Chapter Three

After some debate, Anne and P.T. convinced Phillip to take the day off of work and go with Anne for a picnic at the beach. They decided they would pack a lunch, go to the open-air market to get Phillip a birthday present, and then go down to the beach for lunch. They packed a basket full of cake and set out.

At the market, Anne surprised Phillip with a new scarf and a bar of chocolate. He opened the chocolate immediately and they ate it on the way to the beach.

At the beach, they had lunch and waded in the (absolutely freezing) water. Around 5:30, they were too cold to continue, so they packed up their things and headed home. When they were only about a half-mile away from the house, however, disaster struck.

"Hey! Circus freaks!" a man shouted as they were walking down the street towards the house.

"Ignore them," Anne whispered to Phillip. More people began to jeer as Anne and Philip walked faster.

"Freaks!"

"Weirdos!"

"Misfits!"

Four scruffy-looking men approached them. "Hey freaks," the man in front, obviously the leader, said drunkenly, directing the words at Anne. Phillip bristled angrily.

"Excuse us. Would you mind moving so we could get by, please?" Anne asked politely, trying to stay calm.

"Why should I? I won't take orders from you, circus weirdo!" the man yelled.

Phillip punched him in the face. The man cried out and kicked at him. Before anyone could say a word, the three other men joined the fight. Phillip pushed Anne to the side so she wouldn't get hurt and kept fighting, but he was outnumbered. After about thirty seconds, he had taken two of the men down and was about to hit the third when the leader came from behind and kicked him. Phillip flew forward onto the side of the road. The men sauntered away, cursing and obviously pleased with themselves, as Anne rushed over to Phillip. She pulled him over onto his back. He was unconscious and covered in blood, but alive.

"Phil? Phillip! Phillip, wake up!" Anne half-shouted, half-sobbed. "Phillip, please wake up!" Phillip stirred and his eyes fluttered open.

"I'm okay," he said hoarsely. "It's okay, Anne."

"Phil? Can you—" Anne started, but she was interrupted by a fit of coughing from Phillip. "Phil! Please don't die!"

"I won't die, Anne. I promise," Phillip said weakly. He tried to sit up, but fell back because of a sharp pain in his chest. Great, a broken rib, he thought. "Can you help me up?" he asked. Anne nodded. They slowly pulled him into a sitting position, Phillip unsuccessfully ignoring the pain.

"Do you think you can walk if I support you?" Anne asked him. Phillip nodded. Anne helped him stand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They slowly made their way back to the house as it began to rain.

When they got home an hour later, they were wet, cold, and muddy. Anne knocked on the door as hard as she could without jostling Phillip. W.D. opened the door.

"Anne? Phillip? What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's a long story," Anne said, "but Phillip needs a doctor as soon as possible. Can we come in?" W.D. nodded, grabbing some towels and helping Phillip and Anne pull off their wet coats. They helped Phillip over to the couch, laying him down just as P.T. walked in holding his umbrella. He immediately ran over to see what was the matter.

"Phillip? he asked. "What happened?"

"Some stupid drunks said some stupid things, there was a fight, and… yeah," Anne summarized for him. Phillip nodded in agreement, then winced.

"We may need a doctor," he told P.T. "I think I may have a broken rib."

"I'll go," said P.T. quickly. "Tell Charity where I went, I'll be back soon," he told them as he pulled on his coat and disappeared into the storm.

Half an hour later, P.T. arrived with the doctor. W.D. and Anne had helped Phillip into dry clothes to prevent hypothermia, but he was in a lot of pain and wasn't talking much. Everyone was eating dinner in the kitchen, but Anne would never dream of leaving Phillip. When the doctor came in, he introduced himself as Dr. Carter. He was exceedingly polite and very kind, especially to Anne and W.D. When Anne explained what had happened, he quietly listened until she was done. After examining Phillip, the doctor concluded that he did have a broken rib, but no other serious injuries and that he would recover within a few weeks. Anne let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The doctor bandaged Phillip's rib and told them to send a message if it still hurt after two weeks. After he left, Phillip seemed to relax a little, although he was still obviously in a lot of pain. Anne helped him eat some soup and sat with him for a few hours, trying to distract him from the pain. He finally told her that she should go get some sleep, but Anne refused to leave. She ended up sleeping on the floor next to the couch.

The next morning, Phillip wasn't much better. He stayed on the couch all day, still in pain but too stubborn to say anything about it. Over the next three weeks, he slowly recovered enough to walk around some, and by the fourth week he was almost completely better. He started going back to the circus every day with Anne, trying to make up for lost time and paperwork, and slowly became his old self again. One day, after they had gotten home and were playing cards, there was a knock on the door.

"What was that?" Anne asked. "No one ever comes here." There was another knock.

"I'll get it," said Phillip, climbing up from a game of Go Fish with Caroline and Helen.

"It's okay," said Anne. She opened the door, revealing the postman holding a letter. "Thank you!" she said as he walked away. She examined the envelope. "Oh, it's for you, Phillip," she said, passing him the letter. Phillip raised his eyebrows.

"Who sent me a letter? I thought I was disowned and I didn't exist anymore," he told Anne jokingly. He pulled open the envelope—and gasped. The letter read:

February 2

Phillip:

Your mother and I have talked, and we have decided that this is for the best. We are officially disowning you, effective immediately. None of your things, including your bank accounts, belong to you anymore. You may never set foot on our property again. If you do, we will call the police. You are not our son anymore.

—John D. Carlyle