, in the corner and was further impressed. Next to it was a television set with numerous electronics underneath it for movies. He couldn't imagine going back to his apartment.

"Ready?"

John came over to the bed. Jessica was lying down with the books on it. "What was the homework?"

"Here," she said and patted the bed next to her.

He lay down and stared at the book, but he couldn't read. All he could hear was the sound of his heart, the sheets when Jessica moved, and her smell of sweat and perfume. Surely she knew what she was doing?

She moved closer to him, and he felt her hair on his forearm and her thigh touch his pants and the sheets crumple. They were soft, the sheets, and her thighs too. He tried to breath and wondered if she thought he was a freak, if the stun gun had scared her. But then why would she be here with him? Her hand touched his, and he felt his entire body react in unison. He had to look at her; he just had to. He did and he felt her breath close to his.

She wasn't smiling, in fact she seemed as nervous as he was, but he brushed her reaction away as he was sure that she couldn't have been as frayed as he. As if working on its own, his hand reached out to touch her chin. Except it missed and landed on the top of her shirt, right where her breasts started.

John expected that she would kick him out of the house for that. He thought about pulling it away, then decided not to. She continued to stare at him.

He took several deep breaths and felt a calmness closing over his body, like the first few moments when he'd closed his eyes driving the car. Except he didn't want to close his eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her. Or at least he placed his lips on hers. He rested them there, then wondered what else he was supposed to do.

When he felt her tongue, he was shocked, then decided that he wasn't about to pull back now. In the back of his mind he was going through all the advice he'd ever garnered from the books he read and the movies he watched, and hearing some of the more experienced boys talking in the locker room, and he decided that the tongue was part of it. He pushed his tongue against hers and felt another exhilaration. Now he wished that he'd asked his uncle questions about what to do in such a situation instead of about a father who he would never see. Still, he was glad he had watched all those arty French movies.

They pulled back and John could feel himself burning up. Jessica's face was red as well. Her eyes almost looked half asleep, but she was breathing hard.

John pushed his hand elsewhere and was further surprised when she didn't object.

They didn't do any homework. In fact, John was certain, when he left, that book she opened was still on the ground where it fell. She'd ushered him out when she got a call from her mother, but by that time he was exhausted.

Her skin is what he remembered the most. He had seen more than he ever imagined and that exposure of her to him, and him to her, touched a place in his mind that still glowed with warmth as he walked to his apartment.

Second by second he tried to recreate what'd happened, but failed and only relived the large bursts of emotion from Jessica's bed: the touching; the warmth of her body and breath; the moments that came close to tickling, but then somehow became something else; the sounds she started to make and that he, in any other situation, would have thought silly, but only made him feel larger; the moment of absolute bliss that spread from a point to the rest of his body, bursting into his mind; then the withering of his mind and body in catharsis. Afterwards, they'd lain there, and he might have heard her speak, but he was too happy to reply. Was she talking about pills?

As John rounded the corner to get to the main street that his apartment building faced, he saw a man who he knew shouldn't have been there. John pretended to walk straight while he tried to see what it was about this man that made every molecule in his body, which only a second ago was floating in the air of happiness, growl and snap.

The man sported slicked back hair, a toothpick in his mouth, and a black trench coat. The man didn't seem all that seedy, not compared to the types that usually hung around the apartment parking lot, but he did have an air about him that, glancing one way then another, seemed malicious in a smart way.

As John walked on the other side of the main road, he kept his eye on the man and saw another man walk out of _his_ apartment door. John checked his watch. His mother should be back by now. So what was the man doing at their place? The man who walked out of his apartment, also wearing a black trench coat, talked to the man with the toothpick. They scanned the area.

It was almost dark, and John was certain they couldn't see him. He walked until he couldn't see the parking lot again and crossed the road. He headed in several blocks and cut across the back of a supermarket. He leaped over a fence and into a trench. He'd been here before, and he knew that it led to the back of his apartment building. He trudged his way across to his apartment. The small stream soaked through his shoes.

He snuck between a couple cars and heard two men speaking. He peered to see the two men he'd seen earlier coming right for him. He rolled under a car and held his breath. He hoped that they hadn't seen him. His superior vision didn't allow him to know what others could see.

John watched as two pairs of shoes came to a stop near his head.

"What do you think? I'm not waiting here all night," one said. His voice was graveled and sharp.

"I don't want to either, but if they tell us to..." said another man. This one had a cooler voice, as if he were born to calm people down.

"Christ where do you think he could be?"

"No idea. His bitch mom wouldn't say a thing."

"You sure you checked all over the school?"

"Yeah, the principal and his teachers said he left the school as soon as the day was over."

"No sport teams, nothing?"

"Doesn't play them."

"What about something like the debate club?"

"Nope. Nothing at all."

"You got his file, I hope."

"I got it. His picture too."

"Let me see it."

"Doesn't look much like his old man, does he?"

"No. But get this. I was asking some of the students walking by and this one kid, football jock, seemed interested. I told him we were the feds, looking for the kid. He took me aside and told me that the boy wasted him and a few of his friends."

A gravelly laugh. "So he _is_ his old man's son, eh?"

"That's right."

"His mother was lying."

"Exactly."

"Alphabet isn't going to like that."

"Yeah, she's in for a tough night."

"You have that football player's name?"

"Smitty."

"Address?"

"Right here."

"Let's go ask him some more questions. Maybe he knows where the boy is right now."

"Let's."

One of the pair of feet walked to the other side of John and both stepped into the car John was under. Crap, John thought, how was he going to get out from under here? The engine started up. He was about to roll out when the car started to move. The headlights were in front, the car was backing out, so if he stayed where he was he would be seen. He grabbed a piece of the undercarriage and lifted himself up by the fingertips.

The car backed out and stopped. John released and watched the car move from on top of him. He rolled back into the open parking place when he saw the red stoplights come on. He made a note of the license plate number when the distinct whine of a car backing up scared him and he got up, making sure to stay low, and scurried back to the ditch. He peered through the grass and looked back. The two men were looking under the cars with their flashlights.

"You saw something?"

"Yeah, it was moving fast."

"You certain?"

"No. But best to check, right?"

"Come on, this is a waste of time. Lets find the other kid."

John watched as they looked around the parking lot then drove off. He waited until the car was out of sight before he came out of the grass. There was one light still on in the parking lot. He picked up a pebble and threw it at the light with all his might. The light went out and glass tinkled on the pavement.

John walked to his door and pressed his ear against it. All quiet. He twisted the door and it opened. Inside, one light was on in the kitchen. The TV lay face down on the ground, books were ripped and strewn all over the floor, and furniture was broken.

John ran his hand over a broken chair, and his hand touched something wet. He looked closer. Blood. He stared at the broken chairleg. It was sharp and had been used to slice into someone, though only the tip. He traced his finger over the edge. His mother. A pit formed in his heart, stomach, and he felt dizzy.

This emotion caused him to react slowly to the man he saw in the corner of his eye, tearing out at him, with a gun in hand. The man slammed the handgrip of the pistol into John's head, and John felt searing pain interrupt his thoughts as he went flying to his knees. The man pointed the gun at John, standing over him.

John didn't care. In one swift movement, he took the piece of furniture, the end of a chair leg, he was holding and pushed it through the man's chest. The man stared at him for a second, as if nothing could affect him. Then he looked down at the chair leg and started to convulse.

John threw the man down and grabbed the gun. The man's spasms and moans started to make John feel sick to his stomach. He looked away. Had he really just killed the man?

John knew he had to get out.

He remembered the photo and ran to the bedroom and looked for the box. He kicked something. Looking down, he saw the box, open, empty. There was no time; he had to leave. He went back to the living room. The man was still, one of his hands loosely gripping the chair leg. An awful smell hit John's nose and he gagged. He realized it was coming from the man. John ran out and back into the ditch. His hands were red with blood and he washed them in the running water.

Then he ran. As far as he could. Out of town, into the farm fields and finally came to rest in a forest of trees. Above the moon highlighted a cloud. He was hungry, but he didn't know what to do. There wasn't anywhere he could turn, was there? He thought of his mother, the blood on the chair leg. Then he remembered the man, the chair. John couldn't stay anywhere near this place.

The GPS tracker Tom gave him.

He fumbled through his pockets. His heart stopped, and he wanted to cry. It wasn't in his pockets. When was the last time he'd even thought about it? It could have slipped out in school; it could have slipped out in Jessica's house. He patted his pants down and pulled out the pockets. Nothing.

His head spinning, he fell down to the ground. Now what was he going to do? He would have to retrace his steps. There was no way he could do that. Maybe it was in Jessica's room. He had taken off his pants there. But those men were going to talk to Smitty, and Smitty would tell them about seeing him with Jessica, then where would he be?

_Jessica_. That moment on her bed... he tried to remember it; if only to shift what he was feeling from the murder away from his brain. It didn't work. He looked up to the sky cut up by the branches of the tree. It was getting cold fast, and John didn't have anything but his sweater on. He should have grabbed some food, clothes. He should have been smarter about this. But how could he have stayed a moment longer in a room with a dead man? It wasn't his fault. In the end, his mother and uncle should have better prepared him.

An anger arose in his chest, and he embraced it since it felt better than the despair that had just shook him. Damn them. Why weren't they smarter than him, and why did they have to drag him in? Of course, he thought, it doesn't matter how angry you get at them, you will still be in this situation. You will be cold and hungry and without a way to fend for yourself. He didn't even have cash.

A cloud moved and revealed a side of the sky that was splashed with blurred-white. It was beautiful and reminded John how small the planet was, and how everything on this planet would lie dormant, dead, sooner or later. He'd read that somewhere, and during the worst days of school he tried to remember that when he was being picked on. It'd never worked then. For some reason, it worked now.

He turned his attention to the ground and picked up some dead leaves from the previous fall; they were almost dust now. The cycle here would continue. The man had said that his mother was lying and that she was in for a tough night. Were those the words he used? Whatever he'd said, John could tell from his voice that it wasn't going to be good. His heart seized up, and he felt melancholy drift through his body.

_Why me?_ This was so unfair. And just when he was sure he was the luckiest man in the whole world—when Jessica, a girl he'd dreamt about since he saw her, had blessed him—he had to be brought crashing back to the reality that was life. Again he tried to will the world to change, and nothing happened. Anger bubbled up and this time, his hand still sifting through the dirt and leaves, he focused his anger on what was in front of him.

The leaves moved. Or was it the wind doing that? No, he thought, it was definitely the leaves moving on their own. He stretched his fingers and tried it again. Nothing. It must have been his imagination.

_It's the anger_.

He thought about the man and what he'd said about John's mother. He thought about Smitty trying to embarrass him in front of Jessica, and he pointed at the leaves again. They moved. John kept thinking and straining himself to be angry and the leaves moved up in the air and above his face. John couldn't believe it. He reached out to touch the leaves, and they fell. He'd actually done that! More than anything he before, this was impressive.

He got up and looked for a rock. He saw one the size of his head. He tried to think of something to infuriate himself. Nothing happened. He tried to think about how he had been attacked by Smitty, and still nothing happened. After a few minutes he gave up. Besides, what use was it to levitate a fistful of dirt?

He walked back to where he'd been lying when he remembered his backpack. He had had it with him the entire time. He unzipped it. Inside was a granola bar, and he devoured it. He picked through his books and calculator, and his hand touched the black box. Ecstatic, he pulled it out and studied it. When Tom had explained how to work it, he hadn't been paying attention. He tried to slide it open, but it wouldn't budge. He didn't want to slam it for fear of breaking it.

Could it be that this close to being able to find his uncle, he would fail? A click sounded, and John looked down. It was open. He pressed the button. Then pressed it again. Wasn't there supposed to be some light? Why had he been so concerned with leaving his uncle when he was explaining how to work this thing? After pressing it several times and not finding any lights going off, John leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

The sound of men speaking woke John up. It was dawn. John spat out a mouth full of dirt. When the sound of the men got louder, he startled up and looked around. He couldn't make out anything but trees, and he couldn't make out how many men there were. He grabbed his backpack. The black box was still in his hand. He looked at it. There was no way to know if it had worked. He threw it in is pocket. Better to keep it.

"Hey! Who the hell are you? Don't you know you're trespassing on private property?"

John snapped his head and saw two men in camouflage, one with a rifle pointed at him. They both had camouflage hats on that cast a shadow on their faces.

"I..."

"Didn't you see the sign?"

"I didn't see any sign, sorry."

"Easy," the one without the raised rifle said. "He's just a kid."

The rifle went down and the men approached John. John got up and dusted himself off.

"What're you doing here, kid?"

The men were short and stout. They looked like twins with bellies that shaped them into Ds.

"I was just passing through," said John. He was just relieved that they didn't look like the men from the parking lot.

"Passing through? Shouldn't you be going to school?"

John didn't answer. He looked down at his hand and was glad that no blood was present.

"Well?" asked the one with a slightly redder face.

"I don't know. I was just passing through."

"You on drugs, kid?"

"No," John said.

It must have been too sharp for the men's liking, and they furrowed their eyebrows at him.

"Say, you're not that man the police are looking for, are you?"

"What? Are you kidding me?" the other man said. "This little thing here isn't going to push a piece of furniture through anyone's chest."

"Yeah, I guess not," the redder one said, examining John as if for the first time.

John couldn't help but feel dizzy again. So the police knew about what he did.

"I need some food," John said and felt himself get dizzy again. He stumbled and one of the men grabbed him, the less red one.

"Easy there kid."

"We don't run no soup kitchen," the red one said, spitting out a dark brown spit onto the ground.

The less red one glared at him. " _You_ need to take it easy."

The red one raised his eyebrows and nudged his head towards John.

"All right, Christ, why do we always have to be good Samaritans?" said the redder one.

"I'm Derek," said the less-red one.

"John," he said and shook his hand. It seemed powerful. "Thank you."

Derek looked at the redder man and coughed, again raising his eyebrows.

"Well?"

"What? I have to kiss his ass as well?"

"I'm not saying that, but how about you don't act rude for one second?"

"Bill," the redder one said, looking away and shaking John's hand without much power behind his grip.

"Nice to meet you Bill."

They walked back to a cabin in the woods. It was small and surrounded by three four wheelers and two trucks, each raised at least twenty inches beyond what was legal.

"Nice trucks," John said.

"Thanks," Derek said.

Inside, they served him a thick soup with gruel in it. The cabin was one room with a wood fired stove, a table and four chairs. There were several rifles leaned against the wall, and some large backpacks and various sacks, but that was it. A radio sat on the table.

When John finished, he could feel the two men studying him. He raised his head and forced a smile, but it felt like an aberration on his face. "Thanks."

"Of course, kid."

"I'll leave now," he said and realized that he'd nowhere to go. But he couldn't stay here.

"You can stay," Derek said with a smile.

"No, I have to get going."

"What's your story?" Derek asked, his face changing from kind to suspicious.

"I..." John took in a deep breath. He wondered what _their_ story was. They weren't out in the middle of nowhere, but they seemed to live like it.

Bill, seeming unconcerned with what John decided to do, turned on the radio and walked over to a rifle.

"Last night a man was found dead in his apartment. The suspect shoved a broken piece of a chair into his chest. The man was DOA," the radio said.

John got up.

"Here," Derek said and grabbed what looked like a stack of beef jerky. "Take this with you."

John knew he had to leave, now, before these two men found out who he was, because then what would he do? It, or whatever it was that shoved a stick into a man's chest, would arise, and he didn't want to hurt people who'd just helped him. He tried to shift his attention to the radio, hoping that it hadn't named him.

"Here," Derek said with the jerky still in his face.

Grabbing the jerky, John turned to leave.

"They said it was some kid named John. Six foot..."

John turned.

Derek had his head cocked. "It was you, wasn't it?"

John looked at Derek's hurt face, then at Bill who suddenly seemed to have a look of approval on his face. The look faded, and he pulled out a revolver that looked to be bigger than his arm, though it wasn't pointed at John.

While he could have run, John wanted to make sure Derek knew the truth.

"I was attacked by him."

"You put a stick through a man's chest," Bill said. "The radio said you must have been on PCP, or meth. You're not one of those addicts, are you?"

"No, I'm _not_ ," John said. He hated that. Why did adults always ask him if he was on drugs just because he was acting the way he felt like?

"You shouldn't do drugs," Derek said in a voice that seemed like a cry for the wronged in the world. "My aunt got into it and it destroyed her life. No teeth, nothing—"

"I'm not."

"You weren't attacked," Bill jumped back in. "You were in the man's apartment, the radio said that."

"They're lying. I _was_ attacked. They took my mother... it's where we lived," John said; he could feel his voice cracking. He didn't know why, but now he couldn't leave with Derek thinking of him this way.

"You really shouldn't do drugs, kid," Derek said, his eyes squinting and his voice getting softer.

"Look. I'm strong," John said, anger boiling up. "Come here," he beckoned Derek.

Derek glanced over at Bill then took a step forward.

"Take my hand," John said.

Derek took his hand.

John, focusing his anger, clenched his teeth and lifted Derek up, his arm straight out to the side.

"Holy shit," Bill said. "He weighs two-fifty."

"Two twenty," Derek said.

"What are you, a woman?" Bill said. "You're not a pound under two-fifty."

"Fuck you."

"Hold on," John said.

"Hold on?"

John cocked his arm back and tossed Derek. It was meant to be a few feet, but John underestimated himself, and Derek flew half way across the room. Derek landed on his feet then crashed to his ass.

"Sorry," John said.

Bill was laughing. "He threw you like a pebble."

Derek stood up, rubbing his ass. "That's... How much you weigh kid?"

"I'm sorry," John repeated.

Derek waved his hand. "Don't sweat it kid. How much you weigh?"

"One-thirty five, the last time I checked."

"Looks it," Bill added.

"He does," Derek said, rubbing his arm. "This ability of yours the reason these people are after you?"

"Yeah," John said, now wondering if he'd said and shown too much.

Derek and Bill exchanged glances. John couldn't tell if it was hostile or friendly.

"They took you mother?" Bill said.

John's eyes fell to his feet again. Hearing someone else say it only made it feel that much more real. His eyes welled up.

"Easy kid."

"Yeah, give him more food," Bill said.

"You got kin to go to?"

"No," John said.

"None?"

"Nobody."

"Where you going then?"

"Away," John said.

"Can't argue with that," Bill said.

"No," Derek added.

Bill walked up to John with the gun. "Here, you'll need this."

"I... don't know," was all John could manage to say.

"Hold here," Bill said, placing the gun in John's hand. "Eyes on the front sight post and shoot."

"Th... thanks."

"Of course kid." Bill slapped John's back and smiled. "This is how you'll keep the coppers off your back."

John stuffed the gun into his backpack, and a box of bullets that Bill handed him.

Derek came over with a bag of food and a map. "Use this map. See, stay away from built up areas."

John looked at the topographical map and was surprised to hardly recognize a thing. He and his mother had always moved from town to town, the forests between were only trees to drive by.

"Why, why are you helping me?" John asked.

"Oh, I had a cousin in your situation once," Bill said. "He wasted his wife and headed out to the woods. He managed to evade the cops for two months. But they found him stealing food from a house. So make sure to stay away from everyone. All right?"

"Got it," John said. He was trying to hold back his surprise at having been compared to a man who killed his wife, but he decided that Bill's friendly face meant the best.

"Take care kid, and keep your head straight."

"Thanks."

John set out with a heavier pack than he was used to. Twenty minutes later he crossed a highway; making certain to do it only after all cars were gone. He spent twenty more minutes trying to press the black box then gave up.

As the sun started its descent, John felt the urge to give up. He sat down next to a tree and looked at the dirt. What he would have given just to be normal, just to be absolutely average in this world.

A memory of his mother drifted through his head: when they moved into the apartment complex, came out to greet a couple of junkies with a broomstick after John burst in crying when the junkies threatened to knife him for money. She'd chased them off, then came at John with the stick. "Don't you ever cry over a fight with a couple of losers again. Got it? One day I won't be here, you understand?" He hated her that day, but now her words had the sting of being right.

His eyes welled up, and he shook trying to stop the tears from coming out. In the end, he couldn't help it.

When he was finished he felt better, and he pulled out some jerky and ate it until the hole in his stomach was filled. Then a snap in the woods reached his ears.

John got on his feet and glanced about.

Another twig snapped. It sounded like it was a few feet away. John pulled out the revolver Bill gave him. His hands were trembling.

He pointed it in the direction of the noise. "Who is it?"

"John?"

John dropped the gun and fell to his knees. All the fear dissipated when he saw Tom's familiar face.

"Jesus Christ, John," Tom said and leaned over to hug John.

"They have mom," John said, his voice trembling. He wanted to give himself over to Tom and be taken someplace safe.

"I know. I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry."

John enjoyed the hard press of his uncle's body.

"Let's get out of here," Tom said and they picked up John's belongings.

They stuck to local highways, as Tom was certain that the interstates would have cops all over them.

"Who gave you that hand canon?" Tom asked.

"A couple of guys. They found me in the woods and gave me some food to eat."

"Did you tell them anything?" Tom asked.

"No. Well they knew about the murder, but they believed me in the end."

"You admitted to it?" Tom asked in a disdain-laden voice.

"They knew; there was no way I could have lied my way out of that. Besides, they were cool with it."

"John, no one's cool with murder. No one. Now that you've admitted to it, it will only be used against you," Tom said and bit his lower lip as he spoke.

"Trust me. They were all right. Why would they have given me a gun?"

"I don't know," Tom said. "But you can't go trusting anyone anymore."

"I can trust them," John said, angry that his ability to judge others was being put to the test.

Tom let out a huff of air, just like John's mother would do when he kept asking why, or he did something she deemed foolish.

"Let's say you can trust them. Now they have information these men who are after us would kill for, or torture for. That means you've possibly put these men at risk. So don't tell anyone about your situation. Don't hope that they will understand. If not for your safety, then for theirs..."

John looked out at the dashboard lights reflecting on the windshield. If what Tom just said was true, then he'd sent those two nice men to their deaths. For a second his mind transposed the eyes of the man dying in his apartment to Derek, to Bill, and he imagined them crying out to him. John sniffed. "So I'll always leave death and pain in my wake if I decide to talk to people. Is that what you're saying?"

"Easy there, don't go talking like that," Tom said, his voice calmer now. "You couldn't have known. There isn't anything you can do about it now. Just for future reference."

John didn't say anything. He was praying that Derek and Bill wouldn't get caught.

"You all right?" Tom said, rubbing John's shoulder. "Listen, never mind what I said, just be careful in the future. The past you can't change.

John shrugged off his hand.

"I'm sorry," Tom said, in a softer voice. "I was just trying to make a point."

"You think they'll catch those men and torture them?"

Tom paused to think, then said no.

John knew what that pause meant, what that extra thought meant. John decided to change the subject before the wedge between he and his uncle got any wider.

"They're still looking for you?" John said, feeling lightheaded and not thinking properly.

"No, you. You've heard about the murder they're accusing you off, right?"

John kept silent.

"You did it?" Tom asked.

"He attacked me with a gun. I didn't have time to think," John said and stared at his hands. He now remembered the slimy blood on his hands, the man's look of absolute surprise. The man hadn't expected to die.

"Don't think about it," Tom said.

"You've done it before?"

"Don't. Think. About it."

John stared at his hands again. He'd ended a man's life.

"I..."

"John. Listen to me. There wasn't anything else you could do. The man attacked you right?"

"He did, but I'm not certain..." John thought about whether that man had wanted to kill him.

"It doesn't matter about the certainty. Those men are out to kill you, so don't ever think otherwise. Do you hear me John?" Tom said, slapping John's hands. "You are not to think about this one bit."

John nodded. He felt sick. But not like before. This sickness dripped from his soul and was infecting everything he saw or thought. Tom was right, he had to think about something else. He started to rock back and forth, he could feel Tom tense up when he did that. For some reason the rocking made him feel better.

"I don't know if I can do this, Tom. I don't know if I'm made out for this life. I mean look at me. I was crying, and I feel like crying again."

Tom glanced over. Night was complete, and only oncoming cars highlighted his face. "You did damn well, John. Now it's time for you to move on and survive."

"What if I can't survive? What if I'm like one of those baby gazelles the lion always eats first?"

"You need to stop watching those shows," Tom said with a grin, which evaporated when John winced at the comment. "Listen, kid, you're fourteen years old, I think you're doing damn well. Better than I could have ever done at your age, let alone now."

John looked off at the trees, fences and distant country homes flashing by in the dark set against a moonlit sky. The sun had set, and he wasn't certain when. Time was morphing into some unknown substance. Why was that? Was it that man? _Don't. Think. About him._

"Do it for your mother, kid."

"I will," John said, wondering if he sounded as brave as he was trying to sound. His mother. "Where are we going?"

"We're getting you out of the area. We're one state over, but once we make it two states over we should be good."

"Why?"

"These men smell blood, and they'll do anything to find you out. Best to get you away."

"What about mom?"

The heavy silence that landed after John spoke frightened him. He didn't know how to react, so he watched the road rip by; yellow stripes turned into a line, and he watched small pebbles zip by as they added texture to the road.

"I think it's best," Tom said, his voice low. "That you... put those thoughts out of your head."

"What thoughts?"

"Your mother. She should be a memory. And we will find a way to remember her. But there's nothing we can do to help her."

"No! She's still alive," John said. "The two men said she was."

"What two men?"

John described the two men as he remembered them.

"You have the license?" Tom asked.

John told him.

"That sounds about right. I saw those men in Savannah once, in a close call. They were filtering through the bars and I escaped, but not before we slugged it out."

"You fought them?"

"That's right," Tom said. "It was barely enough to hold them off and gain time to run off."

"So, we'll go back for her?"

Silence.

"Tom?"

"Go to sleep, John, we'll talk about this tomorrow."

John had a rise of energy, and he wanted to argue, but he soon closed his eyes for a second and was gone.

"Wake up Johnny boy."

John opened his eyes and was met with a blue sky. He was sleeping in a sleeping bag; the Impala's headlights were staring at him. "Where are we?"

"Near the border with Canada. We're going to hike across it today."

His mother. He hadn't forgotten.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"If you don't want to become some sort of scientific experiment, you will."

John shivered in the cold air. Tom's voice had a measured lack of emotion, something that John hadn't heard before. He looked at the man who claimed to be his uncle. "How can you say that? You said you would help me, didn't you?"

"I did. But we have to do it my way."

"What's that, run like a coward?"

"It's the only way, trust me, you can't fight these people. They're too powerful, they've too many people."

"I'm not scared of them."

"You're not? You certain about that? Cause I remember something about you crying. You think they care whether you cry or not? They'll pick you apart like a frog."

John let that image soak in, but he still couldn't accept that anyone would do something that horrific.

"So what? How do you expect me to push my mother out of my mind? She's alive, and I know I can't possibly stand the sight of myself if I let anything happen to her without even _trying_ to save her."

Tom's eyes focused on something behind John, before focusing back on John. "She wouldn't have wanted this, John. She told me herself, that she would kill me if I let you come after her."

"I don't care what she said. I won't live knowing that I ran away from my mother."

"You will die," Tom said, his arms reaching out to grab John, before he thought better of it and stormed off.

John watched his uncle's big back disappear into the woods. They were in a clearing in the middle of evergreen trees. A few insects hummed here and there, but for the most part it was quiet. In the distance there was the slight scream of a highway. The smell of his own body odor hit John; it was sharper than before. He sniffed his armpits. He preferred the smell of the pine needles and the oiled engine of the car to himself.

In the sky a lonely cloud was making its way, on its journey to nowhere. The cloud's wisped edges whipped high above like moving paint strokes, while another end of the white cloud was so round and smooth that John could almost taste it. He dug into his bag and started to eat his jerky. Ten minutes later, Tom trudged out of the woods.

"You ready to leave?"

"Why don't we travel at night?" John asked.

"Fewer cars means it's easier to get caught. It's not like we can drive without lights," Tom said, his attitude still brusque. "You ready?"

"We're going to save my mother?"

"No. We're getting out of here."

"You expect me to leave my mother in the hands of torturers?"

"Yes, I do," Tom said, emotion leaving his voice.

John didn't know how his uncle did that, changed his attitude and tone in a heartbeat, but he didn't like it. It made Tom seem less human.

"What would you have done about your mother? Let her die?"

"Yes. Especially with these odds. Do you even know where your mother is? Huh?"

"I don't. But we can track them."

"Track them, _track them_ ," Tom spoke as if he were talking to someone else, his head turned to the side. "This I'll have to see."

"I can see at night. That will be our advantage."

"They have night vision."

"I'm stronger and faster. I can find her."

"You don't know what you're talking about, kid, strong and fast don't mean shit."

John wanted to punch his uncle for calling him a kid. He didn't, though he wasn't certain why. "Please."

"Listen to me," Tom said stepping towards the car. "We've got to get going. The sooner we cross into Canada, the safer you'll be. Trust me on this."

"I can't live knowing that I've abandoned my mother."

"You don't know. You just think."

"No," John said, frustrated that none of his words were getting through to his uncle.

"You don't know anything. You're too young to know what you're capable of."

"How can you say that? You're not me."

"I'm older and have lived more than you."

"But you're not me."

Tom opened the car door. "You coming?"

"Please. I've no one else to help me. Don't leave me here," John said. He wondered, as he spoke more and more from a cut in his heart, whether Tom would be moved.

"I'm not leaving you," Tom said, annoyed. "You can come with me if you choose."

"Don't leave me too," John said. He was felt like crying again, though he was managing to keep it in so far.

"I'm. Not. Leaving. You," Tom said, angry now. "But you have to make a decision. Come with me, or go it alone."

"My mother. I have to try. She's the only person who's ever been there for me. Through everything. The only person I've loved. You can't expect me to leave her."

"I can and I will," Tom said and started the car.

The rumble of the engine drowned out John's thoughts for a second. "And didn't you feel anything for her? Or was all that just you being a fake?"

"Last chance," Tom said, kicking the car into gear and slowly moving away.

John stared in disbelief as his uncle drove off. John had, for the briefest of moments, been absolutely sure that his heartfelt meltdown would've turned his uncle to his side. Instead he watched as the only friend and ally he had on the planet left him.

When the engine no longer vibrated the hairs in John's ears, he sat down and stared at the ground. Was that what living a life on the road did to his uncle? Perhaps it was best to face off with the men chasing him and get it over. He fell backwards and stared at the sky, now a blue canvas waiting to be written on.

But John wasn't certain what he would write next. He felt tears released from his eyes, and he looked at his hands. A man died by his hands, and now more would die. That cogitation shook him. He would have to turn back around and find out those two men. He didn't have the slightest clue about how to go about that.

Attempting to stand himself up, John's head spun and he fell back down. He was not going to be able to do this. But he was alone now, and there really wasn't anything he could think of doing besides finding his mother.

He still couldn't believe that his uncle had left him. What did that make family? Nothing? Not willing to sacrifice for one another? Perhaps Tom was right about his mother not wanting anyone to come after her. But she would say that, wouldn't she? What John's mother did say was that family was the most important group you could belong to, and helping each other when the world wouldn't made living worth it.

Feeling stronger, John managed to stand up on his feet. He would do this alone.

He turned and was surprised to see the Impala staring at him. Tom must have snuck up on him. At first John was ecstatic and cracked a smile. But he reminded himself that he wasn't supposed to give his uncle any quarter, not after he'd left him, and he frowned and walked by the car.

Tom reached out and grabbed him. "Come on, get in the car."

His voice sounded soft, not like the emotionless man who was here only a few seconds ago.

"I said I'm not going to Canada."

"I know."

"So you're going to help?"

"That's right."

Soon they were driving back. "Do you have a plan?" John asked.

"Me? Aren't you the big man who wanted to save his mother?"

John huffed. "All right." He tried to think. "What about if we were to find out where that license plate was from?"

"How, with all our friends in the police department?"

John tried to think of any way to get access to police records, but he couldn't think. They could break into a station, but he hadn't the faintest clue on how to do that.

"Maybe they'll be outside the apartment still. We can drive there."

"I'm not driving anywhere with this car. We're getting close, then taking a bus into town."

Now he knew why his uncle had been so hesitant to go back. John was feeling a strong pang of regret and fear for doing what he was doing, and he felt like perhaps this was the wrong idea after all. But he wasn't about to admit that he was wrong. Especially not when Tom was acting like this.

"We need a new car."

"Oh, and how do we get that?"

"We go out there and steal one."

"Have you ever stolen a car, tough guy?" Tom said, his voice now obviously hostile.

"Well how about helping me with some ideas then?" John said, his words coming close to yelling.

"I thought _you_ were the big ideas guy. Huh, Einstein?"

John let out some air and stared at the countryside turning from an inappropriately beautiful pastoral setting to shades of gray as the sun set. "Let's sell this car and go closer."

"Fat chance."

"You don't have any friends with cars that we can borrow?"

"No, don't you?"

"Of course I don't, I'm only a kid!" John said the shut up. He shouldn't have admitted that he was a kid. Then it hit him. Derek and Bill.

"I know where we can get a truck."

"Oh hell no," Tom said.

"You know?"

"Yeah, the crazy bastards in the woods? The one who felt sorry for his wife-killing friend? I don't think so. You'll be lucky if they don't change their mind and decide to pop one in your head."

"But why? They had trucks and motorbikes."

"I'll get us a vehicle. Don't worry about it."

"Then why didn't you just say that?" John asked, now furious at his uncle for toying with him.

"Just to see if you were willing to think."

"What does that prove?"

When night fell they parked in a thicket of woods off the highway again. John noticed a familiarity in smell of the air, in the billboards, and the speed of the cars and the looks of the people. He was getting close to his recent home. It was funny how his body just knew.

He went to sleep outside in a sleeping bag and woke up again staring at the blue sky.

"You ready?" asked Tom.

John looked over and saw his uncle with a motorbike to the side of the Impala.

"Where'd you get that?"

"I lied about not having any friends. Anyways, we need to get going."

Tom drove the car into the bushes and covered it carefully with branches and grass until it blended with the background.

They were soon in town and on the main road where John's apartment block was located. They drove by it without paying too much attention to it. John tried to look at it through the corner of his eye, but he saw nothing. They parked the bike a mile behind the apartment building. "You'll walk from here."

Tom gave him a short wave radio for communication.

Using the same ditch as before, John approached the building and lay down to wait for the dark. It was mind numbingly boring. Not a single car came by. Though John was focused on his door, which had a police caution tape strapped across it, he didn't see anyone out of place come by. Even the junkies had decided to leave. He felt a pit of despair as he wondered if he would ever see his mother again. Seeing his old home so vacated and empty only made his mother's disappearance seem like a reality.

"John?"

John snapped and turned down the hand radio. He hadn't expected it to be that loud. "Yeah?" he asked in a whisper.

"You see anyone?"

"Nobody."

"I think they've given up."

"We need to see at night—"

"No. Come back, I have some more information."

John made his way back to the parking lot and arrived there by the time it was dark.

"You see anyone?"

"Yup. Our two friends are all over the town."

"You saw them?" John asked, his excitement growing.

Tom nodded as if he was slightly perturbed. "I know where they are. And I think they have your mother in there."

"Let's go then!" John said.

"It's guarded like all hell, John."

"Is it here?"

"It's a few miles out of town. A house they must have bought. The neighbors say they saw over ten people in there."

"Where?" John said, getting excited.

"Take it easy. We're not going anywhere without a plan."

They drove back to the Impala, and Tom pulled out a handgun. John felt glad that Tom was doing the thinking. At that moment, John was a mix between excited and scared out of his mind. The result was that he felt confused and the world seemed to move in slow motion.

He stared at his uncle's gun for several seconds before a thought transpired. "Do I get a gun?" John asked.

"No. You don't need any more trouble than you have."

"I'm already in trouble, I can't get in anymore trouble, can I?"

Tom didn't reply; he rolled his eyes.

"You can throw rocks far, can't you?"

"What?"

"Your old man could throw a rock over three hundred yards. Can you?"

"Probably," John said.

"Let's see."

Tom handed him several fist-sized rocks. John took them and placed all but one beside his feet. He felt the rock's sharp edges in his hand and as he squeezed it, his body started to react. His face flushed, and his heart rate picked up. It was odd, as if his body was reacting without him telling it to become angry.

He leaned back and threw the rock straight up.

"Jesus," Tom said, his neck arched back, and he squinted to see the rock as it disappeared.

They waited over a minute. Tom was sweating and glancing at John. "You see it?" Tom asked, his voice trembling.

"It'll be here in a second," John said. He felt better now that Tom was scared of him.

The whistling sound sent Tom running to his Impala.

John laughed. "Don't worry. It'll land right there." He pointed in front of him.

Tom stopped, edging towards his car. "I was just getting..."

The rock landed more than fifty yards from where John pointed, with a final shriek and thud that shook the earth around John's feet. The vibrations tickled him and made him grin.

"See?" John said, moving his finger to the point of impact.

"You weren't even close," Tom said.

They both walked to where it landed. When the dust settled back down, they could see a crater a foot deep.

"Goddamn, John. You're a one man artillery unit." Tom tussled John's hair.

"Could dad throw that high?"

"Not even close," Tom said.

John felt a joy erupt in his heart, and he smirked.

Tom watched John as he made him practice throwing until his arm was somewhat sore. He threw until he knew exactly where the rock would land.

Afterwards, Tom gave John a few rocks and a bat. "That should be more than enough for you."

John wanted to tell him about the levitation, but since it was only something the size of a pebble that he could make float, he decided not to.

"Let's go," Tom said as he walked into the woods.

"We're walking?"

"It's only a few miles through these woods."

John felt his throat tighten, and he dutifully followed his uncle. The world seemed like a dream again. He didn't like that.

It was dusk when, five hundred meters away from a house, they stopped.

"Is that it?"

"Watch," Tom said.

As it grew dark John noticed two of the men he saw in the parking lot come out of the house laughing.

Then he heard a scream. Of a woman. His heart in his mouth, John got up, but Tom tackled him and held him down.

"I have to go get her," John said through his teeth.

"Will you listen to me for once?"

"What?"

"Wait until dark. You'll have an advantage then."

"What if they're hurting her?"

"You can pay them back. But you do her no good if you get caught."

John nodded. He trusted Tom when he sounded calm and reserved like this.

As night fell John made out two more men standing on the front porch of the house. With the lights on inside, he saw another man appear on the roof, then yet another wash his hands in a bathroom.

"I see at least six men, one on the roof."

"Does the man on the roof have goggles on him?"

"No. He only has a rifle."

"That's good," said Tom. "If you see goggles, it means they have night vision. This means they don't really expect us. Or you at least."

Another muffled scream pierced the air, louder now that it was traveling through the quiet of the night.

"Easy, kid," Tom whispered.

"When are we getting her?" John said, his voice cracking.

"Soon. Can you hit that man with the rock?"

"Of course."

"Do it. Throw it high."

John took out a rock the size of a baseball and leaned back and threw it as hard as he could. He botched it. He took out another one and threw it too.

"Now," Tom said and they took off running towards the house. They approached the side of the house just when a large thump was heard somewhere in the grass that surrounded the house.

"That wasn't even close," Tom said.

John didn't have time to answer; the next sound was the rock smashing through something soft. The sound, like a rock dropped in cake mixed with glass, made John want to vomit. He managed to hold it in.

"Easy," Tom said with a hand on John's shoulder. "For your mother, right?"

John nodded with a tremor.

"You can get to the roof?"

"Yeah," John said. He certainly hoped that all his powers allowed him to do something so simple.

"Go, and start your way down. I'll work my way up. Got it?"

"Got it."

John watched as his uncle disappeared around the corner. There were shouts and yells from inside the house. The men were getting ready.

Tensing up his muscles, John jumped with all his might. It was higher than he'd ever jumped before, but his head only got to the second story. He tried again and his fingertips grazed the gutters on the roof.

A gunshot cracked the air, then another. His uncle was in the house and he needed to get up there. He jumped and managed to grab a hold of the gutters with his fingers.

Another shot rang out, more yells. Was his uncle all right?

John felt the gutter creak and bend under his weight. He twisted his body and lifted his legs onto the roof just as the piece of gutter he was holding broke off. He turned and his heart stopped when he saw a man still up there.

"Uh... I was just," John tried to think of something as he got to his feet.

The man didn't answer.

John raised his hands and took a step towards him. "I..." he said, still not able to think about what to say.

Another step forward and he saw that the man wasn't saying anything because, in fact, he couldn't say anything. His head was knocked clean off and the rest of his body was leaning on the roof like nothing had happened. There was no blood, and when John looked closely he saw that the man's neck was sealed off with burns. Was his throw that fast?

Screams shouted out, and this time it sounded like a woman. The rock had left a gaping hole in the roof. John charged down the hole with a rock in his hand and landed in an empty room with stripped wallpaper and wooden floors. The door was open, and he could see railings that framed the view of the first floor. A flash and bang went off. John stepped forward. He didn't know what to do.

Look for mom.

He took another look at the empty room and stepped outside. All the light came from downstairs, while the second floor was completely dark. He glanced down and saw a man shooting on the stairs. John threw a rock as hard as he could at the man's head.

The crunching sound made John nauseous again. Another man stepped on the now half-a-head man next to the stairs and looked up. John whipped another rock. The man was hit square in the chest and went flying back.

"Don't move kid," a voice behind John said.

John froze. He had more rocks, but they were in his pockets.

"Take a step back and don't turn around."

It was kind of dark here, thought John. If only he could make out where the man was, then he could use the darkness to his advantage. He made sure he stepped back far enough that the light from downstairs didn't touch him.

"That's enough," the man said. "Turn."

John pretended to stumble and flipped through the air as fast as he could. It was more than enough. He found himself next to the man, who was only then reacting and turning his head towards John.

The man jerked his gun at John, but to John it seemed like slow motion. John grabbed the gun, yanked it out of the man's hands. As the man was reaching for something else in his pocket, John grabbed the man by the collar and flung him over the railing and down the stairs as hard as he could. Another thud sounded off with another shot.

_Mom_.

There were two other doors to the second floor. John kicked down the door of one, a rock in each hand. A man was on a radio, with his back to John.

"We are under attack. We need backup now! I repeat: we are under attack. Possibly twenty men. We have reason to believe the football is here as well."

Was that what he was called? The man's voice was coming out like a slowed-down tape. John looked around the room. There were pictures of him and his mother everywhere. There was one of Tom and his Impala. These men knew everything. John felt anger coursing faster through his veins.

The man slowly turned to him. John threw the rock as hard as he could. It went clean through the man. He collapsed on the desk in front of him, knocking the radio down.

He turned. There was no sound coming from downstairs. He kicked the final door down and was met with another empty room.

Downstairs.

John flew down the stairs and turned into the living room. There were three bodies, the ones he had dealt with, in a pile and jumped over them.

"Joohhhnn."

John turned and saw his uncle staring at him. A large man with a sloped forehead and a wide car-lifting back held a gun to Tom's face. The man didn't face John, his back was to him, and was turning to see John, while keeping Tom in his view.

John ran as fast as he could. He pushed the gun up, and as the man's small glassy eyes saw him, he reached for John. John swung at his head as hard as he could.

The man fell, hard, his eyes rolling into his head.

Suddenly John felt exhausted, and the whole world came crashing up to his speed. John doubled over.

"You all right?" Tom asked, reaching for John and pulling him up.

"I'm fine, I just need to..." John stopped and sucked in as much air as he could. He didn't like feeling weak after being untouchable these last few minutes. "Mom isn't upstairs."

"There's a door to the basement," Tom said. His voice was slow and methodical. He didn't appear to be affected by the firefight in any way.

"Where?" John asked. He had to find his mother.

"Follow me."

"Are there any others here?" John asked, his eyes glancing around. He realized that he couldn't really see that well in the dark anymore. Were his powers dissipating?

"No, everything is cleared."

Tom pulled a shotgun off one of the dead men. "You got rocks?"

John grabbed two rocks from his pocket and gripped them in his hands. His energy wasn't returning. What could he do with these rocks?

Tom pushed the door open slightly. The first stair was visible, but the rest was dark. Water dripped from a pipe and made the sound of hitting something hard. "Can you see down there?" Tom asked.

John squinted his eyes trying to make out the shapes in there.

"Well?"

A flash of movement shocked John into jumping back. "I think there's someone there," John said, his voice cracking. He could smell something sharp, like sulfur, and it scared it.

Tom gave him an angry look. "You can't see?"

"No. I don't know. I feel weak. I can't do anything."

Tom glanced back down the stairs when the sound of a tool crashing on the floor broke the monotony of the dripping water.

"Don't give up on me now, John. I need you. Grab your balls and think about your mother," Tom hissed.

John gritted his teeth and tried to summon up energy. He thought of his mother and told himself that the screams he'd heard were hers. His body refused to listen and only groaned harder. How could Tom expect him just to pick himself up when he'd already done so much? "I'll try," John looked over at one of the men lying on the floor and grabbed his handgun.

Tom seemed exasperated and pointed at the one light still on in the first floor living room. John walked over and switched it off. Everything went dark. Only a few lines of off-black showed in the cracks between the curtains and the windows.

"Get ready," Tom said and took a step into the basement.

A part of John's body shrieked. Something was wrong. John wasn't certain if it was his body being tired and sending mixed signals, or if there was something down there that shouldn't be trifled with. John wanted to tell Tom to stop, but his uncle was already three steps down. John's heart started to thump fast again and suddenly he could see the basement as clear as day. His energy was returning, or so he thought, but when he moved his leg, it felt like a wooden prosthetic, and he could barely take the first step.

Another flash of movement.

John couldn't recognize what it was. Again he thought of telling Tom to stop, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth.

They got to the bottom of the stairs, and John could see nothing in the room. It was large, and there was only one other door in the corner, leading to a walled off section in the basement.

John took a step towards it, and stepped in front of Tom. He knew his uncle couldn't see anything. His uncle didn't try to stop him. John felt his stomach rumbling, his body screaming at him to go back upstairs, and to remember that his mother didn't want him to come after her.

One more glance around the room, and he knew that there was nothing here. He would have to open the door. He took a few more steps and stared at the doorknob within his reach.

_Don't be scared_.

The scream of a woman loosened his bowels and in the last second, he managed to hold in his feces.

Open the door, mom's in there.

His body rebelled, kicked and yelled. It wasn't the scream that scared him, it was something else he couldn't hear, but could feel, a cackling or silent grin at the scream that was coming from the other side of the door.

He kicked the door as hard as he could. It was a flimsy door made from plywood. It flew open, then slammed shut. John stared at this occurrence and kicked it open with less force. Now the door creaked and hung crooked and half open.

There was his mother tied to a chair. Her head was resting on her chest.

"Mom?"

The laugh, the cackle, sounded off in John's head. Something was wrong. He could not see the entire room, and he pushed the door all the way and stepped inside the room. The left side had a desk with various tools on it. Nobody was there. John turned his head so he could see his mother, and could hear the breathing of someone on the other side of the door.

He took one more glance at his mother and felt anger bubble up.

John punched his hand through the door and grabbed someone's neck. Something heavy fell to the floor and with his other hand, John reached around the door for the man's coat. He pulled the man to face him.

It was the man from the parking lot. His hair was no longer slicked back, but he had a face that mixed fear and apathy.

"Is there anyone else?" John asked.

The man tittered.

John grabbed the man's balls, something that was done to him in gym class once. "Answer me," John growled.

The man groaned and heaved forward. "Okay, okay."

John released the man's balls. "Talk."

Apathy returned to the man's face. "You're good. I would say better than your old man," he said and giggled.

There was something about the way he talked that pushed John in a way he didn't like. "Is there anyone else here?"

"Oh, man you're good. But we're going to get you," the man said, pointing his finger at John.

John slammed the man against the wall.

The man winced. "You're going to kill me, of course. But we need you. And you won't stop us all. Now... Now we're going to get you and make sure that you help us."

John kneed the man in his stomach.

The man convulsed and took a moment to catch his breath. "You're like your old man. Cruel to the end. You can't help it," the man said and huffed through his mouth. His breath, a mixture of old food and garlic, spewed forth.

John didn't understand why the man was so certain, and why he kept grinning, like it was _he_ holding John, and not the other way around.

"Why are you coming after me? Why don't you stop?"

"Oh, John. We'll never stop," the man said in a mocking tone. "What we want is your essence."

"Why?"

"Let me tell you a story about three ants. You want to hear?"

John didn't answer; he felt nervous.

"Winter was fast approaching, and these ants were each pushing up a large piece of bread to the top of their respective ant hill." The man made an effort to pantomime ants pushing with his fingers, his voice low. "But the bread was too large and kept sliding down. Finally one ant said: 'this isn't fair. The bread is too large, and the hill is too steep. Why is life unfair? I won't deal with it. So he stopped. The other two ants kept at it until the second ant said: 'this is impossible. I'll never get it up. He sat and ate half the bread, then pushed it up with ease. The third one never gave up and finally, just before winter, he pushed the bread up the anthill."

The man smiled and pantomimed clapping his hands. "Winter came and the first ant died immediately. Then half way through winter the second one died. When winter was over the third ant left his anthill and found a piece of bread and started to push it back up the hill."

John didn't know what to make of the story. Were they supposed to mean something? He was about to throw the man against the floor when his mother made a sound that was half groan and half cry.

"What did you do to her?"

"Everything," the man said with a smile. "And oh man did she hold out..."

The flash and bang near John's head caused him to release the man and step down. The man collapsed on the floor.

Tom was standing next to John with his gun out.

"He was wasting time," his uncle said. "Let's get your mother and get out of here."

Tom took a step towards his mother when John saw the movement. It was quick, maybe quicker than him, and it brushed Tom aside. Tom went flying into the table of tools. The thing seemed to consider John then turned towards his mother.

It lunged. John may have been tired, but seeing, knowing that his mother was in danger pushed a shot of adrenaline into his heart. He roared and leaped at the creature moving towards his mother.

He tackled it and could feel the fur and fangs come at him. John took the rock in his hand and put it through the thing's face. It twitched for a second, then went back to snapping at John's neck. John held its face back with one hand and fended off its claws with his other.

John knew that the surge of energy he was living off wasn't going to last more than a few seconds. He slammed his head into the creature's jaw. When its head whipped back, John grabbed its neck with his other hand and twisted. The beast went limp and collapsed on the floor.

John rolled to his back. His muscles, even his bones, were out of energy.

The lights came on. John could see the white ceiling. Tom's face pierced his visual field.

"You all right, John?"

"Get mom."

Tom walked to his mother.

"What was it?" John asked, still trying to catch his breath.

"What was what?" Tom said, his voice strained as he strained with the ropes.

"The thing that I was just fighting, what was it?"

"Uh... the guy next to you?"

John rolled over to his side and saw the man next to him in a trench coat. His neck was bloody, his throat pointing up like an upside down V. John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He opened his eyes and tried to comprehend what was in front of him. It was a normal man. John was certain he'd heard the fangs gnashing near his face, and felt the fur of the beast next to his skin.

"John, you'd better come here."

John got up, stood for second trying to gather his energy and not fall down, and walked over to Tom. He could see his mother, or what remained of her, wrapped in nothing but Tom's leather jacket. She was cut up and bloodied beyond recognition.

"Mom?"

She was hugging herself and shivering. Tom left and came back with some water. She took a sip. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor.

"Mom? Can you hear me?" John wanted her to look at him, or to at least acknowledge him. He got down on his haunches and looked at her face. It seemed pale and hollow. Hadn't it only been a little more than a day or two?

"Mom? Please talk to me."

She looked up at Tom. "Why did you let my son see me like this?"

Tom didn't answer.

"Mom, can you talk to me?" John said. His voice was louder, though he didn't want it to be that way. Why did it matter what condition she was in? Why could she care about something so insignificant?

She finally looked at him, but her eyes were sunk in, and almost black.

John felt a shudder go through him. He managed to smile. "I missed you mom."

"You're such a good son," she said and touched his face.

John hugged her. He didn't feel her hug back. Her eyes vacant, she rolled her head back and forth. John's body started to shiver. He tried to fight it. They'd saved her, now she was going to make it through.

"Let's go mom," John said, stood up, and reached out his hand.

"I'll carry her," Tom said and in one swoop had her in his arms.

John led them out. The house was peaceful in the moonlight that shone through gaps in the clouds. The rest of the world seemed to be holding its breath for John and his thoughts.

Tom laid his mother on the grass next to the house. "Wait here." He ran inside.

John watched him go and was worried that he might get caught by one of the men playing dead.

John tried to watch his mother, but her eyes were closed, and she seemed to be convulsing. He patted her head and stroked her hair. He wanted to somehow convey all the emotions he felt for her and yet, in her state, it was impossible.

He needed to pull himself together. He took his mother's hand and held it firmly. That calmed her down. For a second he thought he saw the birth of a smile on her face.

Tom came running out.

"Let's go," Tom said, picking up his mother again and walking into the forest. John followed him. He was tired, but now that they had his mother he pushed himself.

He noticed that his mother's head and arm had gone limp, and he caught up with his uncle to lift her head so it didn't hang at a weird angle.

"She's sleeping," John said. Tom didn't answer him.

After a few more steps Tom stopped and placed his mother on the ground. He checked her pulse. He looked up at John.

"What's wrong?"

"She's passed away, John."

John looked at his uncle. "No. She's just sleeping. She's tired."

Tom took in a deep breath.

John stumbled forward, tripped and fell on his knees next to his mother. He checked her wrist. Nothing. He checked her neck. Nothing. "Mom?" He shook her head. First gently, then with more fervor. "Mom, please..."

All the energy that had been sapped from his body, everything that had been eating into his body recently erupted at once in his brain; he froze, and he started to cry on his mother's chest.

When he was finished, Tom gave him a hug. "Sorry, John."

John checked his mother's pulse again, then again. She was peaceful now, no longer would she convulse.

"I'll take her to the house."

"Why?" John asked.

"She wanted to be cremated, I know that much."

"She did," John said.

"Well, the house is set to burn."

John shook his head. "Not in that house, Tom. I'd rather we leave her here than that."

Tom agreed with his face and picked her up again. "Find a ditch."

They found a small ditch, then looked for rocks and covered her body. It was as good as they could manage.

Several hours later they drove off north and found another place to hide. As John lay next to the car in a sleeping bag, that kept his body toasted, but his face out in the frigid cold air, he thought about the man in the basement.

"Tom?" John asked. He could hear his uncle ruffling out a sleeping bag.

There wasn't a reply until Tom settled. "What is it?"

"Did you hear what that man said about the three ants?"

A long pause followed. Silence turned loud before Tom answered. "Yeah, I did."

"What do you think he meant by it?"

"Nothing," Tom said.

"It sounded familiar. I was wondering if it had anything to do with my dad."

"He was wasting your time, John. You shouldn't believe anything these people tell you."

John waited for more to come from his uncle, but he heard nothing. Soon that nothing was replaced with deep breathing that sounded like sleep.

John nuzzled his chin further into the sleeping bag until his breath warmed his face. He wanted to stay up and mourn his mother. Instead, exhaustion washed over him, and he fell asleep.

###

THE END

Dear Reader. Thank you for taking the time to read this book. I do hope that it was enjoyable. I would greatly appreciate it if you could return to where you got this book and write a review so that other readers may properly gauge this book. Thanks again! — Nelson Lowhim

Want to find out more? Will John find out who is chasing him? Will he manage to find true love with Jessica? Will his powers fail him again? Will he ever find peace? His father? Find out on the next installation: High School Freak 2

**More Books by the Aaron Grunn:**

Alaskan Rivers of Blood

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About the Author:

A prolific writer who has written some of this century's most engrossing books, Grunn has always strived to write page-turners for the everyday man or woman. As a child he spent his time in class writing then, when he became an adult, turned this passion into his life. His books are sold throughout the world, and enjoyed by people of all backgrounds.

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