Emil stared at the gaping hole; the white plaster had melted away to reveal pipes and infrastructure. Thankfully he had jerked his hands away in time to avoid damage to the metal. Oh God. What would Mrs. Bondevik say when she saw this, especially after her earth-shattering conversation? Emil ran his now-cooled hand through his hair; he found beads of sweat soaking it. Fortunately, she was busying herself with the phone and the laundry. He could stand in front of it, or walk away and pretend it never happened. What a stupid idea, he thought bitterly. As if she wouldn't be suspicious of a giant hole in her wall. Emil shook his head, trying to calm his nerves. What to do . . . Surely Lukas could fix this? Confident the woman was absorbed in the laundry room, he bolted out of the hallway in search of Lukas, in search of a solution.

He found him staring at his ceiling, frowning. He barely turned his head when Emil entered the room.

"What do you want?" He asked, showing no interest. Emil had no time to question Lukas's unfathomable ways. He wasted no time in beginning to speak:

"I have a problem," he confessed. "Come with me."

"Just tell me about it. Do I really need to move?" Emil rolled his eyes.

"Please follow me." He sounded like an annoying little brother, but he didn't know what else to say. "I . . . I burnt a hole in the wall." This caught Lukas's attention. He sprang up from his bed and walked over to Emil.

"You idiot," he scolded. "Let's look at it." It was then that Lukas followed him.

"Why did you even do something like that?" Emil wasn't paying attention to Lukas's scolding. The door to the laundry room was wide open; nobody was inside. Surely if she had seen, Mrs. Bondevik would have screamed? Gasped? Confronted him? He seemed incredibly lucky. He had no idea where the woman stood now, and he had no intention of finding out. "It's about the size of a fist . . . just say you accidentally threw a rock at it."

"Why the hell would I throw a rock at a wall?"

"You damn well didn't burn it, did you?" He raised a blonde eyebrow to Emil, who crossed his arms. I threw a rock at the wall. If she actually believed him, even after the conversation she had with his mother, she would think he had anger management issues. "Why did you do it?"

"Do you think I tried to? I was just standing there, listening to her talk on the phone with my mother, who hasn't tried to call me once. Forgive me for being angry about that." He did not add what he had heard on one end of the line. Lukas stared at the wall thoughtfully as the teen's fears began to rise.

"I was told that you are staying with us because she is in the hospital," he admitted. "Do you really have no aunts or uncles?" Emil shook his head. His parents had been only children, with deceased parents. But it wasn't as if that was unusual-no relatives had taken in Lukas after his mother died.

"Isn't it obvious? That's why I'm stuck here." His eyes would not leave the hole in the wall. Any excuse he made would cause suspicion. His mom had placed him on Mrs. Bondevik's watch list. "Well? Do you have a solution?"

"You can't expect me to cover up everything for you. You think it comes naturally to me? Look, I can't do whatever I want with this. It comes irregularly, in varying degrees of severity. I don't have it today. I may have too much of it tomorrow. I had more trouble than expected convincing my mother to let you out of the house alone. So don't expect me to fix your problems!" Lukas's dark eyes watched him closely. Emil looked to the side; he didn't like the severity they bore.

"Forget it," he mumbled. "It's not like it's a big deal, anyways."

Dinner began in uncomfortable silence. Forks hit plates and the news flashed in the corner, but nobody said a word. Emil didn't expect Lukas or himself to be so silent, but Lukas's parents usually talked to each other about matters he wasn't involved in. Today, the aging woman's eyes were fixed entirely on her food. Her husband seemed relatively unconcerned, but he didn't talk unless spoken to. Occasionally, she would watch Emil for a couple of seconds, as if she had only a brief period of time to analyze him. Watchful gray eyes stung him, but she wasn't without suspicion, either. The white-haired boy found that he couldn't take his eyes off of her. Likewise, his thoughts concerned the brunette as well. Did she believe whatever his mother told her? He didn't even know what his mother thought had happen. They barely spoke of it; she only told him about living arrangements. He had managed in their house alone, but she was determined to send him away. Was it for his good and safety? Or was it for the sake of avoiding destruction? A new wave of panic swept through him, along with doubt. His mother was not a materialistic woman. She would have been more concerned with her son . . . her adopted son . . .

He did not notice his fists strike the table. His mind was traveling in all directions at once, trying to understand why . . . she never told him anything about him being adopted. There was no way it was true; she would have said something. She would not have raised him to believe that he had biological bonds to someone he knew, just to find out later that it had all been lies. He stabbed his meatloaf and shoved it in his mouth, trying to use the homely taste of it as a distraction. By now, Lukas watched him with narrowed eyes. Emil really couldn't care less.

It would not have been such a big deal if he had known all along. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that his mother never loved him, just because he had been adopted, if that was even the case. It was the fact that she lied to him that killed him. Her solution to her freak-child was to impose him onto her old friends, and leave him to wonder if she even cared. As he took a long sip of his water, Emil realized that she didn't. Maybe she used to, before everything that had happened. Maybe he had burned more than skin tissue that afternoon.

He finished eating far quicker than the family. Though his thoughts were bursting within his mind, impossible to contain, he knew he could not afford to grow angry. In his mind, he was pissed—his mother had left him out to dry—but he couldn't show it. If he were to show his anger, it would be the end for him, but he longed to release this tension more than anything. Pulsing rage filled every fiber of his being, all with the desire to scream at the woman in front of him and tell her exactly what he had heard. He demanded to know what it meant. Above all, he needed an explanation. But he could not break the silence.

Mr. Bondevik was the one who did.

"Can any of you explain why there's a hole in the wall next to the laundry room?" Only the news anchor responded. He half-expected Lukas to stare at him, but those dark blue eyes watched his father instead. "I guarantee it wasn't there earlier."

Emi wondered if he should speak up. Refusing to admit to it wouldn't help him. Use the rock excuse.

"Oh, that? It's nothing, dear. I threw my shoe a little too hard at the wall when trying to catch a fly." Dumbfounded, Emil gawked at Mrs. Bondevik. Why the hell was she covering for him? His eyes sought Lukas—he had to be doing something. His reasoning was quickly dashed when he noticed that the older boy was just as shocked as he was. Emil shook his head. This wasn't right. She needed to be afraid of him, to throw all the blame on him, accuse him of damaging her house. He held his fork tightly in his hand, trying to calm his conflicting emotions.

"She did nothing," Emil spoke, his voice its usual, disinterested tone. On the inside, he wanted to scream at her. It was her fault. If she hadn't been talking to his mother, saying such horrible things . . . he swallowed those words, though it stung his throat. Mrs. Bondevik raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I um, threw a rock at the wall."

"Why would you do that, dear?" He was hanging by a thread . . .

Because my adoptive mother wants nothing to do with me.

"Because I was angry," he replied, still appearing bored, still boiling inside. "You know you didn't do it. I don't understand why you're covering for me."

"Most people don't admit to what they've done, especially at your age. Do you have a reason?" The question seemed innocent; he felt as if it was asking more. Why were you angry? Why did it happen? Is this why your mother doesn't love you?

He couldn't take it anymore.

"You were talking about me, to my own mother. From what I could tell, you were saying things about me that I didn't know." His grip on the fork was turning his knuckles white. "Why didn't she tell me I was adopted? Why didn't any of you tell me? I heard everything you said, every word of it! Everything she told you was true, but did that really justify her abandoning me?" Silver liquid oozed through his fingers; the remains of the fork he held burned the table. He was well aware of everyone's eyes on him. Mrs. Bondevik looked white with terror. Her husband's eyes grew ten times wider, and refused to look at anything but the molten object. Lukas looked like he was fighting himself. He was shaking his head, trying to focus on his parents' faces, trying to make them forget . . . the last of the silver fell from his burning hands. His breath came quickly as he realized how fast he had lost control. He used to be so good at controlling anger. Now, he had ruined both the family's wall and fork, all because he couldn't believe that his mother had been so heartless. It was enough to enrage anyone, but he should have been more aware of the results of his feelings.

He lost all the confidence and certainty of anger. Would it be better to apologize or say nothing at all? What they just saw wasn't ordinary . . . they would kick him out for sure, with no place to stay. All he could do was wait. Maybe the family would surprise him.

Mrs. Bondevik walked over to him cautiously. She cleared her throat, as if he could kill her if she said the wrong words. "So you heard your mother talking to me on the phone."

"I heard you. I didn't hear the other end of the line." He didn't need to. He had learned everything already. "In case you were unaware, she hasn't called me once."

He felt her hand rest awkwardly on his shoulder. It didn't comfort him, but at least it showed that she wouldn't abandon him out of fear. "She loves you very much—"

"Was I an infant when she adopted me?"

"You were three," Lukas informed him. All eyes fell on him. Immediately, Emil felt betrayed. How could he have known this whole time? To his relief, Mrs. Bondevik shook her head.

"He was two, Lukas. Please don't mess with him. The last thing he needs is an older brother-type figure playing jokes on him . . ." He didn't know how to react to that. Lukas was distant, but not the type to ridicule him. "Your mother kept this from you?" She should have told him. Mrs. Bondevik thought so. Anyone would think so. It was unbelievable, yet he forced himself to accept the truth. Horrible thoughts ran through his head. If he called the woman who raised him kindly, would she answer? She never told him the truth. He no longer trusted her.

The emptiness he found inside was quickly replaced with rage.