Benjamin sat in his room, waiting. The crash had already come once, loud and raucous enough to send birds flapping away from the tree outside his window, but he knew that another would soon rattle the frame of the house. There had been two plates used at dinner, after all, and tonight had been particularly bad—so many hateful glances, his father's lip crooked with contempt. And it wasn't over. So Ben folded his hands atop his blankets in the dark, patient.

A minute later, something shattered against the wall separating the bedroom from the kitchen. An empty beer can followed, like a weak, tinny echo. Ben kicked off his covers. Unless his father planned to go after the rest of the tableware, he knew it was safe to go out.

The boy cracked his bedroom door and ventured a glimpse down the hallway. He'd had plenty of practice at this, the inept roles he and his father played, and he knew to be cautious. There had been countless nights of waiting for him to get drunk enough so Ben could fix whatever had been broken.

Roger Linus was sick, always tired, weighed by memories and regrets that left him unsteady and stooped. It had gotten worse once the two of them had come to the Island and been forced together by close quarters and a simpler existence. It made the absence of his mother all the more palpable.

In the kitchen, Ben didn't look toward the crumpled form in the khaki jumpsuit lying on the couch, just made his way to the broom beside the refrigerator. His father had not quite lost his grip on consciousness, though. He groaned, a wet, strangled noise.

"You left the dishes in the sink," he said dimly. "I told you to clean everything up."

Ben said nothing. He sank to his knees on the hard kitchen tile and began sweeping the shards of plate toward him.

"Damn it," Roger said, with no real feeling. Ben knew then that the alcohol had numbed his father to a point beyond true emotion, and he relaxed. Only one mess tonight, nothing so serious that he would have to lie to his teacher tomorrow about bruises and broken glasses.

"Damn it," Roger repeated. "I'm out for hours shoveling shit, and you can't keep the house clean for one night."

Ben brushed overgrown fringe from his eyes and carried a handful of fragments to the garbage bin. At the periphery of his vision, he took note of his father. Legs splayed and a beer clasped to his side, Roger was watching his son with bleary eyes. The elder Linus nodded.

"Did you hear me? Doesn't sound fair, does it?"

As Ben knelt to the ground again, Roger finished his second beer and leaned forward to drop it onto the coffee table. The motion threw his balance. Ben saw him catch the lazy forward loll of his head in one hand. On a better day he might have gone to his father's side to touch his shoulder, but not tonight.

"These people and their stupid experiments," Roger said. "They brought in a load of new test animals, and guess who's gotta clean up after 'em?"

Ben stood, cupping what had once been the plain ceramic edge of a dish. "What animals?" he blurted, his voice cracking both from the unsteadiness of adolescence and a lack of use.

Roger lifted his gaze, his features gray and slack. "What does it matter?" he snorted. "All their shit's the same."

***

The next afternoon, Ben skirted the commons area on his way home from school, taking a lonely path between buildings to avoid his classmates. That day their teacher had called on him to solve a math problem he didn't understand. The scattered laughter in the classroom had been enough to tighten his throat—never mind the whispered jabs about his being a janitor's son and how he would soon be cleaning the toilets at Roger Linus' side. All because he couldn't subtract mixed fractions.

The barracks were alive with mid-afternoon activity. Ben kept to the trees around the cluster of main buildings, avoiding a group going into the cafeteria, staying clear of the couple sitting on a bench by the path. It was only after he'd ducked behind the recreation hall that he was discovered.

Two red-haired cows, tethered improbably in the shadows of a large pine, gawked at Ben as he stopped short in front of them.

"Oh," he said, with a tone of needless apology.

The area at the back of the building was a miniature zoo of laboratory animals. Along with the pair of cows, a dozen dog cages had been arranged in the grass, each tagged for transport to the various research stations. A sky-blue DHARMA van was parked close by, the trunk opened to reveal several smaller cages of rats and rabbits in its bed.

Gripping the strap of his shoulder bag, Ben inched forward and bent to the dogs. Beagles, he thought, noting their russet coats and long, limp ears. He had always wanted a dog. Years ago, he had fallen for the dream of a constant and loving companion that would always rejoice at his presence and depend on him for affection. But with his father moving from job to job throughout his childhood, there had been no opportunity, and there was even less chance for it now. Ben put his hand out, and the dogs licked his fingertips through the mesh.

Straightening, he wiped his hand on his pant leg and peeked over one shoulder. He went quickly to the van and investigated the cages there.

He realized immediately he hated the rats. They appeared threatening even at their small size, with their narrow, pointed snouts turned up to sniff at him, their fleshy paws grappling at the sides of the cage. He grimaced in distaste and understood for the first time what an insult it was to be compared to this animal.

The rabbits, however, merely huddled together in the far corners of their tiny prisons, their noses working frantically. Their eyes were cranberry red, wide and glassy. Ben allowed a small smile to flitter across his mouth. He liked them.

"What are you doing?"

Ben jerked in surprise and took a step away from the van to discover his classmate Annie standing next to him. She was twisting one long, straight lock of her brown hair around one finger, frowning faintly. Her book bag hung loosely to one side; she still wore her white school T-shirt and shorts.

Ben bobbed his shoulders, taking a sudden interest in the grass and how every delicate blade contacted her sandaled feet. "I—I was just—"

"What's in there?" she said. She angled forward and answered the question for herself, her dark eyes widening. "Bunnies!"

"And rats," Ben added, the words coming out like he had held his breath.

Annie moved closer. The rabbits seemed less afraid of her, and one stretched its neck and lifted its ears toward them. She beckoned eagerly to Ben. "Look! He likes me."

They both peered into the nearest cage, their bare arms touching as they stood at the back of the van. Annie balanced on her elbows, and Ben tried not to look at her directly, instead stealing glimpses from behind his hand while adjusting his glasses. Annie was the only one on the Island who had offered him more than blatant dislike. He was never sure how to act around her.

"They're so cute," she murmured.

He could feel his jaw tightening against saying the wrong thing, too much, anything that would upset the tremulous beginnings of their friendship. But he replied anyway, softly. "I wish we could hold them."

Annie glanced up at him, and before he could stop her, she had reached around him to open the cage, lifted one of the animals by its scruff, and forced it into his chest.

"There," she said.

Ben stood uncertainly clutching the rabbit against him. Fear of punishment deserted him in the pleasant wake of Annie's grin and the small comfort in his arms. There was something reassuring about the animal's still and solid weight so near his heart, its docile gaze, the peppery smell of cedar chips on its fur.

Annie reached up and trailed her fingers down the rabbit's pillowy spine. After a moment she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "I'm sorry about what they said at school today. Don't listen to them."

Ben caught her eye, but couldn't hold it. He shook his head.

"You should keep that rabbit," she suggested.

"What?" he said, almost scoffing.

"Sure!" She turned her head, and Ben observed her profile, white and stark against the blue van. When she faced him again the curtain of her hair swept forward over her shoulder. She said, "They've got so many, they probably won't notice. And bunnies always have lots of babies. You know?"

Ben didn't know. "I'll get in trouble."

"Not if it's a secret," she said. "I won't tell anyone."

The rabbit's whiskers tickled his chin. "My dad—"

"It's a secret, Ben." She adjusted her backpack and smiled. "It's our secret."

With that, she strode away from him with hard, determined steps, never looking back, as if this alone proved she had forgotten ever seeing him near the lab animals.

Biting his lower lip, he watched her go. A minute passed with only the dogs doing circles in their cages and the wind whispering in the trees. Then he opened his bag and settled the rabbit inside with his notebook. The slight warmth at his hip was the same, calm and comforting. Ben set off across the commons.