Boyd sat on the couch next to his foster mom and cuddled up to her. The house was warm and the only light in the room besides the flashing TV was the soft glow of the Christmas tree. He was eight and liked to spend part of his nights with someone he felt actually loved him.

He'd been in foster care for almost 5 years, his birth mother dead and his father in no place to raise a child, and he'd had his share of disappointments. It was unfortunate, though. He was a sweet boy, quiet and tall, and just a little chubby because the lunch ladies at school liked him more than the other kids. It was just… never him. Families never picked him.

His foster homes weren't nightmares, as the stigma goes. In his first foster family, he had five foster siblings, and the couple was fairly young and preparing to adopt anywhere from one to four kids. Sadly for him, they chose two, and he was not one of them.

His favorite by far, though, was the one he was in now. His foster mom worked at the adoption agency for the subsequent orphanage he lived at on and off, between homes, and she only had one son, Scott. That meant he had a chance to be adopted.

There was just one thing, though. Boyd was still plagued by nightmares of the night his mother died. He was only three, but that's where his memory started. His angry, drunken father had chosen to beat her to death after she asked him for a little more money to get Boyd into the private pre-school. He remembered some of the phrases that were spewed between the two adults, like hot lava.

"—Have a good education—"

"—Not good enough for you?—"

"—Best for your son—"

"—Just a greedy bitch—"

He cowered in the corner behind the couch and heard, through tightly covered ears, the smashing of bottles, clanging of pans, and the cracking of skin hitting skin. When he was sure it was over, he crawled out from behind the couch and looked at his mother's lifeless body, surrounded by blood from a number of open gashes, then up at his father who had turned the TV on like nothing happened. His lip quivered and he started to bawl. His father slapped him hard across the cheek and scoffed. "You ain't worth shit, kid."

Flashes of his mother lying dead on the ground, the fire his father set in order to cover it up, and the whirling lights of an entire police squad drifted in and out of his mind as he tried to sleep. Luckily, he had his own room, so he stayed awake most nights, sitting up against the headboard with his knees against his chest and silent tears running down his face.

It'd been like that for five years, though the nightmares were sparse now, and he stayed awake now to avoid the onset of his fears. This particular night, he heard more than one voice downstairs. He got out of bed and padded over to the door, cracking it to listen.

"His name is Isaac. Lahey," a male voice said. It was strange, hearing a man's voice in the house. "He's five years old, and an abuse victim." There was a shuffling of papers, probably passing files around. Lahey sounded familiar.

There'd been news stories about the Laheys that Boyd would hear in the morning before going off to school and at night when the three of them would watch together before bed. The dad was the swim coach at Beacon Hills High School, an award-winning one, at that. It wasn't an unheard name to Boyd, but he wondered why it was being said at his house.

"I'll take him. After school tomorrow, I'll bring him home," Melissa's soft voice reached his ears after a moment of contemplative silence. Boyd pushed the door closed, angry by what he heard. There was an even lesser chance of him being adopted since some sad, adorable kid would be fostered by Melissa, too. He climbed back up on his bed, knowing there'd soon be another next to him, and hugged his knees to his chest. It was only a matter of time before he was sent to another home.

The next day was long and drawn out, but it was hot dogs and tater tot day, which made him happy. He flashed the lunch ladies a smile and they piled a mountain of fried potatoes onto his tray. He sat in the corner table with his best friend, Erica, and told her all about how he'd stayed up until 11 the night before and wasn't even tired. Once the day was over, he went down to Scott's 2nd grade classroom and waited for him to come out before they both went to the front to wait for Melissa.

They sat on the bench outside of the front office, short legs swinging and daily stories being exchanged about how Jackson in Boyd's class chickened out about cutting off one of Lydia's pigtails and how Scott's best friend Stiles almost got beat up by Danny in his class. Melissa appeared at the door with a smile, and the two greeted her with broad smiles and tight hugs. They each took one of her hands, as they did every time they went anywhere, and prepared to leave.

Boyd's smile faltered when he saw the school's counselor walking towards them along with a frail, curly-haired, watery-eyed boy. Melissa dropped their hands and reached out to the little boy, who apprehensively stuck out the hand that wasn't occupying his mouth to her. She lifted him up and he instantly clung to her, making Boyd extremely jealous. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked at his feet as the four of them walked out to the car.

Scott and Melissa used the rest of the day trying to make Isaac feel welcome, but Boyd just stayed silent and distant, watching from afar and preparing himself to detach. At dinner, in the middle of her cutting Isaac's food, Melissa said, "You and Isaac will have to share a room, okay, Boyd? I know you'll be a good brother to him."

His eyes shifted to the little boy and without a word, he went back to eating his dinner. They watched TV, letting Isaac choose a show first (a stupid baby show, of course), and then got ready for bed. Surprisingly, there was already a bed in the room for the little boy. Melissa helped Isaac out of his clothes and into some pajamas, careful not to touch any of the raw bruises that covered his chest. Boyd sat on the edge of his bed, scowling at the fact that he was jealous of a kindergarten baby. Melissa kissed them both goodnight before turning out the light and closing the door as she left.

Boyd kept his eyes wide open, avoiding sleep like a disease. He heard every creak the house made, and luckily he was no longer afraid of the dark. He turned over and looked at the only picture of him and his mom that survived the fire his father set and touched it with a heavy sigh. The room was still and quiet until he heard quiet sobs coming from the other boy.

It sounded like he was trying to hide them, put on a front for Boyd because he was older. In some of his other homes, Boyd wasn't the youngest, and had to learn how to console the younger kids when they cried. He got out of his own bed and stood over the little boy undecidedly. He listened to the tiny gasps and could see his tiny body tremble with every breath.

"Hey," Boyd poked Isaac after a few minutes of an inconsiderable amount of guilt built up inside of him. "Stop crying." The head of curls turned to look up at him and instantly he was being held onto. Isaac had his arms around him tightly and his head buried in Boyd's chest.

"Don't let the monster get me." Isaac's voice was tiny and almost inaudible against the fabric of Boyd's shirt. Unfazed, Boyd pried Isaac's arms from around him and rolled his eyes. "He's gonna get me," the little boy whimpered. Boyd simply shook his head and returned to his own bed, turning to face away from Isaac. He was all but content until he heard the sheets ruffle on the other side of the room. It was silent for about ten minutes before Isaac began to cry again. He chose to ignore the little boy's crying, and just stared at the picture angrily.

It went on like that for about a week. Melissa would come in and kiss them before bed, the leave, and Isaac would cry quietly in his side of the room. One night, when he remembered himself at the same age and freaked out about his own nightmares, he rolled over to look at the boy. Silently, Boyd got up from his bed and climbed into the other boy's, and sighing. Isaac's tiny body uncurled from the fetal position it was in and he pressed back against Boyd. "Don't let him get me," he whispered.

"I won't."

And that was the first night in five years that Boyd slept.