Author Note: Hey guys, this is my first fanfic, so be gentle. The first chapter is sort of long, but I just wanted to use this to develop my character, Zeke. I won't give everything away right away, its a kind of slow to a boil type of story. I can guarantee if you push through the first chapter, it will get better. Read, Review, and (hopefully) Enjoy!

My first breath of fresh air was invigorating. A soft wind kissed my skin, making me feel truly alive once again.

Two long years I had been locked up. Two long years since I had been able to say that I was truly alive.

I looked around me to realize I was drawing stares from my some of my former peers within the juvenile hall. I could understand that, considering I was standing outside of what was a prison for kids with issues, with my arms spread out, wearing clothes that were too small, inhaling deeply the dusty air outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico. I quickly put down my arms feeling a little self conscious.

I looked down the desert road, waiting for my bus out of here. The heat from the pavement in the late summer sun was causing shimmering mirage along the surface of the road. I could have fried an egg on it.

Finally in the distance, I saw it coming. A dingy old bus was on the horizon that was coming to pick up myself and several others who also had the same release date.

The bus itself would be making several stops. Bus station, police station, but in my case it was making a special stop. I was going to be getting off at the airport to be flown off to my new prison of sorts. A place named Odell, Oregon.

My chariot came to a screeching stop in front of me. The doors flopped open haphazardly and I stepped on to find myself being stared at by a fat, depressing looking human being. Considering he was driving a prison bus, and was in the condition he was in, he made a life mistake somewhere. Then again, who am I to judge? He was the one driving me from a juvenile facility.

I took myself to the back of the bus and sat in a seat with the small bag of possessions I still owned. A stern looking bald man, wearing a uniform stood up on the front of the bus with a clipboard. Sitting next to him was an even sterner looking man sitting down facing us. This one was holding a rather menacing looking shotgun. I couldn't help but chuckle. Who would do anything violent on the way away from this place?

"Jose Amos," his voice commanded.

A Hispanic boy towards the front put his hand in the air. The guard nodded and made a mark on the clipboard he was.

"Derek Child," he continued.

Another person answered. I took a look out of the window.

I sigh made its way past my lips. I really didn't want to leave New Mexico. Then again, I didn't really have a choice. I was only 17. I would have to go to my next of kin, my grandfather living by himself in the middle of nowhere, Oregon.

This was going to be a hard transition. I was about to go from a big city, desert environment, to a town that was sitting somewhere in the middle of the woods. Only a few thousand people lived in the entire county. This was going to suck.

"Ezekiel King!" the guard shouted. Apparently it wasn't the first time.

"Here," I answered him.

"When I address you, you answer, got that boy?" the guard asserted, in a rather pissy mood.

"Yes sah!" I answered throwing a mock salute in his direction.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything. There wasn't anything he could do to me at this point. I technically hadn't done anything wrong.

The guard continued through his list of names, and soon, the list was completed. The rusty gears of the grated against each other, and with a great jerk, the bus began its trip to all of our destinations. Lucky me, mine was going to be last.

I unzipped my bag and reached into it to once again make sure all of the few possessions I had were present and began to rummage through. There wasn't very much to rummage through though. Most of what was in the bag was clothes, all of which I had outgrown. I had a huge growth spurt over the past two years; I had grown almost a foot it seemed like, making me a solid 6 foot 3 inches. I guess I would be stuck having to get some new clothes whenever I got to my grandfather's house in Oregon. That really wouldn't be a big deal I suppose.

My hands continued their search through the bag and I finally found something besides useless clothing. It was a collection of small books, full of nothing but sketches. A smile spread across my face. It had been a long time since I had seen any of these. All of these sketch books were done by my mother.

The leather bound books felt good on my skin, very familiar. I cracked the book open and took a look at the first picture.

It was a beautiful pencil sketch of a black haired female angel. The face of this being was flawless, typical of my mother's steady hand, not a single imperfection marred her face. However the face of this angel was downcast, eyes closed, a small tear falling down her cheek. The wings of the angel were folded down in front of her, as if to protect her delicate body. Her hands were folded over where her heart would be, as if trying to keep her heart from bursting out of her chest. In the corner of the page was scribbled the name of the portrait, in my mother's distinct script, "Lilith".

I had to close the book. I took a deep breath to try and keep the feelings from rising up. It had been over two years ago now. I should be over it by now. I guess things like this die hard.

I tossed the books back into the bag and took another look as the scenery of the southwest passed by. I put my head against the window and made an attempt to fall asleep. I had to pull my head off after a few minutes. The vibration of the rickety bus wasn't going to allow me this simple comfort. No choice then but to sit up straight and stare off into space just like everybody else on the bus.

After sitting on the bus for an hour and a half, it finally arrived at my destination, the bus stop at the Albuquerque International Airport. I stood up and headed for the door, under the scrutinizing gaze of the two guards. I blew a kiss at them and watched them scowl at me, and couldn't help but smile.

It was easy an easy process at the airport for me. My ticket for Portland was already bought, courtesy of my grandfather; all I had to do was claim it.

"I'm here to pick up my ticket," I told the rep at the flight counter.

"Can I see some identification?" She responded airily. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. I presented an identification card that was a few years old. I officially didn't have my driver's license yet, even though I had taken the class.

Her eyes flashed down and she typed my name into the computer and within a minute I was walking away with my tickets in hand.

All I had was my bag, which was passable as a carry on piece of luggage. Security was a breeze. I managed to make through the entire process in less than an hour amazingly.

I took a look at my ticket. The flight was boarding at five. It was currently one. It would have been better if the whole process had taken longer. I now had a total of four hours to burn until I could even get on the flight.

There was nothing else to do but to explore the massive airport. Just like any other airport, it was full of bars, over priced food, gift shops saying how great the state of New Mexico and the City of Albuquerque was. There really wasn't that much too do except to go and try to read in the various magazine stands that were scattered through out the terminal. I constantly ended up getting chased away from each stand respectively after each of the owners realized I wasn't actually going to buy anything. At the only real retail bookstore in the airport I found a sketch book. I took some of the little money I had saved and bought the sketch book and a couple of pencils to sketch with.

I took my new purchase and sat down, outside the gate I would eventually be boarding. In my adventure of the airport, I had managed to burn a little over two hours, so I still had plenty of time left to burn. I took one of the pencils out of the packaging they came in, and luckily for me, pre-sharpened. I then cracked open the sketch book and started to observe everything around me, looking for something inspiring.

People constantly kept bustling by each looking for their own destination. Business men in suits hustled to their gates, Bluetooth's glued to their ears, carrying only small carry on luggage. Family's passed me, parents trying to wrangle in small children, who were complaining about being bored. None of these really pricked my interest.

Then I saw something I knew I had to draw as soon as I saw it. It was a small fair haired girl sitting with her mother. She was wearing a simple little white skirt, clutching a stuffed bunny rabbit for dear life. It was easy to tell she was scared of getting on the plane. I immediately set off fixing the image in my head, in case she had to move anytime soon.

The pencil felt natural in my hand, even though it had been so long since I had managed to sketch anything. Not really too much sketch where I had been. I set off putting the cut little girl and her bunny rabbit into my sketch book. Lucky for me, she didn't want to move too much. In a matter of about a half an hour, I had a good sketch of this kid sitting on the very first page of my book. I put everything back into my bag. I felt a grumbling in my stomach. I was going to have to buy over priced airport food.

I set off once again to try and find myself the cheapest food I could buy. I found a cheap taco stand. Cheap being 3 dollars for grade E meat in a hard shell. I bought 2 and immediately regretted it. It was going to be the only thing I was going eat for the rest of the day, it was expensive and it gave me a serious case of indigestion, which was a miracle in itself. The lunch lady's back at the joint didn't do us any favors to say the very least. These guys must exchange recipes.

I sat writhing in misery for the rest my time, half over the fact that those were the worst tacos I had ever had, and also that they had been my first food as a free man.

"Flight 234, destined for Portland, Oregon is now boarding," a disembodied voice announced.

I managed to make it through the gate and got on to the flight without any problems. The flight itself was long, but otherwise, uneventful. Mostly because I had passed out as soon as the plane had taken off.

Standing for me at the terminal was a face that I hadn't seen in a very long time; an old man, who stood a few inches shorter than me. He was wearing a flannel shirt, a pair old work pants and a kind smile on his weary face. There he was, Kenneth James.

"Ezekiel, my boy, it's been so long," the old man told me jovially.

"Come on gramps, you know you can't call me that. It's Zeke," I told him rolling my eyes.

I put out my hand to shake his. Instead he gripped me into a very tight hug. The old man was stronger than he looked.

"Do you want anything to eat?" my grandfathered asked.

"No thanks. Tacos at the airport down there nearly killed me. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to eat again for a week," was my reply.

The old man laughed.

We got to the parking lot and I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It was the most ancient pick up truck I had ever seen. I'm pretty sure this was the prototype for the original truck.

"Why are you still driving this thing?" I asked him shocked.

He laughed once again.

"This thing has served me well for years. I've had this truck since Katherine was a little girl," he told me. I could hear his voice crack as soon as he said my mother's name. Glad I'm not the only who wasn't totally over everything.

Surprisingly enough, the old truck ran like it was right off of the lot. That still didn't do anything for the fact that the ride was going to be about 2 hours long. Half way along the trip, a drizzle began to fall.

"Rain?" my voice asked no one in particular.

"Don't see much of that in New Mexico," my grandfather commented in an amused voice.

"You can say that," was my response.

The rain didn't let up for the rest of the trip. It was dark by the time our car finally pulled up to the old house my grandfather had been living in since he came to Oregon after Vietnam. It definitely wasn't much to look at.

The house was white, but the paint was peeling pretty much all over the outside of the house. A dark green set of shutters outlined ever window. The outside of the house was fairly unkempt, the grass need to be cut with abundant weeds. Overall, the house just looked like crap.

I took a step out of the truck and stretched my cramped muscles. Today had been a very long day. My grandfather started off towards the garage and gestured for me to follow.

"You do remember what I do for a living, right?" he questioned me.

"You're a mechanic," I answered.

"Good memory kid," he said as reached down and threw up the door to the garage. I could only stand in awe of what I saw.

It was a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle in a flat black paint. Sitting before me was a car that was the embodiment of American muscle. As far as cars go, this thing was the most ferocious thing I had ever seen. And I had seen a lot of cars in the big city down there.

"What do you think?" the old man asked eagerly.

What did I think? It was the most amazing vehicle I had ever seen in my life is what I thought.

"Its pretty cool," I eloquently stated in the typical apathetic speech of the average American teen.

"Good thing, because it's going to be your ride. As soon as you get your license that is," he said through a grin.

I couldn't believe what my ears had just relayed to my brain. The worlds reached my brain. They just didn't seem to make any sense.

"Wait. You're telling me, that you are giving that car," I said pointing at the Chevelle.

"Yup," he replied still grinning, "Let's just call it a gift, from grandfather to grandson."

I wasn't sure how to respond. The only person who had ever given me anything in my life was my mother and she wasn't around any more. This man wouldn't even speak to my mother for years after she ran away with my father. Why was he doing all of this for me now?

"I know I haven't been the grandfather I should have been all these years. I realize my mistake. But I was given a chance to do what was right again when you were being let out. I know I can't buy you off, but please, take this as a gift of peace between the two of us," he said, as if he was reading my thoughts.

Might as well forgive the guy I suppose. Not like I had anybody else I could turn to.

"Well, between this and giving me a place to live and food to eat," I began, "I think I guess I can forgive your previous absence."

He let out a sigh of relief. He then led me into the dingy old house.

The inside was pretty representative of the outside. It was rough, but livable. Hardwood floors were present throughout the entire house, as well as old white washed walls. Very few things separated the monotony of the whitewash except for a few old photographs, which I assume were of him, my grandmother, and a few of a little girl which was most likely my own mother. I did see one interesting thing though, a painting that hung on the wall, an angel once again. I didn't even have to ask. That was another piece by my mother. She definitely did have a thing for angels.

The old man went over to the refrigerator and got a couple of cokes out and set them on the table in the kitchen. I popped the top with one hand and took a large sip of the bubbly sweet liquid.

"So have you thought at all about what you were going to do now that you're out?" the old man asked.

I had considered what I was going to do after I had gotten out. It mostly consisted of leaving everything in the past. That was the nice thing about being tried as a minor, it would be possible. As soon as I turned 18 my record would be expunged and as far as anybody would know, I had never done any time. However, having dreams in such a place is hard to imagine.

"I was thinking about just working with trying to graduate at first. Maybe going to college or something, if my grades will let me and I can some how afford it. Overall, though, I have no real direction or idea," I truthfully told him.

"I figured as much," he commented wryly, "You're welcome to stay here as long as you wish of course. All I ask is that you help around the house and try not to get into any trouble. That's the last thing you really need right now."

"You're telling me," I muttered to myself.

"If you want to make some extra money, you're more than welcome to work at the shop as well," he continued.

The old man really was bending over backwards for me.

"That sounds good," I replied. Well that saved me looking for a job and also granted me some security.

"I think that we are also going to need to get you some new clothes," he said eyeing my too small clothing, "We'll get that done early tomorrow."

"When does school start?" I asked curiously.

"I believe it will be beginning next week maybe," he contemplated. He sighed and got up to go check the calendar hanging on the wall.

"Yup, next Tuesday," he affirmed.

"Do I need to do anything?"

"Showing up would be a good place to start if I had to guess," the old man said wryly once again.

"You think you're a real funny guy don't you?" I responded sarcastically.

"Think? I know I am," he laughed.

I chuckled at his overconfidence. It was hard to imagine that such a nice guy refused to talk to his own daughter for years. Then again, the years do change how people are.

After we had finished hammering out the final details of what my new life here would entail, my grandfather took me up a rickety staircase, to the second floor where both of our rooms would be. He was going to be staying in the master bedroom. I was going to have the bedroom that had once belonged to my own mother when she lived here.

It was a small room, but I didn't need anything fancy. I had just gotten out of living in a box with a bunch of other delinquents. This was going to be paradise. A full size bed sat pushed up against the far wall, an armoire sat against the opposite wall. A small desk sat in the corner, and to my surprise, and easel had also taken up residence in the room. The room immediately felt like home.

My grandfather walked of to let me get settled in and I began to unpack the few belongings I had. That took very little time and I ended up attempting to look through my mother's sketch books again. A rap came from chamber door.

"Yes?" I answered.

My grandfather walked in, holding something behind his back. If it was another gift I wouldn't know what I would do. He had already given me so much stuff already.

"Hey kid, I almost forgot to give this to you," instead of explaining any further he threw a small black box to me. I picked it out of the air and examined it. It was compact and covered in a velvety fabric, the kind that jewelry was put in when it had just been bought.. I stopped breathing when I opened it.

It was my mother's engagement ring. It by no means was anything special, as my father had married my mother young, and could afford little more than this. Just a simple white gold, with a small diamond set in, and an inscription on the inside of the band, readingLove Eternal.

"Why are you giving me this," I asked shocked.

"Its more yours then it could ever be mine," he answered, "besides, your father gave her that, and I could never stand that man, as you very well know."

I rolled the ring around between my fingers. It was so familiar it almost hurt.

"Thank you," was all I could manage.

Eventually, the old man wondered away leaving me alone. I didn't mind, I had a lot of stuff to try and go over in my own head.

I lay back on the bed, examining the ring at arms length, listening to the steady drizzle against the roof of the house. I feel asleep that night listening to the rain and thinking of the mother I had lost.