A/N: The first chapter is heavily inspired by my friends fic, called a Debt of Gratitude by wordslinger (it's for a different fandom and completely different parent dynamic but I'd still recommend giving it a read!). Both are based on this prompt: "I'm a super tough punk who hates authority. Your parents are cops who've met me more than once but I really like you."

Warning, and I'm only gonna say this once: mentions of child abuse, drug use, depression, brief mentions of suicide, eventually going to change the rating if I do write smut or depictions of it (which I haven't decided yet) And there's also lots of OC's… Yeah, sorry…

And, yes, the title is from that song. I started writing this around the time Chester Bennington passed. Kind of a cathartic thing, I guess. Linkin Park was one of my favorite bands for many years, and helped me through my own depression.

"Oh, shit!" The way Sullivan tossed the can added to the severity of the situation. "It's the cops! Let's get outta here!"

The others wasted no time, following Sullivan's order—Sullivan always the self-proclaimed leader—and chucked whatever was in their hands, taking off the street right after him like a pack of ducks, or platoon sergeant—though Sullivan wished he was ballsy enough to join the Marine Corps. John didn't bother, staring at their retreating backs in disdain.

He clutched the can of black spray paint tightly, knuckles peeking from his fingerless gloves beginning to go white. His wrist started aching from the pressure. The sirens in the distance getting closer. But, still, John stayed rooted, like some invisible force was holding onto his ankles. And John had a few seconds to access the damage of what they'd done.

Judging by the two story house—and the cozy neighborhood with their tiny gardens of real flowers and real grass—the homeowners made decent money. This house had a porch—a painted white porch that they'd spray painted, of course—now with a broken table and equally splintered chairs. John was surprised the owners hadn't woken up to the sound of Chester smashing the chair into their driveway, laughing maniacally as he did it. And what really bothered John right at the moment was how they didn't even know these people. It wasn't a usual act of revenge, orchestrated by Sullivan. It was just a random incident to kill time, an excuse to be away from home.

Maybe they were good people, those kind of people that held doors open for others no matter what the age, no matter what kind of shitty day they were having. They were obviously hardworking people. They'd probably gone to college to help themselves towards a better living, who worked nine-to-five jobs and just wanted to come home and relax. They even had a nice car—a Honda CRX that they'd ruined. Just because.

Upstairs, the bedroom light flickered on. An uneasy feeling washed over him, his stomach clenching, waiting for the dark curtains to pull apart. His throat felt sandpaper dry. What could he even say? No amount of apologies could fix this shit. The CRX, disintegrated and blackened, with two tires slashed, and their outside furniture and even their tiny garden were ruined. And it's not like he was made of money. He was lucky to even have five dollars in his pocket—in quarters.

God, he needed a cigarette so bad. The last two hours had been hell, and his head was dull, throbbing annoyingly. All these whirlwind thoughts needed to stop, an outlet. It wasn't like John at all to feel remorse, so much remorse that he felt like crying. He was just so tired of the same damn thing. So tired of Sullivan's stupid-ass ideas. So damn tired of his parents. So tired of life and where it was heading.

John pivoted, chucking the can down the sidewalk, hearing the loud sound of it bouncing off the cement and rolling onto the street and hopefully down the sewer. He plopped on the cold curb and waited, setting his forearms on his knees, staring at the gravel.

How long would he be stuck in there this time? And his father—his fucking, good for nothing, piece of shit old man—was going to be furious. John bit his lip. If he didn't die in jail, John swore that his old man would be the one to put him out. He hoped that when he did, it would be quick and painless. Knowing him, John wouldn't even be given that luxury.

"Bender?"

Jeremiah's weary call made John snap out of his thoughts. He wondered how he looked in Jeremiah's eyes, sitting pathetically on this curb, with the ugly orange-tinted street lamp casting its glow on him in the freezing September night. How long had he even been standing there?

"You should go." John said.

Jeremiah stepped closer. "Let's get going, man, or they'll get you. You can't do this again. You're still on probation. I'm… I'm worried about what'll happen to you—"

"Get going." John repeated, a little more forcefully, scratching the back of his itchy scalp. Jesus, when was the last time he had a shower? "And you know better than to follow Sullivan. Who knows what the fuckin' bozo's gonna do. Go straight home."

"Stop playing around, Bender. This isn't funny…"

"Who said I was joking?"

"Come on, man." Jeremiah pleaded. "Don't do this. They're not gonna let you out this time."

Honestly, he was hoping for that. But John waved his hand dismissively. "Go."

"I can't—"

"Just get the fuck outta here!" John barked, not caring if he roused everyone in the neighborhood. "I know what I'm doing! Go!"

Jeremiah mulled, bouncing on the balls of his feet, debating on whether to join him or save himself. John already knew what he'd do. Out of, Jeremiah was the worrier, fretting over the pro's and con's of every situation they'd ever been caught in. Sullivan was always reluctant to bring him along. Jeremiah had even premonition this would happen tonight. John, and the other guys for that matter, were the do-er's and go-getter's, never concerning himself with the consequences. It's how they functioned.

But time was ticking, and Jeremiah had to make a decision. The sirens were ringing, louder, closer. The blue and red lights were faintly approaching from the corner of the intersection up ahead, bouncing off the fences. John wouldn't blame Jeremiah if he took off. Jeremiah had a lot going for him than John ever would. And with one last weary gaze, the night swallowed Jeremiah.

John sighed, letting his shoulders sag and loosening his jaw. For as long as he could remember, there wasn't a day that went by where he didn't see Jeremiah. They lived on the same block, Jeremiah even gave him a pair of shoes for his ninth birthday—brand new Keds—when he'd noticed how John had none that fit properly. He wore them until he was twelve. They were still somewhere in his closet. John couldn't say he wouldn't miss Jeremiah.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there—minutes, hours? It felt like hours, just waiting for the inevitable. He had the urge to pluck the blades of grass—do something to pass the time—but he didn't. He'd destroyed enough. Not only this property, but the lives of his parents by being born. At this rate, he'd probably never get out until he was twenty—and he couldn't say the thought didn't make him happy. Not seeing his family for three something years was something he could live with.

The headlights illuminated his ripped combat boots, the corner nearly sawed off that his pinky toe could almost poke through. The lights nearly blinded John when he looked up, making him squeeze his eyes shut. He heard the tired sighs of the cops, oh, you again sighs.

John didn't resist as they pulled him to his feet, locking his arms around his back. The cuffs were like dry ice against his wrists. They didn't even bother patting him down this time, just quickly shoved him in the backseat, closed the door, got in their spots in the front, and resumed their route. John didn't even have time to catch the faces of the homeowners watching from their porch. He didn't think he wanted to see them.

John let his head hit the headrest, staring at the roof of car he'd seen far too many times. Nearly seventeen and sick of life wasn't what he expected to be.

A long, dragged-out sigh. "And here I thought stealing money from the gas station register would be the last I'd ever see of you, John."

Startled, John flipped over to his side. A grin tugged at his mouth, taking in the familiar young-old face—depending on the angle and lighting—and wrinkle-free suit. George had a nice one on today, cream, with a pastel purple shirt and no tie. Very Miami Vice.

"We both know I didn't do it, Georgie. I'm way better at stealing than that."

George's brows rose. "That so? Then you should've told me the names. You would've gotten a shorter sentence, maybe even let off with community service."

"I'm no snitch, Georgie." John made gestures with his fingers. "It's a brotherhood thing, cops like you wouldn't understand. No amount of money or shorter sentences'll get me rat on my guys."

Another one of George's long sighs, accompanied by a shake of his head. "What'm I gonna do with you, John?"

John shrugged wordlessly. George smiled but it was sad, pained. It made John's stomach clench, but John didn't think it was from that. The source of his discomfort was from the brown paper bag George was holding onto; the delicious, baked smell reminding John it'd been almost two days since he'd last eaten.

If it were any other guy, George wiggling the bag like a container of dog treats would've bothered him. "My daughter made it for me but I'd rather you have it."

John cocked his head. "George! You've been holding out on me. I didn't know you had a kid. How old is she?"

"It's not your business." He replied flatly.

"Ooh! She's my age!" John sat up, crossing his legs, leaning forward. "So, what's she look like? Redhead like you? Can't say I've ever been with a redhead before, now that I think about it…"

George shook his head, trying not to roll his eyes. "I'm not going to tell you that."

"Aww, Georgie, you're no fun." He couldn't help adding, "Afraid I'd taint her?"

"That's not it, John." George said earnestly. "You're not a bad kid."

"So, then... What's the problem?"

"I'm not comfortable discussing my daughter as some kind of… object. She's a person, and more than capable of taking care of herself." He paused. "I think the worst part about this, is that she'd probably like you."

John shrugged, I know, they always do, and eyed the paper bag again. "So… Is it… edible? No offense, of course, sir, but food poising is not the way I picture myself going out."

"Well, ever since the divorce she's been the one taking care of me." He rambled. "Paying the bills for me, making sure I take my vitamins every morning, making sure the laundry's taken care of, eating right…"

"She sounds like a keeper."

"She shouldn't have to—what kid her age should?—but she's alone so much with nothing to do…" He shook off the solemn, dreamy look in his eyes. "But I'm glad she's learning and taking initiative. She's doing better in school now that the divorce is finalized. I was afraid she'd end up like her mother… God, Helene needed help with everything—

As much as John was curious about George's life outside the penitentiary, he was more interested silencing his stomach. "… Does that mean her food's good?"

George chuckled, throwing the bag through the bars. It landed on the floor. "On occasion."

"'On occasion'." John reiterated, skeptical, lifting off the cot and sitting on the cold, dirty floor, pulling the bag close. "Well… I guess I don't mind being a guinea pig. Something tells me it's better than prison food. It smells right."

George gave a tight lipped smile. "I'm sure it is."

John wasn't sure why George always visited. George was the first cop that'd picked him up, the first time John had stolen. It was milk, because his mom needed it. Maybe George came around often because he found him entertaining. John definitely found his statue-solid patience entertaining. And George always had the shiniest, cleanest clothes; flashy enough to let people know he had money. A true richie, but an uncharacteristically nice richie. Not like the jackasses John was used to, who found any excuse to call the cops on him.

George was quiet as John ate, and he caught him peering down his nose with something in his eyes that looked a lot like pity. John had the urge to chuck the croissant at George's forehead, hoping it'd hit him hard enough to knock him back, but he was just so damn hungry and this little thing didn't even weigh a pound.

"Alec should be here in the morning…" George started the humorous tone from seconds ago disappeared.

"Whoop-di-doo." John replied, stretching each word out, and stuffed another piece of the croissant in his mouth. God, this was so delicious, one of the best things he'd ever eaten. Maybe he was just saying that, but the dough melted right on his tongue in perfect harmony.

His mouth formed a grim line. "Would you like me to tell you the news now? Or wait until Alec?"

John remembered the little bit of his manners and swallowed. "About what?"

"About your status, John."

"Nothing I don't already know." John rolled his shoulders. "You guys finally figured out none of my other family wants me around their charming household—afraid I'll find a way to corrupt their children?" George didn't answer, pressing his lips together. John continued, "Can't say I'm shocked. The only person that would've wanted me is my grandma but she's been dead."

"It's not correct, John." George shook his head. "It shouldn't be like this—"

John tore another piece off, watching the smoke rise, his mouth watering. "It's the cards I was dealt with, Georgie, can't do much about it except adapt."

"You kids need guidance." He said. "Parental figures. Guardians. Parents."

"Not when you got 'em like mine." John said, sitting straighter. "Don't you remember the last time I was here, George? The look on my old man's face when he came? And you guys… You guys still let me go off with him."

"John—"

"You should've seen the shit he did to me when we got home." John kept going, the simmering anger he'd bottled up over that incident slipping out. "Gave me a new scar, too. It's on my leg, wanna see? The cigar burn wasn't enough for him. I'm better off not being there—"

"But you're better off being in and out of a jail cell, you were going to say? Stuck here for the rest of your life, for crimes you didn't commit, you mean?" George asked rhetorically, his face set, his eyes hard. He was angry.

"Anything's better." John muttered, finishing up his meal.

George scoffed in such a fatherly way it made John sick. "You don't want to be stuck in here anymore than you are, son—"

"Don't call me that."

George regarded him. "I could've done something about him years ago, John. You know I could've. If you'd have just told me—"

"Why?" John exclaimed, his defenses on the rise. "So they can put me in a foster home? Act like everything's all dilly-dally now that Johnny's off the streets? No, thanks, Georgie. I think I'd rather…" John couldn't even say it out loud.

"Not all foster homes are bad, John." George said calmly, gently, like coaxing a baby out of their temper tantrum. "You should give them a chance. There's statistics about foster homes being beneficial."

"I'd rather not find out. Too many stories, too many different opinions."

George sighed, his hand rubbing his temples. "I guess I'll tell you the news. Alec's finally found a contact that wants to take you in. She lives in Shermer, I'm not sure if you know her—your father's sister, Sandra. He's trying to get in touch with her again for confirmation. Otherwise…"

Shermer… John tested the name in his brain, wondering why it sounded so familiar, so… homely, almost. John finished, crushing the paper towel into a ball, throwing it into the bag, and tossing the bag back at George who caught it easily.

John padded back to his cot. "Either or's fine. I don't care."

"John—"

John faced the light grey, cracked wall. He could almost make out faint drawings—from pens? "Things'll be fine. Don't worry so much, I hear it's bad for your complexion."

There was a moment of stillness. John knew George was still standing there. He could feel holes being dug into his back with George's sympathetic gaze.

"I'm the oldest one here, John." George said finally, shuffling on his feet. "You can't tell me what to worry about."

John held up his arm, waving. "It was nice seeing ya again, George."

John didn't remember the hour drive to Shermer. The lull of the engine made him pass out within the first few minutes. He was surprised Alec even let him sleep.

He'd only met his aunt, Sandra, once when he was six. It was at his birthday party, back when his parents were happy—a time he remembered fondly though it was beginning to feel like a sweet dream.

Sandra answered the door after the first series of knocks. She looked the same from his memory; fine hair and skin, ideal model height—the complete opposite of her fraternal twin brother. But the way her sea green eyes meticulously scanned him reminded John so much of his father. He tried not to gulp.

His eyes wandered to her side. A toddler—probably no more than three—was balanced on her hip. He stared at John curiously with soft, brown eyes.

Alec glanced at the sheet he'd been holding onto. "Sandra Halen?"

"Until the divorce papers are signed, yes."

Alec nodded understandingly. "May I come in?"

Sandra stepped aside. "Sure."

"Stay here." Alec said to John, walking inside. He immediately stepped on a squeaky toy. And another one. And he almost tripped on another. The couch caught his fall. John licked his lips, trying not to laugh.

"You look just like my brother when he was your age." Sandra said abruptly, shaking her head in awe. "It's like I'm staring at a reflection… except his hair was a lot longer and really wavy. He said it made girls hot for him."

John's face fell, his fingers curled in the pocket of the leather jacket they'd let him keep. He hated being compared to his father. "Guess he wasn't wrong. I got his winning personality, too."

Sandra's lips twisted. "I was hoping you'd get Joan's instead. She's nice. Did she finally leave him?"

If only Sandra knew, really knew that his mom could be just as bad as his father. They were a match made in Hell.

"Still together." He affirmed reluctantly.

"Brave woman." Sandra complimented though John didn't think she meant it. It was too layered. "I heard about the stroke. I wanted to visit but I never found the time. And now… I still don't have much time."

John shrugged. "It was years ago, bound to happen any day. Old man never bothered to take care of himself. Still doesn't."

"I'm sorry, John." Sandra frowned sadly. "Johnathon wasn't always like that."

John's brows rose in the utmost scorn. He took pride in his vast memory. He remembered the very first time he met Jeremiah. It was at school. They were playing a game of hopscotch. That was also the day he met Sullivan and the day John decided he hated him right away.

But when it came to his father? John couldn't recall a thing. Did he ever bother to teach him how to ride a bike? Or teach him to tie his shoes? Did he ever say a kind word to him? Considering how many times Johnathon liked to remind him how worthless and stupid he was, probably not.

John was pretty sure his mom did all that… until she eventually stopped. He felt like she woke up one day, and realized how right his father had been about him. Except John remembered what she'd been like before everything. It always made him wonder what could make a parent turn on their child. Was it really all his fault for just existing?

"It is what it is." John managed, looking away. "I don't need your pity."

Sandra's frown grew deeper, like she understood the memories running through his mind. She didn't know a quarter of it. "It's not pity, John. It's being empathetic."

"Whatever it is, I don't want it."

She huffed, hiking the toddler who'd been slipping. "I was gonna say that there's three rules in this house but I guess I'll have to include a fourth, about kindness."

John was taken aback. "… Rules? How old do you think I am? Five? You got a timeout corner, too?"

"Obviously not, since you're old enough to be in and out of jail as you so please." John ran his tongue over his teeth. "What? Got nothing to say back, huh?"

John glared, and it probably would've scared most people. But Sandra was a Bender. "I got lots of things to say. I just don't care enough about ya to bother."

"Oh-kay." She drawled sarcastically. "I'm sorry to break it to ya, Johnny-boy, but all we do is love in this house. You're gonna have to start caring unless you wanna go back. Do you?"

It hadn't been an hour since his boots touched the tile of her upscale driveway but everything around here felt so much lighter. Shermer was where his parents met, that's how he'd recognized the name—from the one time he'd asked his mom how they came to be. There had to be some good here. And damn them to whatever Hell they came from but it felt right to be here.

"No."

"Good!" She almost did that girly jump and accompanying clap. "So, the rules are: Finish high school. Get a job or go to college. And stay out of trouble, meaning: no drugs, no drinking, no drunk driving, no stealing, and whatever other stuff you'd get in trouble for. Got it?"

He titled his head to the side. "What if I can't agree to 'em?"

"Then I suggest you figure something out within the next five minutes because you'll be without a place to stay."

John looked away from her, towards the other town houses within the community.

He could hear the leaves as the wind weaved through the palm trees planted in the mediums. He'd grown up mistaking gunshots for fireworks in the distance. He could hear kids laughing and splashing in the public pool. He imagined some of them walked to school in the morning, never having to worry about their door or window being broken into. He saw a few people walking their dogs. He'd always wanted a cat ever since that night he spotted a stray just as hungry as him in their garbage can. Maybe here he could finally have one—if Sandra let him.

Because here, John had a chance at something he'd been pushing away for years. Something he longed for ever since the night his father slapped him across the cheek for shattering a glass vase. Something he thought he could never have.

John scowled. "Guess that answers that."

She said warmly despite her frigidness seconds ago. "I'm glad you're here."

Alec poked through the threshold not long after. Sandra's house cleared the inspection. He left with a promise that John's parole officers would be by at least twice a week for the next month to check on his progress.

John watched as Alec drove his Porsche to the gates where they came from. An elderly woman waved to him on the way out. Elderly were a rare sight in his old neighborhood. John's own grandmother lived with them a few years before she died of a heart attack.

God, he really needed a cigarette. Weed would be even better. Too much sentiment in so little time. That rule was going to be a problem.

"Hey." Sandra's thin voice sliced through him. "Are you coming inside or what?"

John nodded and followed her inside, closing the door behind him.

The house wasn't a total disaster but it definitely looked like a tornado in the form of two legs and curly hair ran around often. Brightly colored toys were all over the floor. He wasn't sure how Alec stepped on them. Dried clothes were folded neatly on her couch.

"Sorry for the mess." She said, setting her kid on the floor. He immediately sat down in front of the bulky, colored television. "I tried cleaning up as best as I could but it's hard when you have a two year old."

John didn't know much about babies but he seemed like a courteous toddler compared to the demons he encountered in grocery stores. He didn't make a peep, easily transfixed with whatever kids program was on the television.

"What's his name?"

"Dustin."

John followed Sandra to the kitchen, pulling out one of the chairs by the island and flipping it around. He placed his arms on top of the ladder back. "Sounds like some kinda fart in the wind."

Sandra pulled the chef's knife lodged in the rack, pointing it at him. "Don't talk about my son like that."

He eyed it. "My condolences."

"Sorry." She back tracked, leaving it on the counter. "I shouldn't have done that."

"It's fine." He swallowed. "I'm in one piece."

She turned one of the notches on the stove, setting it to high. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really." He let out. His stomach protested.

Sandra chuckled, opening the cupboard and pulling out a large pot. She set it under the faucet, turning the knob for the cold water. "I'm making spaghetti. It's about the only solid food Dustin loves to eat. Anything else and he'll throw a fit."

John couldn't picture it. Or, well, he could, just wasn't sure how he'd handle living with it—with Dustin. "He seems… decent."

Sandra laughed, leaning on the counter as she waited for the water to fill the pot. "He's behaving pretty good today. Not sure how I feel about it yet."

"Why?"

"Because he's going through the 'terrible two' phase. Some day's he's like that and other day's he's a miniature monster." She stopped the faucet, placing the pot on the stove top. "And, well, since we're on the topic of terrible, I'm enrolling you at Shermer High on Monday."

John scowled at her heavily moussed hair as she grabbed two red tomatoes, onions, and some other stuff he wasn't sure of. She closed the fridge with her knee. He didn't hate school. He didn't particularly like it, either.

"I was thinking of quitting school and getting a job." He said honestly.

Sandra shot him a glare, rinsing all the stuff. "John, I'm not expecting you to go to college like I did but it's a good idea to get your diploma—"

"Says who?" He interrupted.

"Says everyone!" She opened the cupboard above her, pulling out a bowl and pan. She set another knob on medium, and placed the pan on the stove top, next to the pot. "Most full time positions won't even look at the rest of your resume if you don't graduate."

John's scowl deepened. "What about work and school?"

Sandra rolled her shoulder, slicing the stems off both tomatoes. "If you feel like you can handle it, then go for it. I don't mind. But as long as you're here, you're not quitting school. And I expect to see your progress reports and stuff whenever they come out. That's final."

John groaned loudly, letting his head fall into his arms. Fucking great. He needed a plan. He did not want to stay in school.

He left Sandra to cook and joined Dustin in the living room, lying on the couch. He used the clothes as his pillow, not caring to ask Sandra if he could. They smelled so nice, nicer than anything he'd smelled before, nicer than all of his clothes. Dustin didn't seem to care about his presence but John couldn't stomach this shitty cartoon. He somehow ended up closing his eyes and falling asleep to the sound of off-key singing and food cackling from the stove as opposed to screaming coming from the hallway, where his parents bedroom was.

At dinner, Dustin managed to get spaghetti sauce all over his face. Sandra was still trying to teach him how to eat with utensils. It wasn't working. The plastic baby fork didn't agree with Dustin's mouth. A clump of tomato somehow landed on Dustin's forehead and John had to refrain from laughing as Dustin started bawling.

"Stop laughing and pass me the paper towel!" Sandra barked.

Her anger only made the tremors worse. "Okay, okay. God, you women are so bossy."

He extended the roll. She snatched it from him with a playful glare. "Wait until you have your own. You'll be doing this every day. Then, we'll see who has the last laugh."

John shrugged, twirling the remaining pasta on his plate. It was really good—not on the same tier as the croissant he ate yesterday, but still good. Maybe he was just a little weirdly in love with George's daughter.

He wondered if they'd meet one day. He'd probably know right away it was George's kid. John might ask her out. They'd have a good time doing normal, dumb couple stuff. Maybe he might get lucky and they'd fuck. The thought of getting under George's skin made him smirk. George had the patience of a saint and John had been dying to see him crack.

Then, John thought of his father. And why he didn't do girlfriends. And those thoughts quickly faded.

"Nah, don't think I will."

Sandra held Dustin's head, trying to wipe his forehead though he wouldn't stay still. "Why wouldn't you?"

"I don't think kids are a good idea for me."

Sandra gave him that same frown from earlier, the one that reeked of sympathy. She said nothing else, though, and the rest of dinner passed by in silence. John preferred it that way.

Sandra showed him to his room on the second floor after dinner. It was a spare room she never had use for until now. A weird feeling formed in the pit of John's stomach as his eyes roamed.

It was so much more spacious than his old room. A full bed with new and clean covers. A nightstand on each side, one with a regular, old-fashioned lamp; the other had a phone, his own phone. Several dressers were already in place, not that he had that many clothes. He didn't care if he didn't have a television like most teenagers did. This was enough.

They went on a trip to buy him clothes. Macy's was still open so they wandered through the men's and juniors sections. Sandra wouldn't settle for anywhere else. She played peekaboo with Dustin to keep him occupied while John tried not to pay attention to the price tags, and the lack of associates, and how easy it would be to go into the dressing room, rip the tags off, and walk out with free shit.

After putting everything away that night—lots of denim from jeans to jackets, and flannels, and a few decent shirts, and sneakers—John stared at the bare wall. It was painted indigo; blue most of the time but dark purple at night. It reminded him of Jeremiah, whose umber skin looked blue under the moonlight. John hoped he was okay, and thought about calling him in a few days.

The walls would be covered in band posters like his old room. Eventually. He had a few in mind: Metallica, Scorpions, Motley Crüe, maybe Cream, and Deep Purple. Besides clothes, he bought a few records and cassettes. Sandra gave him her old Walkman she got for Christmas last year that she hadn't bothered using. Listening to the current Billy Joel album, John thought he'd put him on here, too. He was grateful for the Walkman the most.

John wasn't sure if he'd ever felt as content as he did right now.