Shout-out to my poor beta, Sister Rose, and thank-you notes to helenc and muchtvs for their unput. It has been a while (three months), so if you're not quite sure how the last chapter finished, you might want to check that out before starting in on this one. Otherwise, confusion will probably ensue.

The final two chapters are written and ready to go (sort of), so this story should be finished off soon.

Thanks for reading.

CHAPTER NINE

The cupboard is empty; the counter is cluttered with every single mug we own. Some are empty. Some contain cold coffee. The ones wrapped beneath our fingers have billows of steam rolling off the tops.

We all flinch simultaneously when the coffee maker sighs, announcing a fresh pot is on the way.

I wish we had set up camp somewhere else. The kitchen is my kingdom. It's where I'm at my best. This? This is unnatural.

Three Cohens. Sitting in the kitchen. Drinking coffee. Stoic and stiff. It's just not right.

There's a crack directly above our heads. A loose floor board, maybe? Perhaps the house is settling. Either way, all eyes are on the ceiling. But there are no further sounds. Nothing else that would indicate life from above.

Kirsten breaks the silence with a cluck of her tongue. "We can't just sit here and wait…can we?"

Eyes dart from me to Seth, and she brushes imaginary stray hairs behind her ears, frowning hopefully. Unfortunately, neither of us has the answer to that question.

This is definitely a "living room" moment. Not a kitchen moment.

Seth shrugs, moves in for a refill.

Why have we resorted to acting like guests in our own home? Would Ryan really want that? I don't think so. Or at least I'd like to think not. Then again, I have no idea what Ryan wants, that much is clear.

"I don't know what else to do right now," I manage to mutter through a stifled yawn.

Kirsten pushes my coffee away from me. "Go lie down, Sandy. Get some sleep."

I shake my head, pulling the mug closer again, but my body screams, "YES!"

A warm hand rubs a circle on my back. "You can either sleep, or continue to sit here in a paralyzed state of worry."

"Maybe if we moved to the den…," I propose in the absence of any better idea, but Seth cuts me off.

Seth cell starts to vibrate. He digs into his pocket and darts from the room.

Kirsten continues to talk to me while staring off after him. "I'll come get you if we need you. But right now…" She turns to face me, frowning from hairline to the tip of her chin. "…there's nothing you can do."

I'm dismissed with a distracted kiss on the cheek, and take one final sip of the steaming coffee before moving from my stool. Kirsten follows me into the living room area. Before I walk down the hall to our bedroom, I glance back over my shoulder. She's standing at the bottom of the staircase, hands crossed over her midsection, staring up in the direction of both her boys. I should be able to sleep. After all, I'm leaving them in more capable hands.

Maurice wakes with a start. He's sitting bolt upright in bed, a thin layer of sweat lurking on his skin, underneath his faux-satin, polka dot pajamas. He has no idea what woke him so suddenly, but he knows exactly why he's awake.

Even in the dark of his heavily curtained bedroom, he can see the glint of the tiny silver cell phone. Beside it, his alarm clock's large red numbers are blinking back an impossible time: 3:00. And then it hits him. It's late. Dark outside. The power had obviously gone out, and his alarm hadn't gone off. He'd slept for an entire—he holds his left wrist up to his face, squinting to read the time—five hours longer than he intended.

It's 10 o'clock. The bank is closed. Teenagers are just getting started on another night of rebellious drinking—one that would surely earn Maurice enough money in taxi fares to make that trip he'd planned an all-inclusive one.

His mouth starts watering at the mere thought of sipping a mai tai on a white sand beach. No one requiring his services; no Newport teenagers around to mock his French take on the English language.

But before his poor cab becomes a basin for the alcohol-sodden contents of teens' stomachs, he has business to take care of.

He leaps from his bed and replaces the pajamas with his uniform from the night before. The clothes smell stale, but he doesn't have time to dig up a pair of pants that aren't stiff with dried latté.

With one final check to ensure he has pocketed the fat check and the dead cell phone, he grabs his car keys and takes off into the crisp night air.

His first appointment for the night: Mr. Sandy Cohen.

Twenty-seven minutes. That's how long it takes for Kirsten to come find me. I'm surprised how easy it is to get out of bed. Despite my exhaustion, I can't seem to do anything but stare at the ceiling. It's frustrating and infuriating, but I can't coerce my brain to snap out of the fishtail spin. I can, however, dig up some Valium. But I'll think about that later.

Kirsten's hovering in the doorway, hands holding onto either side of the doorframe. She smiles at me, but it doesn't last. "Something's not right," she says, her tone verging on apologetic. Little does she know she's saving me from myself.

I nod in understanding, though I have to admit that this revelation is hardly news.

It's not until we're nearly at the top of the stairs until further words are spoken. "He won't come out of the bathroom."

"Maybe he's showering, honey."

But this only earns me a sharp glare over her shoulder, complemented by pursed lips and squinted eyes. "The water's not running. He won't answer me when I knock."

As we pass Seth's room, I pause to peek in. He's lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. When he glances over at me, I flash him what I hope comes across as a knowing smile. Been there, son.

His phone buzzes before he can return the gesture. I'm immediately sidelined as he fields yet another call from, I can only assume, a hysterical Summer.

"Sandy?" Kirsten calls from further down the hall.

"Coming," I say, turning around and closing Seth's door behind me.

Ryan's room is dimly lit by the two small lamps set on the tables that sandwich the bed. It looks like a hotel room: warm, clean and yet unfamiliarly unlike home.

The bathroom door is closed, and Kirsten's softly knocking with the back of her hand. "Ryan?" she asks hopefully.

There's no answer. I reach forward and turn the doorknob which, much to my surprise, is not locked.

I cast a confused look at Kirsten, but she tilts her head to the side and holds up her palms. All but telling me that she doesn't feel comfortable walking in on Ryan when he's in the bathroom.

Right. Gotcha. It must be in the "Appropriate Behavior for Foster Mothers" handbook.

"Make sure he takes these," she says, taking my hand in hers and dropping a collection of pills into my palm.

I push the door open just enough to poke my head in. At first, I don't even see him. It's amazing how he can make himself almost invisible sometimes. I feel like I'm trying to see an image in one of those frustrating 3D prints. Eventually, I find the right focus and zoom in on Ryan. He's sitting on the floor beside the tub, his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him.

I can't tell whether he's looking at me or I just happen to be in his line of vision. Either way, there's no acknowledgment of my presence, which makes my head hurt. Surely we aren't going through this again, are we?

The door clicks shut behind me. Even Kirsten's light steps vibrate through the walls as she slowly retreats from the room.

I drop the lid on the toilet and take a seat across from Ryan. Suddenly, I'm very tired again. It's like the kid's oozing exhaustion, and in my futile attempts to make it easier on him, I only end up absorbing his emissions.

In this small enclosed room, I can now clearly catch the scents of fuel and charred plastic wafting from Ryan's clothes. I want to kick myself for not giving him something else to wear at the hospital. I should have come home, grabbed some clean clothes. It just never crossed my mind at the time.

"Did you want to wash up, kid?" He glances up at me, as if only just realizing I'm here. "Maybe take a shower?"

He swallows and gives a small nod, grabbing the hem of his shirt and leaning forward.

I don't want to smother him, suffocate him when he made it more than clear earlier that he didn't want any help, but it looks like his limbs are made of rubber, and it could take all night if I let him go at it alone.

"Here," I offer, kneeling in front of him and helping him pull the shirt over his head. I can tell he hates this. He even manages a halfway glare, letting me know just how appreciative he is for all my help. I'm touched, really, but I honestly don't give a shit. It can't penetrate my thick parental skin.

If he wants to hate me right now, I'm fine with that. If it makes it easier for him in any way, I'll happily bear the brunt of his anger and grief, but I won't stand idly by as he struggles through what should be simple tasks. I just can't. Not as a semi responsible parent. I won't suffocate him…I'll just nudge him in the right direction.

Maurice stops just before the roadblock, checks his mirrors for the lights of some potential savior, then slams his fists against the steering wheel to the tune of a string of curses.

This is the fourth time he has been forced to turn around. As a cab driver, it pained him to admit he didn't know where he was going, but three dead ends and a blocked off road later, he has to admit to being somewhat confused.

He's confident, though, that if he can find a way to maneuver his cab onto the shoulder, around the barricade of cement-filled pylons, and continue along this road, he'd be only two lefts and a stop sign away from Sandy Cohen's house.

He's sure of it. Almost.

He flashes his brights in a futile effort to see what's on the other side of the bright orange wall. Alas, they're not magical X-ray lights.

Resigned, he turns off the engine and climbs out of the car to examine his challenge. Unless there are huge, bottomless, car-swallowing holes in the road, he's planning on getting to the other side. Enough is enough. There is many a drunken Newport teen out there ready to mistakenly hand over tens instead of singles.

He ducks under a string of yellow tape and around the sea of pylons.

There are no major holes or obstructions that he can see, but something still doesn't seem right. There doesn't seem to be much of…well…anything. The road is completely intact. Except for small clusters of debris littering the pavement—nothing that a quick sweep of a broom couldn't fix—Maurice doesn't see any reason why it should be blocked off.

He scuffs his shoe against a stray piece of plastic—part of a bumper maybe?—when a reflection catches his eye.

After a quick glance over his shoulder to reassure himself that he is, indeed, alone, he leans over to examine the small object more carefully. It looks like a piece of jewelry. A necklace? He picks it up and rubs his thumb over the pendant to remove the oily glaze from its surface.

His father was a jeweler back in France. Even with his minimal knowledge of jewels and precious metals, Maurice knows, with certainty, that this particular object is not only worth something, but it might just bump him up to all inclusive without having to endure a night filled with screaming, sobbing, vomiting and mock French accents. He whistles loudly, trying to act casual while inconspicuously sliding the object into the deep pocket of his stained pants.

Happy about his findings, Maurice gets back into his cab and hugs the outer edge of the shoulder, unknowingly driving over a stray sign that simply states: DO NOT ENTER. CRIME SCENE.

Once Ryan's shirt is over his head, revealing those horrible bruises on his chest that I first learned about at the hospital, he slumps back against the wall, seemingly out of breath.

"Do you need help with…?"

Another glare finds me, and I almost have to smile. I don't want to take your pants off anymore than you don't want me to take them off, kid. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Instead of crossing that awkward line, I grab his hand and drop the pills onto his palm. "Take these," I order, closing his limp fingers to form a fist.

Instead of doing the "stare and wait," which I've pretty much perfected by now, I try to keep busy. I push the shower curtain back and start running the water. When it's a reasonable temperature, I take a step back and reassess the situation.

He has swallowed the pills dry, but hasn't made any move to get up or remove any other piece of clothing.

"Well…" I run a hand through my hair, unsure of my next move. If this were Seth, I wouldn't even hesitate. But it's not Seth. And now I'm stuck. Do I push or do I just step away? If I do keep going forward with this, will he snap up his armor again like he did earlier?

"I'll tell you what," I start, trying to sound like I know what I'm doing here. "You go ahead and get into the shower, and I'll fetch you some clean clothes to wear when you get out."

There's no answer for several seconds, and I'm about to repeat myself when he blinks and focuses in on me. "What?" he mutters inarticulately.

"C'mon, kid," I urge, suddenly self-assured as I reach out and squeeze his knee, trying to contain his attention for a string of 10 consecutive seconds. "You'll feel better once you're properly cleaned up."

But again with the rubbery muscles. His head rolls forward unsteadily, chin against his chest.

"Um…Sandy?"

I jump at Kirsten's voice. I'm not the only one who's caught off guard. Ryan's jolted into the most upright position I've seen him in yet.

She smiles apologetically, her eyes drifting toward Ryan as she speaks to me. "There's…a…strange man here to see you."

I must look confused because she shrugs and motions the door with a tilt of the head. With one final squeeze of Ryan's knee, and assurances that I'll be right back, I scramble to my feet and meet my wife just outside the bathroom door.

"What?" I whisper harshly.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I told him to come back another time, but he says he needs to speak to you now."

My mind starts racing with all the possibilities of who could possibly want to speak to me at midnight. Is it the cops? Did they find this Volchok kid? Is this nightmare finally getting some closure?

Kirsten's already preparing Ryan's next dosage in the palm of her hand, placing it on the nightstand for later. "Go," she urges, "I'll stay with him." She looks nervous and yet sure at the same time as she enters the bathroom.

What I see as I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs causes me to stop dead in my tracks.

Seriously? Am I hallucinating or is this guy seriously standing in my home?

"Monsieur Cohen?"

"Ah…yes?"

I offer my hand because it's the thing to do. But judging from this guy's clothes, I'm going to want to endure a thorough scrub after.

"I, ah, I hope it okay. You know, so late," he says, gesturing to his Timex.

"Well, to be honest, this isn't a great time, no."

Didn't I cut this guy a ridiculously fat cab fare check made out to cash about 14 hours ago? What more could he possibly want from me?

"Uhhhh…" he starts, but there doesn't seem to be an end to his sentence, because he stares at me, wide-eyed and shell-shocked.

Is he high? Are his pupils always that dilated?

"Look, I don't have time for this right now, so if you wouldn't mind getting to the point…"

"Oui! Oui, oui!"

He starts digging around in his pockets, but I don't want anything that comes out of those pants.

He whips his hand from his pants and thrusts something in my direction. I jerk backwards, surprised and, frankly, a little scared.

Something clinks against the tiles, and the strange man forcefully urges a cell phone into my hands before dropping to his hands and knees to scour the floor for whatever it was he dropped.

I look at the phone, flip it open, close it again. "Is this…?"

He stops, pausing his frantic search to glance up at me. "Yes, yes," he says distractedly.

And that didn't answer my question. At all.

"Whose phone is this?" I ask firmly.

He gives an irritated sigh. Apparently, he can't locate his quarter, or whatever it was he dropped. "You know," he mutters, gesturing toward his face. "The…uh…boy with the…you know…blackened skin."

The boy with the blackened skin?

I make a point of enunciating as clearly as possible. "Is this Ryan's phone?"

He smiles at this, nodding enthusiastically. "Oui! Oui!" He's still on his hands and knees, and is getting more and more frantic the longer this futile search goes on.

My insides are churning, dying to get back to Ryan. But there isn't a chance in hell I'm leaving this lunatic crawling around my floor. I'm liberal, but there's a limit.

"Look, I really appreciate you coming by, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

He stops, pats the ground a few more times, then slams his fist against the floor. I jump at this unexpected reaction. Christ, this guy's losing his mind over some spare change.

I dig into my pockets and pull out a handful of small change. "Here." I hold out the change, forcing into his hands much like he did with the cell phone. Except I do it while forcefully ushering him toward the door. "Take this. This should cover it. Thanks for coming by."

He nods and continues to stare at the ground as I place a hand on his shoulder and start guiding him out.

Finally, he concedes, shoulders slumped, and no longer resists my attempts to push him toward the door.

"Thanks again," I say, because I have no idea what else I should say to this guy. Sorry about your quarter?

He nods and forces himself to smile.

But he doesn't turn around. He just keeps smiling and scanning the floor by my feet. I'm trying to smile back at him but I'm really creeped out at this point.

Finally, I just shut the door on him. What else can I do? Pay off the guy's mortgage?

I wait until I hear his footsteps going down the steps before I turn away.

But on my first step, something sharp digs into my right sole.

"Fuck!" I growl under my breath, grabbing my foot and hopping around until the pain fades to a manageable level. It's not very manly, I know, but as Seth would say, I'm a full-blooded Cohen.

When the throbbing subsides, I lean down and run my hand over the floor until I brush across something cold.

I pick it up and examine it. It looks like a…wishbone. A small, gold pendant in the shape of a wishbone. Is this what the weirdo was looking for?

I walk over to the window only to catch the sight of fading taillights. Knowing this guy, which I don't claim I do, he'll be back for it. As much as I dread that imminent encounter, I am eternally grateful to the guy.

I shake my head when I think about how that strange, obscure little man has managed to play such an important role in my family's life today. But at the same time, if I never see him again, it'll be too soon. His erratic behavior makes my head hurt.

After placing the gold wishbone on the table by the door and the cell phone in my pocket, I start the trek back up the stairs where, sadly, things aren't much more normal.

TBC.