"Thanks again for taking the time to do this, especially during your lunch break. God knows they're hard to come by these days," Alfred sympathized as he straightened out his scrubs. "I know we were supposed to meet at the clinic, but I can't stand that place."

"Oh, it's not a problem, and I can't stand it either, to be honest."

He wasn't sure how he ended up in this position—slouched across from Dr. Ivan Braginsky, a colossal man with keen eyes and pearly hair stained with a modest kind of wisdom. As with many affairs that required him to step out of his comfort zone, he blamed Arthur for his grievances. After all, his uncle had convinced him to meet with the psychiatrist for a chat.

And that's all it was—a chat. He wouldn't trade the man a bleeding heart eking with stale memories and blistering emotions. They were seated at the noodle bar up the block on strict business, and then they would get back to work.

He twirled his fork around the pasta on his plate with a sudden loss of appetite, bothered by the entire situation and how thin-skinned it was leaving him.

"So, what do you think's wrong with me?" he asked when he failed to maintain eloquence. There would be something reassuring in knowing he had a condition or disease that could be treated, and then maybe he would be able to live with the type of alleviation he'd been searching for.

Ivan gave him a long look and chuckled, ripping off a piece of his bread and brandishing it like a tool. "What do you think is wrong with you?"

"I don't know. I just suck at being a human?" Alfred ventured, unable to ignore the pit of frustration in his stomach at not getting concrete answers. "You're supposed to evaluate me."

"No," Ivan replied, setting down the bread and leaning forward to get a better look at Alfred. "Why don't you tell me what you want to hear first?"

"What I want to—?" Alfred began, feeling his tongue become dry in his mouth. "Forget it, I don't think this is going to work. Sorry for wasting your time."

Ivan watched with an odd indifference as Alfred rose from his seat and gathered his things, finishing up his meal as though nothing had happened. They had already paid for the food, and it would be a shame to leave it untouched.

"Jones, you're not even my patient, and you're already expressing resistance. That's remarkable progress," Ivan called over his shoulder as Alfred swung open the front door of the restaurant. His tone suggested he was only partially joking, yet his words were enough to keep the other from crossing the threshold.

Alfred felt stupid just standing there, blue eyes reflecting back at him through the glass door as Ivan waited to see what he would do next. Every muscle screamed at him to leave—to wipe every recollection of their meeting away—but something held him back. He couldn't move, and his feet were plastered to the ground with resolve, as though his body had already chosen its path.

Groaning to let his wrath be known, Alfred stormed back to the table, sweaty-palmed and shaking with discontent. "Fine. You win."

If Ivan was smug, he did a spectacular job of concealing it. "Jones, do you know what I see when I look at you?"

"It's Alfred, and no."

The Russian doctor stared past Alfred's head and out the window, admiring the sundry scads of people cluttering the streets. They were nameless silhouettes as far as he knew, and perhaps it was easier on the eyes to see them that way. Those who dared to browse too deeply were often trapped in the overwhelming humanity hiding around every corner.

"I see a man who's scared of his own shadow, Jones, and it's disheartening."

"What—?"

"I think we should meet for weekly sessions."

Sucking in a heavy breath, Alfred felt himself grow even more shaken by Ivan's words. He didn't want to be put on a medication regiment or be told that he was depressed. Maybe a part of him wanted a quick cure, but the other was afraid of such methods. Would he have to label himself as sick now that Ivan wanted him to be his patient?

Embarrassment filled him to the very core, spreading anxiety into every cell as Alfred tried to reason with himself that there was nothing to fear. There was nothing wrong with having to seek out someone to talk to, and it didn't mean he was lesser for needing the extra help, surely?

"I'm not so sure if I'd like that," he said after some contemplation. "It's something I'll need to think about."

Ivan nodded his head and scribbled a phone number on a napkin. "Of course. Give me a call whenever you want to schedule an appointment."

"Thanks."

He stood up to leave for certain this time, fumbling with his coat for a moment before folding the napkin and stuffing it into his pocket for safe-keeping.

"Jones?"

He really wished the man would use his first name.

"Yeah?"

"Consider it. It's a decision that you should sleep on."

"I will."

Nothing is as tempting as breaking one's word.

Being left alone in the house offered plenty of food for thought, and Alfred swore he could feel his brain melting inside of his skull as it turned into a useless puddle of mush. He was present and absent all at once because everything that happened beyond his mind seemed to blur into one kaleidoscope of information.

And worst of all, he could sense the overwhelming pressure of being stuck. Stuck in the house. Stuck in his mind. Stuck in a world that raced onward without his consent. He wasn't ready for change, and yet, it had claimed him, binding his ankles and tying his wrists.

With Zoey at school and Arthur at the store, he had nothing else to do other than watch the passing day from a distance, toiling over what to do next. He was uncertain as to how long he stayed on the couch, eyes peeking at the quiet street through the gap in between the curtains. It must've been a while though, since by the time he was roused out of his dreamlike state, Arthur had returned with a collection of groceries in his hands.

"I offered to go with you," Alfred reminded upon feeling a pang of remorse for leaving such a mundane task up to Arthur.

His uncle dropped his car keys on the side table and made his way into the kitchen, sorting through the bags as Alfred listened to his movements. "And I told you I'd manage on my own."

"I can pick Zoey up from school. I'll take the bus if you don't want me driving the car."

It was more of a statement than a suggestion, but Arthur became riled up just the same. "I can take care of it. You should relax on your day-off."

"Look who's talking," Alfred countered, finally flinging himself up and into a standing position. He toed his way over to the pantry in the kitchen, helping to unload the cartons of milk Arthur had purchased. They were organic, and, for some reason, the discovery seemed very Arthur-esque to him. "Besides, I could use the walk."

"Take the car then. I don't mind."

"No, it's not mine, so it'll feel weird if I drive it."

Arthur sighed but didn't press the issue further. Alfred wondered if the man was getting sick of his near constant presence. "Do whatever you like."

He'd been placing the cartons in the fridge when a thought struck him with brutal force, horrible and menacing as it hung over his shoulders. "Is this what things are going to be like from now on?"

"Like what?" Arthur mumbled, one eyebrow quirked as he set the kettle on the stove for tea. "You have to rid yourself of this habit of asking cryptic questions."

"How long am I going to stay here, Arthur?"

"We've gone through this before—as long as we determine to be fit. Don't feel the need to rush into things."

He closed the door of the fridge and leaned back against the sink with a geyser of worry in his stomach. "I can't do this to you… I can't just invade your life with my problems."

"It's not an invasion," Arthur insisted, retrieving his favorite mug from the cupboard. "I invited you here."

Alfred shook his head and prepared to lay out his objections, tapping a restless foot on the floor as he did so. There was so much he wanted to say, and such a little capacity for him to say it. "I had my life turned upside down too. I know what it's like, so don't tell me it isn't bothering you. I had dreams for the future, Arthur. I wanted to work with kids and move out west, where everything seemed less hurried and urgent. I hung out with friends every day and met plenty of girls—I didn't have any sense of responsibility whatsoever."

"You don't have to—"

"Wait. Let me finish," he beseeched, holding up a hand to interject. "I was just twenty when Zoey ended up with me, so I was essentially a kid myself. I didn't know what I was doing—I mean, I was never father-material—but I had to figure things out because no one else was around. Mom hung around for a few years, but she just couldn't deal with it after a while. She didn't want to take care of a little girl at her age, especially a girl that looked so much like Mattie."

"Basically, everything I'd ever considered becoming burst into flames. I needed a practical career, so I studied nursing, but I didn't think it'd be my job forever, you know? I guess I expected more. I thought I'd be able to break free someday and go back to all of the things I once wanted, but I was busy raising Zoey, and she was obviously a higher priority of mine."

"And now," Alfred continued, pausing for a few seconds to make sure the words came out the way he wanted them to. "Now I'm lucky enough to be out of my shitty apartment, and I have a stable job. I should be happy, right? Things are looking up, and Zoey's finally met someone from her extended family that isn't a screw-up. Despite all those things, I can't help but think if I stay in this house, then this will be the end of the line. I'll just grow old and wait for Zoey to be independent and that'll be it. That'll be the life of Alfred Kirk—'Jones'—in a nutshell," he corrected as a crushing bleakness climbed onto his back.

The uneasiness on Arthur's face was candid, and it made his eyes shimmer with an untold agony. "I can't promise things will get better, but I can assure you that staying here is a better option than being left to foster Zoey on your own. I don't know if there's more to this, Alfred. I don't know if maybe all of our efforts are for naught, but all we can do is try."

"Okay," he mouthed, too unfit to say anything more substantial. "You're right… This is good. It's what Zoey needs—a family."

They settled into a comfortable silence, and the tea had brewed by the time Arthur brought up the million-dollar question.

"Have you met with Braginsky since that first meeting?"

Alfred considered lying, but it would've been difficult to hide his tracks. "No."

"Why not?"

"I don't think talking to him is going to do me any good. My problems are my problems for a reason, and I'll get through them."

Arthur scoffed and tasted his tea with a careful sip. "Don't be an idiot. He's very experienced, and he'll be able to find ways for you to deal with everything that's happened over the past few years."

"I don't need to deal."

"I can't force you to meet with him, but I implore you to reconsider."

"I will."

Commitments were never his strong suit, it seemed.

-Six years later-

A knock on the door was all it took to elicit a resounding groan of desolate heartache. Zoey wedged her face further between her pillows, willing the sun to set over the horizon again so that she could catch up on sleep. It was convoluted, she thought, how twenty-four hours ago she'd been so excited about this day that she could hardly fall asleep, but now, she would gladly crawl back under the covers for another year.

"Come on, Zo. You've got a big day ahead of you. Four years of adolescent melodrama await! Isn't that great?"

"Leave me alone. Who needs school? I'll freelance."

Alfred chuckled at that and allowed himself into the bedroom, clad in his cut-and-dried scrubs once again. He stopped at the end of the bed, toying with the edge of Zoey's comforter. "Aren't you looking forward to taking the ferry home, now? You won't have to wait around after class for Arthur and me to pick you up anymore. Don't you see I'm giving you freedom? Go, and be free at last."

"Lock me up, please."

"Come on, Grandma. Up and at'em!" He gave a tug at her foot, earning another squawk of disdain and a haphazard kick in the abdomen from the teen. "I'd hate to be the one to tell Arthur we're going to be late because someone couldn't get their butt out of bed."

"I'm coming! Just give me another minute!"

"I'll be waiting downstairs."

"Uh-huh."

"And remember, school's mandatory until you're sixteen, you truant!"

Zoey let a grin overtake her face of its own accord, unable to explain the happiness in her chest at the realization that Alfred actually sounded chipper again. He had distanced himself somewhat for longer than she cared to recall—or maybe it was she who had distanced herself. Either way, they had both struggled to fit in with the passing times. So, she couldn't find the heart to hold it against him.

She twisted herself out from under the covers and bounded across the room to prepare, darting between her bedroom and the bathroom multiple times before deeming herself presentable. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and whizzed down the stairs, giddy with anticipation.

So giddy, in fact, that she collided with Arthur at the base of the stairs.

"Sorry!"

She expected the man to laugh at her clumsiness, but he seemed too troubled to manage it.

"Oh, that's all right," he said, eyes narrowed and forehead creased with what looked to be frustration. He gazed up at the landing where Alfred had made his own appearance, disappointment clear in his features.

Hating to be left unaware, Zoey tried to decipher what Alfred had done to anger the other this time. "Is something wrong?"

"It's nothing, dear. I just remembered I forgot to check in on something at work," Arthur assured, though he didn't sound convincing in the least. His eyes lingered on Alfred's form, stern and rattled. Finally, he laid a gentle hand on Zoey's shoulder and strained a smile. "Breakfast is on the table."

She nodded her head and made her way for the kitchen, but stopped in her tracks when Alfred suddenly gave off a startled gasp.

"WAIT, ONE SECOND!"

She jumped in bewilderment, snapping her attention to her caretaker. "What?"

"Are you wearing eyeliner?" he asked, gawking at the sight and leaning over the banister for a closer look. "When did you learn to do that?"

Turning scarlet with embarrassment, Zoey regretted not faking sick to stay in bed. "Yeah... I taught myself."

"Where'd you get the makeup?

She shuffled her feet at the question, feeling small and foolish for making such an effort to look mature, only to be criticized. She was sure Alfred wouldn't be pleased if he found out how she'd gotten her hands on the beauty supplies, and she glanced at Arthur with her final shreds of hope, silently pleading with him to explain.

Clearing his throat in discomfort, Arthur carefully treaded over dangerous waters. "I gave Zoey the money to pick out the makeup after she mentioned that she wanted to give it a try," he admitted, pursing his lips. "I don't see the problem, Alfred. She's a growing girl who wants to experiment with new things."

"No, that's not the problem," Alfred affirmed, descending the stairs to be face to face with Arthur. "I just don't understand why she couldn't come to me about this."

Zoey clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels. Breakfast would be served cold today. "I thought you would laugh, and you did."

Alfred frowned at the accusation, feeling his resentment toward Arthur take the backseat. "Honey, I was only joking. You look beautiful, and you know you can always come to me whenever there's a problem."

"No, I can't. You're never here most nights anymore."

The remark brought an awful stillness with it, and no one dared to move or speak for a long moment before Alfred could find the voice to respond.

"You know I have lots of errands to run when I get home from work."

"Oh, yeah? What kind of errands? Last time I checked, going out for a few beers wasn't exactly a chore."

"Zoey!"

As Alfred felt his own face begin to flush, Arthur decided it was a good time to intervene and walked with Zoey to the kitchen, leaving the younger man behind. The two shared their breakfast in silence, unsurprised to find that Alfred chose not to join them as he hid away somewhere in the house instead.

"Is that why you were angry before?" Zoey questioned when they were sure Alfred was nowhere within earshot. "Because he was out again last night?"

Arthur wrestled with a sigh and indulged in some toast. "I'm upset with Alfred for a multitude of reasons that I'd rather not discuss."

"What are we going to do? Something's bothering him, and I only want him to be happy again," Zoey said, pouring a heap of maple syrup over her pancakes.

"I'll take care of it. You just worry about your schoolwork." Arthur shed a smirk as he tore the bottle of maple syrup away from the teen. "That's more than enough. You'll be taking a lovely trip to the dentist if you keep consuming so much sugar."

Zoey feigned irritation and huffed. "Pancakes need tons of maple syrup—it's what they were invented for."

"We'll see what you think when you're left with dentures for teeth. Now, if you're done, we'll be on our way."

The ride in the car was laborious as every spoken word was carefully calculated and shaped to make sure it wasn't inflammatory in any way. The heavy silence was so stifling that Zoey had to crack open a window, listening to the rush of the wind as it pressed up against her face and ruffled her hair. Adults could be so childish.

They were a few blocks from the school when she made an awkward request. "Can you guys drop me off on the corner?"

"Of course," Arthur obliged, understanding Zoey's concerns at once. He didn't take personal offense to the matter, remembering how humiliated he'd been as a teenager to be seen with anyone remotely related to him. "Do you know where to go?"

"Uncle Arthur, I'm fourteen! I'll figure it out."

Both Arthur and Alfred muffled their scoffs at that, exchanging knowing looks. It was a shame children had to grow up so fast. They barely had a moment to enjoy their short-lived youth.

"We worry about you, poppet."

They stopped at the aforementioned corner, and it took all of Alfred's willpower to keep him from walking around the car to plant a kiss on Zoey's head and smooth her hair back. She claimed to be too old for such ministrations now, and Alfred mourned over the lack of affection. He hoped she'd learn to appreciate such comforts because when life began doling out problems, sometimes a hug was a necessity to keep one's sanity.

"Have a good day at school, Zoey-bug. Don't get detention on the first day," Alfred cautioned with a toothy grin and a wink. "I know you have rebellious tendencies, but you have to learn to control those hormones."

"Alfred," Zoey whined, undoing her seatbelt and pushing open the car door. "You're so cheesy."

She grabbed her bag and hopped out of the SUV, casting a final glance at her uncles with a nervous smile. Then, she spun on her heel and turned in the opposite direction to embark upon the next milestone of her life.

"Zoey!" she heard Arthur call from behind in a bit of a panicked tone.

"Yeah?"

"Be yourself, love."

"I will."

She learned to break her promises from the best.

"Well, we have lunch and French together, so that's something."

"Yeah, but I still won't see you for most of the day."

"You'll make it through," Michelle encouraged as they entered the massive cafeteria and searched for an empty table among the crowds of students. "Besides, did you notice who our French teacher is?"

Glancing down at her program as they jostled their way through the cluster of people, Zoey felt her jaw drop in disbelief. "You're kidding me? Please tell me this paper doesn't say 'Mr. Bonnefoy'."

Tossing her head back with an ecstatic laugh, Michelle could hardly contain her delight. "Well, there are only six French teachers, so we had a pretty good chance of getting him. Don't worry, it'll be an easy A."

"But he knows my uncle," Zoey groaned, shoving her program back into the pocket of her jeans. "Do you know how creepy it'll be if he updates him on how I'm doing in class?"

"He wouldn't do that."

"He might."

The entire morning had been full of a stark contrast in emotions. From the minute she'd walked through the main entrance of the school, Zoey knew she was in for a few weeks of hell in terms of transitioning to the new environment. The high school was much larger than she'd expected it to be, and having come from prior schools that had been miniscule in comparison, she felt lost among the sea of students. At times she couldn't tell the difference between some of the older teens and teachers because the age gap between them seemed nonexistent.

She'd already gotten lost twice while traveling between three of her classes, and, to add insult to injury, she'd also walked into the wrong room during second period, leaving her horrified and terribly ashamed. Thankfully, she'd found Michelle on her way to the cafeteria, and the familiar face was just what she needed to calm her nerves.

"Hey, freshmen!"

"Don't turn around. Keep walking," Michelle muttered as they meandered onward, unable to find a table to retreat to.

However, ignoring the person shouting behind them became quite difficult after a while, especially when said person wrapped his arms around the two girls and forced them into a halt.

"Where are you guys running off to?"

"Go away, Gilbert!" Michelle demanded, tearing the boy's arm away to direct a glare at him. "If you're going to be obnoxious, then don't bother talking to us."

Gilbert snickered, succeeding in angering the girls further. "Oh, feisty. I went through all the trouble of getting a program change so I could have fourth period lunch with you guys only for you to brush me off?"

Zoey rolled her eyes at the sophomore boy whom she'd grown to call a close friend over the years. "We're touched, Gil. Honestly…"

"I knew my little Zoey would be happy to see me," he mocked, encasing the girl in a tight hug and taking the opportunity to mess up her hair. "And she's looking sassy with that makeup today. It's a nice touch."

"I'm flattered."

"Hey, there's no need for the sarcasm, darling."

"I'm not your darling."

"Whatever you say," Gilbert beamed, carding a hand through his own hair. He had grown it out over the summer, and it left him with a shaggy and rugged poise. "If you guys need any advice on surviving freshman year, you can come to ol' Gil for some tips. First things first, though, let's fight for a table before it's too late."

In the end, they had no choice but to sit with Gilbert and a few of his older friends, many of whom found pleasure in belittling the girls for being younger. The two did their best not to pay it any mind, and it was bearable when they started up their own conversation and ignored the others. However, they were both too anxious to have an appetite, so they forewent a proper lunch and made their way for their fifth period class, which conveniently happened to be French.

"Sorry about those guys. They were just playing around," Gilbert had said when the three of them were alone in the hallway. He had taken up the task of escorting the two to class under the pretense of making sure they didn't lose their way.

Zoey shrugged her shoulders and adjusted her backpack on her shoulder. "Whatever…"

"So, you have Bonnefoy next? I had him last year. He was always bugging me about not bringing in the homework. It's only worth like twenty percent of your grade, but he always made a big deal over it. Something about, 'you won't learn the language unless you practice it', but who ever really learns the language they're taught in high school. I'll tell you—nobody."

Upon hearing such complaints against her father, Michelle immediately jumped to his defense. "He cares about his students, all right? And you can't say that about most of the teachers in the foreign language department."

"You don't need to get so insulted," Gilbert appeased just as the bell rung. He flashed Zoey a lopsided smile and cocked his head in thought. "I have geometry now, but I'll see you around, I guess."

When he traipsed away to his next class, Michelle sighed and rested her head on Zoey's shoulder in distress. "He's enchanted by you, and it's so sad that it's actually becoming cute."

"Who? Gilbert? Are you crazy?" Zoey murmured, pulling her shoulder out of reach. "I think your dad put something in your cereal this morning."

Michelle merely let out a fit of giggles as they entered their class. They made sure to sit in the very back row, side-by-side as Francis looked to them with an expression of pleasant surprise. Somehow, they all seemed to know that they'd be spending quite a bit of extra time in this room with one another. Being a cozy setting, the room nurtured a welcoming air, and Zoey could feel her enthusiasm growing at the prospect of having at least one class she could call her safe-haven.

"Good afternoon, everyone. Bonjour," Francis began as the late bell rang. He absentmindedly procured a stack of handouts, making sure each student received a paper. The document listed a description of the curriculum and its requirements. "I know what you're all thinking—how are you ever going to learn another language, and why is this a mandatory course? Also, when does this period end?"

A few chuckles flooded through the respectful silence, breaking the worst of the ice.

"Well, it certainly won't be easy, but if you apply yourself and practice each day, I can guarantee you'll all be able to have a conversation in French at the end of the term. What you'll get out of this class depends on what you'll put into it, non? Learning another language is a valuable tool, and in a world where everyone is so interconnected, it's becoming more and more useful to be bilingual. The average American doesn't speak two languages, but we're going to overturn that statistic."

Zoey found herself smiling back at Francis as he gave her a supportive look. She wasn't sure what had given him the hint that she was going through a hard time, but whatever it was, he latched onto it at once and offered her consolation with the power of a single glance.

"And with that, let's have a great year."