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Scott had a knack for making himself scarce. Charles did not bother looking but with his mind. No matter how self-sufficient, no matter how independent, no matter how light-footed a person might be, there is no hiding from a telepath.

There is out-maneuvering a man in a wheelchair, though. To level the playing field, on his third attempt at a conversation with the boy, Charles dipped into his mind and froze him.

"Hello, Scott."

Scott startled, re-awakening, and nearly dropped the book in his hands. It was outside that Charles had finally caught up with him. The weather had turned pleasant, unseasonably so for a December morning, with weak sunshine and a break in the cloud cover.

"Hello, Mr. Xavier."

"You can call me Charles if you like."

Scott only nodded in response.

He wasn't going to say 'Charles'.

"Did you want your book back?" he said, instead. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have taken it. I mean, I thought I would get it back before…"

"No, take your time with it." Charles looked at the book, then at Scott, interested because he felt like he might really be seeing a glimpse of the boy for the first time. He was not hidden behind fear or desperation. Oh, there was fear, absolutely—how long until he breathed without apologizing for it?—but the boy who flinched and cowered, the boy who asked permission to eat, had taken a risk for a book of poetry.

So that's who he was.

"Do you like to read?"

That Scott liked to read seemed obvious. He valued reading. The question was an attempt to make him talk, not meant to extract information.

Scott answered silently once more, with a nod.

"You found the library, then."

Another nod.

Charles did not read as much as he liked people to think. He was sharp, but far more interested in science. Genetic variation held his interest better than rhymes and scanning.

"It's good someone can get some use out of it," he said, of the library. "Borrow whatever you like. Just be careful with the books and return them when you've read them."

Getting a response seemed hopeful. Scott visibly swallowed and worked his jaw, but after a few seconds he just nodded.

Charles sighed and looked outward. Everything was green and glistening. It was quite pretty, really. Charles wished it wasn't. He wanted the world to look miserable, to justify how miserable he felt on the inside.

It had become a common thought since the crisis. Since the bullet. Today it felt less venomous. His thoughts were less on his own situation.

"You know," he said, "it's only the plants this way. You could take your glasses off. There's no danger."

Scott shifted awkwardly. "Are you telling me to?"

"No, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but there are safe places here. There's even a bomb shelter designed against nuclear weaponry. I doubt you could do much damage there!"

The offer, half-suggested, of a safe place to use his powers elicited no response. After a moment, Charles changed the subject.

"I want this to be a safe place for all mutants, but this is complicated by your age." He had not read Scott's entire life of memory, had only seen the memories that boiled to the front in emotional moments. "You have no other family?"

Scott looked at his book. Watching him was almost painful, he was so withdrawn. Even if he could have made eye contact, he wouldn't have, not then. "No."

"I'm so sorry." Although he knew a bit about absent parents and had his own fresh wounds over the loss of loved ones, Charles kept his personal stories to himself. Bonding over emotional trauma and lost childhoods could wait until later.

Scott shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"And then Mr. Milbury looked after you."

Scott nodded. "At the home," he supplied.

He called it 'the home', not 'home', but the real clue came from the image Charles saw in Scott's mind. "An orphanage?"

"The State Home for Foundlings in Omaha. Will you send me back to him?" he asked, and his tone surprised Charles. Having seen the way Milbury treated him, Charles would have expected some fear at the thought of returning, some shadow of the defiant, frantic, terrified boy he had seen last night. Instead, Scott sounded resigned.

Charles could not imagine sending Scott back to that life. Last night, when he was in Scott's mind and saw Milbury beginning to beat him for running away, Charles had thought it idiotic. Surely the boy had enough sense and strength in him to run away again. He had come so far the first time.

Now he understood. Scott would not have run a second time. Something must have happened, something big, to make him leave, because over the past years his spirit had been crushed into submission.

"No," Charles said.

No, he would not send Scott back to Milbury. The very thought of it bothered him. He did not hurt people, nor send vulnerable kids into danger unless he has absolutely no choice.

Because his first answer had not felt like quite enough, he added, "Never."

Only after he had said it did he realize what he promised with those words. He meant to give Scott a safe place to stay, but he needed more than safety. He was only fifteen. He needed guidance. That was what Charles had promised, wasn't it, what he had intended from the moment he saw Scott in the police station.

Scott didn't need someone to train him. He needed someone to help him. It really was unfortunate, Charles thought, because what did he know about kids? He could barely get this one to talk.

It had been so much easier with Raven. She needed a friend as much as he did and friendship was uncomplicated at that age. Besides, all Raven had been was alone, not hurt, not like Scott. Charles's thoughts felt just as jumbled as his at the moment, intermingled strands of loss—his friend, his youth, his legs, his purpose—and a question he did not know how to answer.

What was he supposed to do about Scott? For that matter, what could he do?

"It's not," Charles began, and abruptly stopped. He was talking to himself. While he had been lost in thought, Scott had disappeared.