Ryan clomps up the rickety stairs in his black work boots. He holds onto the railing with its grayish-blue peeling paint. The steps shake and rattle unsteadily beneath him. He'll have to fix that. Later. He opens the screen door, there's a hole in the mosquito netting. He'll have to fix that too. As the door slams shut, a dull wave of pain crashes into Ryan's back. Not even his bruises and troubles can hurt him, much. He's so used to the aching that it doesn't hurt anymore.

Ryan bends over with great difficulty, hearing something in his back go snap!, he knows he should haul his ass to the doctor, but he doesn't have the time right now. Or the money. Ryan doesn't know when he will have the money, but now is definitely not then.

The smell of steak cooking swarms around Ryan's head, climbing up into his nostrils and starting a cramp of hunger in his stomach. Which reminds Ryan; he didn't eat lunch today. He was working, working his ass off while all the other guys were eating and cavorting their lunch hour away. But Ryan needs the money, he needs the overtime. And he needs to show his boss that he's a strong, dedicated worker so he'll get promoted. Then, he'll make more money, not much more, but enough to get the bills paid and have a little left over for food and small luxuries.

He walks into the kitchen. Theresa is setting bowls of lettuce, tomato, cheese, and sour cream on the table. Her mother, Dolores, is at the stove, stirring the steak that has currently got Ryan's stomach twisting painfully.

Both women turn around as Ryan's boots make his presence known.

Dolores smiles wearily. "Hijo, how was work?" Her face is wrinkled, making her seem much, much older than 39. The creases around her mouth and eyes show the effects of single parenting for seventeen years, laboring endlessly for twenty-four.

Dolores means lady of sorrows.

"It was good." Ryan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick wad of bills. "I cashed my paycheck already." He separates the bills into two piles, pressing the larger one into Dolores' hand. "For the heat and electric bills."

"Thank you." Dolores smiles, and Ryan wonders if he'll look like she does, after decades of labor. Right now, that dull throbbing in his back is not so dull anymore. Ryan's head pulsates, and all he'd like to do right now is crawl into bed and sleep. He knows he can't. After dinner he promised to help Mr. Gonzalez, who lives next door. That'll add an extra three hours onto Ryan's day. Mr. Gonzalez sends Ryan for groceries, then talks to him about his early life. Ryan would enjoy it, were he not exhausted from the inside out.

Dolores turns off the stove and scoops the sizzling steak meat into a bowl. She brings it to the table and sets it in the middle. Theresa sits down, and looks at the table, confused.

"Is something missing?"

Ryan and Dolores study the table. "Taco shells," Ryan deduces. Theresa begins to stand up. "I'll get them, Theresa."

Theresa sits down, and she and her mother share a knowing smile. Ryan is a good man, he'll make a great husband. Theresa isn't stupid, though. She knows that Ryan has only agreed to marry her because it's the honorable thing to do. He doesn't love her. And that's okay, for Theresa.

She is beginning to glow with the joy of pregnancy, and her stomach has rounded over. Ryan returns to the table with a plate of hard taco shells. As he sits down, something in his lower back goes pop! and he grimaces. Neither Theresa nor her mother seem to notice.

"You know, that screen door is ripped. The mosquitoes are everywhere." Theresa swats at the air in front of her tan, rounded face.

Ryan nods. "I'll fix it as soon as possible," he promises. Theresa is always on his case, for reasons unknown. If the mosquitoes were bothering her that much, she'd do it herself or ask one of Arturo's old friends that hasn't been incarcerated to do it.

Ryan waits for Theresa and Dolores to take a taco shell and begin to fill it before reaching for one himself. He can hardly reach the tomatoes, and his arm is so heavy he could just let it drop into the bowl of sour cream.

Dolores sees Ryan struggling for the tomatoes. Wordlessly she passes the bowl into his hand. "Thanks," he manages.

After dinner Ryan puts his black hooded jacket on. It still smells like Springtime Fresh, the detergent Rosa, the Cohens' housekeeper, used on it. The smell is faded and almost overpowered by stale cigarette smoke and oil, but if Ryan concentrates hard enough, he can still hold on to it.

"Give my regards to Mr. Gonzalez," Dolores says, handing Ryan a small package wrapped in tinfoil. She is always sending Ryan or Theresa over with food, though they can't really afford to spare it. Ryan knows what dinner tomorrow night will be, and most likely the next night too. That is, if he hasn't collapsed from sheer exhaustion by then.

He slips out the torn screen door, making a second mental note to fix it later. Ryan would do it this weekend, but he agreed to pick up an extra shift. So the door will have to wait. He wants to tell Theresa to do it herself, whenever she complains about the mosquitoes. She is helpless without him; a blind bat. Or so she pretends. Ryan remembers the strong-willed teenager he used to know. How could he forget the girl who beat him in an arm-wrestling match but promised not to tell! She was able-bodied and frequently made sure to remind Ryan of that. Ryan doesn't know where that girl went, although he suspects she grew into a woman.

Ryan knocks three times on Mr. Gonzalez's door, then lets himself in. Mr. Gonzalez never locks his doors, except at night when he's sleeping. He rarely leaves the house, so there is no need to lock it when he goes out.

Ryan makes his way into the small house. It mirrors Theresa's house, save the pale blue shutters on her windows as opposed to Mr. Gonzalez's maroon ones.

"Mr. Gonzalez?" he calls, walking through the kitchen and into the small living room. He hears a radio in the living room and heads in there. Mr. Gonzalez likes to read with the radio blaring. He claims it helps him concentrate.

Mr. Gonzalez is snoring slightly, chest heaving up and down. His book is open, lying on his lap, and the radio is, as always, on the side table. Ryan runs a hand through his greasy blond locks. He could use a shower right about now, but he has to run errands for Mr. Gonzalez and he knows that when he returns to Theresa's house in a few hours he'll be too tired.

Ryan turns the radio off, and Mr. Gonzalez quickly opens his eyes.

"Turn that back on, boy," Mr. Gonzalez grins. "I was listening."

Ryan laughs and spins the dial with his rough, chafed fingers. His nails are stained around the edges with oil and soot, the result of working in a factory one too many hours. Mr. Gonzalez lives by that radio. He always knows when Ryan's turned it off, or changed it, even if he's sleeping. He grew up with the radio; it's the only present he ever received for his birthday, and it has served him well over the years.

"What can I get you tonight?" Ryan walks back into the kitchen and reappears a moment later, pen and paper in hand.

Mr. Gonzalez peers at Ryan from his bifocals. The boy looks terrible. His hair is greasy, his face his haggard, and he's hunched over, in a way no boy his age should be.

"You look awful," says Mr. Gonzalez seriously. "When's the last time you slept?"

Ryan doesn't flinch. He's used to Mr. Gonzalez telling the truth. And being able to spot the truth, in the first place. If it were anyone else asking him, Ryan would become defensive. But Mr. Gonzalez has managed to pierce the cold shield covering Ryan's heart, the one he made a little over two months ago. Newport made Ryan soft. Too soft. Hence the shield. No longer could Ryan get hurt, because he would not allow himself to feel.

"Last night."

Mr. Gonzalez raises his thinning eyebrows skeptically. "For how long?"

"Four hours," Ryan admits, lowering his eyes to the ground. Mr. Gonzalez is interfering now. He can't deal with this. He just wants to go home and collapse into bed. Sooner than later he's bound to collapse, whether he's at the grocery store picking up necessities for Mr. Gonzalez or at home.

"Then go home, boy. I can live without fresh milk for a day." Mr. Gonzalez sits up straighter in the overstuffed armchair. Like Mr. Gonzalez, the armchair has seen better days. The stuffing is coming out of the seat and it's stained and patched in countless places. It's a part of who Mr. Gonzalez is though, just like the radio.

"I can't, Mr. Gonzal--" Ryan says.

Mr. Gonzalez cuts in. "Go home, Ryan."

He rarely calls Ryan by his name, boy is his term of endearment for the blonde teenager.

"If you're sure…" Ryan looks uncertain. He's pacing around the worn wood floor, carefully sidestepping the floorboard that creaks. It's quite loud and obnoxious sounding, and Mr. Gonzalez is sure Ryan's got a splitting headache.

"I'm sure," Mr. Gonzalez insists. "Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, and I want you rested. A boy your age shouldn't look like you do."

The corners of Ryan's mouth crinkle slightly, a smile. Mr. Gonzalez waves him off. "Go!"

Ryan pads through the house. When he reaches the door, he opens it and yells, "Don't forget to lock the door!"

Ryan hears Mr. Gonzalez turn the radio up even louder, and he knows he's been heard.

He cuts across the small patch of grass dividing Mr. Gonzalez's house from Theresa's. The screen door groans and swings open slowly. The door is tired, Ryan's tired, his world is tired.

"Ryan? That you?" Ryan can hear Theresa's voice from the bedroom. He walks towards the room.

"It's me." He opens the door and sees Theresa sitting at the small, unfinished wood desk in their room. Ryan's been meaning to finish it with a glossy top coat one of these days, but the day hasn't come yet. He's got a whole list of things to do.

"What are you doing home so early? Is Mr. Gonzalez okay?" Theresa asks, writing furiously. Ryan walks over to her and gives her shoulders a quick rub. He sees the familiar scrawl on the paper but cannot make out the words. He's too tired. The room is shaking a little bit…maybe he'll go take a shower now. At least he can take advantage of the time to clean up.

Ryan can only imagine what the Cohens would say, if they knew he didn't shower daily, or even five times a week. He's lucky if he gets three ten minute showers in; on a good week, four. He doesn't think Marissa would want to hug him and love him if she saw him like this. It doesn't matter though, because he's not going to let her see him like this. He's a different person than the Ryan who might possibly be in love with Marissa. He's new, not improved, but definitely new.

"Ry? Is something wrong?" Theresa asks again, signing the paper with a flourish and folding it into a creamy white envelope. She hands the envelope to Ryan, who obligingly licks and seals it.

"No…" Ryan says, blinking a few times to rid his eyes of the white lights that dance merrily around his head. "I'm gonna take a shower." He kisses her on the head, notices that she smells like flowers. Theresa has time to wash her hair at least five times a week. There are weeks when she washes it every day. Ryan doesn't have time. But Theresa does. She's only working part time, while Ryan works one and a half to two eight hour shifts a day.

Ryan leaves Theresa in the bedroom and opens the linen closet. He takes out a faded blue towel and a formerly fluffy white one. After locking the bathroom door, he spreads the faded blue towel on the cold tile floor. Theresa hates it when Ryan leaves puddles on the floor. She does it too, but Ryan would never dare say anything. He knows better than to mess with a pregnant woman, especially if her name is Theresa.

Turning on the shower, Ryan sticks his hand in the forceful stream of water to check the temperature. It's freezing, Theresa must've used up most of the hot water, which means Ryan will be taking a short, lukewarm shower. With stiff arms that have not yet adjusted to rigorous labor Ryan pulls his shirt and tank top over his head, revealing a well toned stomach that is marred only by a few bruises and scars.

He unzips his pants and steps out of them, then bends over and picks them up. He folds them neatly and reaches down for the shirts, trying to ignore the crack! from his back. Finally, Ryan slips out of his plaid boxers--one of his only mementos from the Cohens. Kirsten loved shopping for Ryan. She bought him so many clothes, they were far too nice for the life he was living now. Which was exactly why Ryan had left them in the pool house closet.

The water beats down relentlessly on Ryan, bruising his skin. It feels good, because it helps Ryan forget. He is slowly pummeling the pain and less-than-perfect memories out of his body.

Ryan walks into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. The shower was refreshing, to say the least. His hair is damp but quickly drying in the house, for it is not air-conditioned.

"Ryan?" The lights are off and Theresa is in bed.

"Yeah?" Ryan grunts, opening a drawer and pulling out a wife beater and a fresh pair of boxers.

"Sandy called. He wants to see you."

"Did you tell him I'm busy?"

"Well…"

"I'll call him back when I get a spare minute, okay? Things are hectic at work, but when it settles down…"

"Ryan, I told him to stop by." Theresa's voice is laced with regret and worry.

"You what?" Ryan pulls the chain and the lamp on the desk flicker on. "When is he coming?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'm sorry Ryan, he sounded so desperate to talk to you, and--"

"Theresa, I don't have time. Fuck, you know that I've got to be at work at six!" Ryan finishes getting dressed and sits down at the desk.

"Ryan…" Theresa whimpers.

"Just shut your mouth," Ryan growls. A second later he is by Theresa's side. "I didn't mean it like that…"

"It's okay. I'm sorry, really, Ry, I am," Theresa kisses Ryan with her plump lips. She'd never need Botox injections, with those lips. Ryan returns the kiss. This is all he has. He has to live with it. A few seconds of bliss with a woman he doesn't love is better than nothing. Theresa leans back onto her pillow. "Did you have a chance to fix the screen door?"

Ryan's blood begins to boil, and the dancing white fairies return to put on a show before his eyes. "No, Theresa, when the fuck do you think I had time? While I was in the shower?"

"Chill out, Ryan. I've been asking you for two weeks, I just thought maybe you would get around to doing it." Theresa's voice has a sharp edge to it.

Ryan walks over to the drawer and takes out a pair of jeans. He grabs his coat, which is on the floor. He can't deal with this right now. Maybe some fresh air will help his spinning head. Maybe.

"Where are you going?" Theresa asks.

"Out," Ryan answers emotionlessly. Theresa hates when he gets like this. It's like Ryan is gone, and just his empty shell remains. He never used to be like this…

"You should really get some sleep," Theresa advises, but Ryan walks out of the room anyway. He enters the kitchen and grabs his wallet off of the table, opening it and counting the money he has left from his last paycheck. It's not much, but it might be enough.

Ryan slowly opens the screen door, silently cursing it for creaking and being torn. Without a backwards glance, Ryan walks at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. He doesn't see a moonlit Theresa watching him from the window.

-----

"Ryan," Theresa mumbles, rolling over on her side and coming face to face with an empty half of the bed. She could've sworn he came in last night…but maybe she was dreaming.

She gets up, a sudden urgency to use to the bathroom. Once done, she heads into the kitchen, where Dolores is frying bacon.

"Ryan must've left early this morning," Dolores notes. "I got up at five-thirty and he was gone."

Theresa nods her head. Ryan did come in, he must've just left for work early. He'll be home late tonight though; he picked up a second shift for the rest of the week.

Dolores arranges the bacon on a chipped plate. The bacon sizzles on top of the flowered design. She opens the refrigerator and takes out a bowl of pre-sliced melon.

"Here you go. Do you want eggs, hija?"

"Yes, Ma," Theresa answers.

Theresa finishes breakfast and goes back into the bedroom to change into her catering attire. She's got a job in Huntington Beach today. Maybe if she finishes early, she'll go pay a visit to Sandy and Kirsten and Seth. She knows she won't; she's already done enough to anger Ryan, the last thing she needs is him thinking she's sneaking around behind his back.

---

Theresa studies her nails. He hasn't come home for four days. She could really use a manicure, but they just don't have the money. Especially with Ryan missing.

She rings the doorbell again, tries to peer through the stained glass doors. Maybe they're not home…maybe she should just come back another time.

She's about to turn around and concede defeat when Sandy opens the door. He looks frazzled, and his tie is hanging loosely around his neck.

"Is this a bad time?" Theresa asks. Maybe she should've called…

"No, no," Sandy says, although his face clearly broadcasts the opposite. He opens the door. "You know, when I came over the other day, no one was home."

"I know, I'm sorry about that. Ryan had to help a friend out…a last minute emergency. And I was at work and my mother was out getting groceries." Theresa can't bear to tell Sandy that Ryan didn't want to see him, was angry that he was coming. She'd rather tell Sandy that than tell him Ryan's missing. He could just be laying low, but Theresa knows Ryan better than that. If he was, he'd at least call and let her know he wasn't lying in an alley somewhere.

"That's quite all right." Sandy looks behind Theresa. "Is he with you?"

"No, that's what I came to talk to you about, actually." Theresa can't believe she's doing this.

"Hello, Theresa. Is Ryan here?" Kirsten walks by, one shoe on, the other in hand. Her hair is done in a French twist and a short, balding man is following her around.

It scares Theresa how alike Sandy and Kirsten are, how concerned they are for Ryan. Ryan was so certain they'd forget about him, but he was wrong. If anything, they think of him even more now that he's not living in the pool house.

"No. Um, you might want to sit down," Theresa begins. Sandy and Kirsten sit down on the couch in the living room. Their faces are both alarmed and eyes wide.

"Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?" Sandy asks, but Kirsten hushes him.

"Ryan's missing," Theresa spits out. The words feel unnatural on her tongue, and sting her full lips. Ryan always loved her lips.

"What do you mean?" Sandy asks. Kirsten is frozen with a look of horror on her face. Rendered speechless. Ryan had that effect on people. Theresa hates why he has that effect on Kirsten at this very moment. She never wanted to be the bearer of bad news. But someone had to tell them.

"A few nights ago, the night you called, Sandy, Ryan went out for a walk. And he never came back. We got a call from his supervisor at the factory asking where Ryan was, since he hadn't shown up for work." Theresa is unsure of the wavering tone in her voice, a thin, spidery hint of her anxiety.

"Let's think about it rationally," Sandy says, although Theresa knows he won't be able to contain himself much longer. "Have you talked to any of Ryan's friends? Eddie? Maybe they know where he is."

Theresa thinks for a moment. Eddie was angry, really angry, when he found out Ryan was going to live with Theresa and raise the baby, whether it was his or not. They weren't exactly on speaking terms, Ryan and Eddie.

Sandy senses that Theresa has not had the sense to ask around. "Before we get the police involved," Sandy says calmly, "Why don't you go home, ask his friends if they've seen him. If they haven't, you'll call me and come over and we can go from there."

Theresa doesn't understand why Sandy is behaving in such a relaxed manner. The Sandy she's met a few times is not like this. He's nothing like this at all. Ryan's changed, though, and apparently so has Sandy.

"You'll let us know as soon as possible, Theresa?" Kirsten asks, but it's more of a statement. Theresa knows Kirsten will be sitting by the phone until she calls. She knows it. This is the kind of person Ryan deserves to have as a mother. The kind who worries, who cares. If only he could've seen…

Theresa lets herself out, but before she can close the door and begin the search, she hears the sounds of a woman crying. Kirsten. She wants to let Kirsten know that everything is all right, they'll find Ryan, and he'll be alive.

She can't make any promises though, because she's as much in the dark as Sandy and Kirsten are.