"He looks too young, and frankly, I don't buy it."

Rob's eye twitched at the corner as he glared at his subordinate. "It's your job, Ensign," he spat. "I'm ordering you to do this."

Malcolm glanced at the kid he could see through the one-way glass, huddled in the corner like a child, and shrugged. "Then, by all means, if it's an order... I quit."

Rob's jaw clenched. "Fine. If I can't have the best, I'll have the most brutal." He turned slightly to another ensign nearby. "Get Randall in there. I'm sure he'll enjoy it. Tell him he can do what he likes as long as it's slow and he's alive when he leaves the building." He looked Reed up and down. He'd never liked the stuffy little man much. "Dismissed."

Malcolm gave the man a sloppy, ironic salute and headed home without another glance back. He unzipped his uniform just a little as he walked out of the building and went to his car. When he arrived, he changed into more comfortable clothes and completed his evening workout, even though it was only midday. It was his routine.

He then showered and set a load of laundry on before sitting down at his desk. It took slightly longer than he'd expected to write his resignation letter, addressed to his former commanding officer Harris. Weapons were really more his thing anyway, he decided, before he'd been blinded by the allure of being useful like an unglorified James Bond.

An unidentified dread settled low in his stomach as he wandered aimlessly through his flat and to the kitchen, opening and shutting all of the cupboards and the fridge in search of something to eat. He didn't have much, he never did, but he finally settled on making a bowl of plain whole grain spaghetti, perhaps topped with the wilted and slightly slimy spinach sat unopened in the fridge that he didn't remember buying and the one non-mouldy tomato sat on the windowsill that had definitely seen better days.

He tossed the other two away with a grimace. He hated waste and filth, but he'd been called away on a covert mission the week prior and hadn't had time to use up what few fresh items he had. He put a kettle on to boil while he inexpertly chopped the tomato into rustic chunky pieces. He set them aside, poured the boiling water into the pot, and dumped a measured portion of the spaghetti in, then he opened the spinach and laid it out on the chopping board.

He stared at, not certain what to do with it, for a few minutes before deciding to cut it up, too. Why not, he already had the knife out and nothing else to do. It didn't take long and soon he was staring at the pasta, waiting for the spaghetti to cook.

The timer he'd set beeped, and he promptly turned it off and took the pasta off the hob. He poured out the water and transferred the food to a bowl. But as his hands reached to pick it up, his appetite fled. He looked down at the small meal, frowning.

The training his father had given him as a small boy kicked in, and he took it to the table. He sat down and picked up his fork, taking small, neat bites, chewing mechanically, and swallowing. It tasted awful, and as he continued, his stomach roiled.

He obeyed it. He sat still for several moments, then got up and found a container. He would eat later. Slowly, it seemed the walls were pressing in on him. He grabbed his jacket and headed out for a long walk.

As he usually did on his walks, he headed for the outskirts of town, the more rural areas where he was unlikely to run into another person. He craved solitude, not the scurry and noise of commuters and traffic and screeching children burning off their excess energy. He let his feet lead him.

Trip shivered in the cooling air as the sun slowly made its descent. He curled his knees a little bit closer to his aching chest and closed his eyes as his vision swam. His battered body tensed as he heard and felt footsteps nearing. "Please don't," he murmured so tiredly as the person crouched near him. Fresh tears cut a path down his bruised and bloodied cheeks. "Don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Malcolm replied as the source of his dread suddenly became clear.

Trip opened his bleary eyes and looked at the stranger as if unable to believe his ears. "Help me?" he asked, a note of hopefulness in his torn and small voice.

"Yes," Malcolm replied firmly with a nod. That, he could do. He put a hand on the boy's arm and ignored his flinch. "I'll help. I'm going to cut the bindings off you, then I'll call an ambulance."

Trip looked warily at the man over him and clenched his eyes shut with a sharp inhale as he opened a pocketknife. But the thing only severed the zip ties keeping his wrists tied together behind his back and his ankles bound, just as the man had said. He slowly pulled his arm over himself, whimpering as he brushed his broken fingers and as dirt irritated his nail-less nail beds.

His other arm remained trapped behind him. "Will you help me move my arm?" he asked quietly, glancing up at the man now on the phone. The phone was shortly put into a pocket and the man helped lift him up so he could put his arm in a more comfortable position.

Trip's head swam again. Stars burst in front of his eyes, and he clenched them shut as his stomach heaved and his lungs constricted. It was already hard to breathe, each breath sending a spike of pain through him, so vicious it nearly pulled him under. His head throbbed and felt tight. He shivered again, then blinked as the man covered his naked body with a jacket.

He looked up at him again, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his blurry vision. "Thanks," he murmured. His lower lip wobbled. "I'm scared. Please don't leave me. I don't want to be alone." The tears came again. "Everything hurts. I don't wanna die."

"You're not going to die," Malcolm replied, though privately he thought it looked grim, "and I'll stay here with you until the ambulance arrives." He pursed his lips as he looked the boy over. His heart, which he'd long thought dead, had reawakened with a vengeance. "What's your name?" he finally asked. "How old are you?"

"Trip," Trip replied as he finally let his eyes close. "I go by Trip. I'm fourteen, but I'm fifteen soon. What's your name?"

Malcolm answered automatically, "Reed." He frowned. "Malcolm, I mean. My first name is Malcolm."

"Malcolm," Trip murmured back, testing the sound of the name. "I like it." Another wave of pain crashed into him. He tensed, his toes curling. He whimpered again. "I didn't mean to hurt Richie," he said. "I didn't mean to."

Though he didn't want to know, Malcolm thought perhaps it was a good thing if the boy talked. If he lost consciousness, Malcolm wasn't sure he would be able to regain it. "Who's Richie?" he reluctantly asked.

Trip sniffled. "Richie is Rob's little brother. We had the same foster home once. I," he swallowed thickly, "I broke a toy an' hid it. Then they found it, an' they thought Richie did it. They beat him real bad and locked him up in the closet. We all thought he was gonna die, but Rob came an' saved him. Richie don't have no family, 'sides Rob, an' Rob took him from foster care to take care of him. Rob wanted to punish me for gettin' him hurt. But I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't… But he made the scary man hurt me. He said he hoped I die cold an' alone." Trip looked up at Malcolm. "I don't wanna die. But it's cold, and it hurts so bad."

"The ambulance is coming," Malcolm replied. "You'll be at hospital soon."

Trip gave a small nod and fell quiet, staring at the darkening sky around him. The world grew fuzzier. "Why'd no one ever love me?" he asked softly. "I didn't mean to be a bad kid. I just wanted…" He looked at Malcolm again. "Will you hold my hand? I don't want to be alone."

Malcolm took the boy's bloodied, disfigured, and dirty hand, trying to hold it gently so he wouldn't put pressure on his injuries.

"Thanks." Trip's eyelids fluttered. A sharp pain lanced through his head. He winced. "Thanks for bein' nice to me," he murmured. A few moments passed in silence, then his eyes shot open. "Will you remember me?" he asked. "I don't want to be forgotten."

"You're not going to die," Malcolm repeated. "You need to stay with me."

Trip tried to tighten his fingers around Malcolm's hand. "Please don't forget me." On the next painful inhale, he fell unconscious and his body went limp.

Malcolm held two fingers to the boy's neck and then put his hand in front of his nose. He felt both breath and a pulse. Finally, he heard the sirens growing closer.

The paramedics arrived and immediately engaged in an intricate dance as they stabilised the boy and prepared him for transport. On autopilot, driven by emotions he didn't understand but didn't have time to question, Malcolm said he was a friend and joined them on the ride to San Francisco General.

The stretcher went through double doors locked to all but staff and a kindly nurse showed him to a small waiting room with a water cooler, hot drinks station, and some old and suspect magazine options. A clock ticked loudly and ominously on the wall opposite as he sat in the cold, hard plastic chair and wondered why he was even bothering to stay. He had no obligation to this kid.

An exhausted looking doctor arrived later. Time had no meaning in this room of anticipation and grief. Even the clock just blended into the background after a while. Malcolm wasn't sure if it'd been minutes or hours as he stood, feeling every second of his 23 years.

"Are you the man who came in with the boy?" she asked.

Malcolm nodded. "Yes. I found him on my walk. How is he?"

The doctor's whole body seemed to grow smaller. She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and grew taller again on the inhale. "I'm very sorry, sir, but we lost him. His injuries were too great for his body to handle. Perhaps if he had been found sooner…"

She trailed off. Malcolm knew they both knew that those questions were best left unanswered and unasked. What could be would never be what was. He blinked once. The practical part of him, the side he'd trained to dominate his personality, reality over sentiment, had known it was possible if not likely. "I see," he said in a measured, even tone. "That's…" The sight of the boy's battered body flashed before his mind's eye, "unfortunate."

The doctor nodded and gathered herself again. "You said you found him. Did you know him at all? Do you know his name or who his parents might be? Obviously there was no ID on him."

"His name is Trip," Malcolm replied. "He told me he goes by the name Trip. He is, or was, in foster care. He was fourteen. That's all I know. I'm sorry."

"No, that's fine. At least we have somewhere to start." The doctor nodded, and she looked at the man. Their eyes met.

"May I see his body? It seems…appropriate to say goodbye."

The doctor hesitated, but compassion won out in the end. She nodded again. "Sure. The police have been called. They're on their way, and they'll want to speak to you, of course."

Malcolm thought of his spaghetti in the fridge as he followed the doctor down the halls and to a small private room off the ICU. The doctor left him at the door, and Malcolm approached the bed, staring down at the boy he'd known only briefly.

"I'm sorry," he said in the silence, looking in the boy's open but vacant eyes. "I won't forget you." He stayed for a moment longer, then left, pausing at the reception desk to leave his details for the police to contact him.

A national campaign ran the next day. It was in his morning paper and on the TV in the staff lounge when he went to work. Two pictures side by side, one of the bruised face and a photo-quality drawing of what the boy would have looked like whole and alive. Malcolm privately thought the kid probably hadn't had reasons to smile like the artist had drawn. Anyone who knew "Trip" was urged to contact the number at the bottom of the screen by earnest and heart-broken looking presenters. Malcolm ignored it and carried on with his duties.

A day later, a new story broke. The boy's parents had been found 4,000 miles away in sunny Gulf Coast Florida. Despite himself, Malcolm watched the screen, though he hid his interest behind a large book. The pieces were slowly being knit together, weaving the story of the boy's short, brutal life. Kidnapped in Europe at three while on a family vacation, the Tucker family had looked for their son ever since. Charles Anthony "Trip" Tucker, the Third. Malcolm wondered if Trip had known. The news, unable to resist adding to the tragedy, detailed what could be found about Trip's life in foster care, bouncing from one abusive family to another. Malcolm thought it all rather crass – surely the boy deserved some privacy in death? – and switched the TV off.

The announcement of a private funeral came as no surprise, but the invitation to attend did. He didn't answer it and didn't plan to go, not until the moment he found himself at the church on the day, dressed in the nicest suit he owned.

He walked inside and his eyes were drawn to the family. He stopped in front of them, looking from the tearful mother and father to the numb children and back again. "I am sorry for your loss."

The woman reached out and took his hand. "Thank you," Cathy replied. "How did you know my baby?"

"I did not know your son," Malcolm said. "I was the one who found him."

Cathy leaned closer to her husband who put his arm around her shoulders. "Oh." She pressed her hand to her mouth to hide the trembling, disappointed that she wouldn't get to know another piece of her lost baby from this stranger. "Thank you for getting him help," she said. "Thank you for being there when…" She took a deep breath as her eyes watered again. "You're Malcolm, right?"

"Yes," Malcolm nodded.

"Thank you for coming. I wasn't sure if you'd received our invitation. Please, sit anywhere you'd like."

Malcolm nodded again and awkwardly made his way to a seat wondering how bad it would look if he just left now.

The service began. The Tucker family sat at the front as was custom. Just behind them, a bunch of kids wearing helmets sat with skateboards at their feet. Besides them and a couple of other teenagers, there were no other mourners.

I don't want to be forgotten. Please, don't forget me.

Malcolm breathed deeply and slowly. The officiant asked if anyone wanted to speak. Mrs Tucker spoke first, then a few of the kids. The boy's dying words wouldn't leave his brain as they all talked. Finally, he stood and approached. He stood by the open coffin and turned to look out over the small audience. "I didn't know him," he began, "and I don't know why I'm here now. I have no comforting words to say or stories to tell." His eyes met Mrs Tucker's. "Your son was brave. He was badly beaten, tortured, but he didn't complain. He asked me to remember him. He was afraid that he'd be forgotten. I won't forget him." The spell broke. Malcolm's gaze slid away, and he returned to his seat.

The rest of the service moved quickly. The coffin was closed and the pallbearers lifted it. The kids with skateboards all stood in a line. Malcolm's brow furrowed as he watched them, and he noticed the same questioning expression on the Tuckers' faces. They put their boards on the ground, and as the coffin moved slowly towards them, going to the exit and the waiting hearse, they bounced them up from the ground with a loud snap, caught them deftly under their arms, and raised their fists into the air, heads bowed, holding the pose until their friend and his family had passed by.

Their own version of a three-volley salute.

Malcolm left then through a side door and went home. Perhaps the spaghetti would still be edible.