A/N: New day, new chapter. Sam's struggling with finding things to do.

I really can't believe the responses you have been giving me to this story! I never expected this, and I find it quite incredible! Thank you all so much for reading and alerting and favoriting and reviewing!

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Disclaimer: I do not own Rookie Blue, this is purely written for my own, and hopefully other's enjoyment.

CHAPTER 9

It was killing him.

Waking up every day to the same deafening silence. Not knowing how the people he cared for were doing, if they were okay, if they needed his help, needed him to protect them.

The last 4 weeks had gone by unbelievably slowly. There was nothing there. No TV, no books, nothing but trees, water and the stupid fishing cabin he was staying in.

When Boyd had called again to update him, the previous week, Sam had asked him to send up some magazines as well as food and more booze. He needed something to do other than stare out at the lake while being haunted by his past, his failings, and thoughts of Andy.

Boyd had sent him adult magazines.

It wasn't that Sam didn't appreciate a good looking woman. But that kind of magazine wasn't exactly what he had had in mind when he'd asked for them. He had wanted more substantial reading. And so the magazines had ended up next to the fireplace to be used as tinder.

The weather was turning colder and, as this fishing cabin apparently was mostly used in the summer, it was poorly insulated.

Boyd's naughty magazines really did come in handy.

Sam had yet to get out of the cabin further than the 50 yards down to the lake ever since his first attempt at canvasing the area, and now that the weather was turning, there was no likelihood of him going outside at all.

He had found some outerwear in one of the closets, but as he had no idea who owned the cabin, he wasn't about to start wearing their clothes either.

At least the crackling fire made enough noise too keep the silence somewhat at bay. And, to his disbelief, Sam actually enjoyed sitting in front of the fireplace, feeling its warmth pour over him in waves.

It had taken him quite some time to get the first fire up and going. He had thought that it would be easy, just stacking some logs on top of some paper and setting it on fire.

On his first try he hadn't even been able to get the paper to burn properly.

His second try left the cabin filled up with smoke, and he had quickly figured out that he had to open the valve to the chimney after that.

On his third try, the paper did catch fire properly, and the logs seemed to start burning, but the fire had been out in a matter of minutes.

He had remembered seeing people blow on their campfires in the movies and had decided to try this accompanied by the removal of some of the logs to let the fire have more air.

Half an hour and a bunch of failed attempts later, his face and hands had been black with soot, but he had finally managed to get a steady fire going.

As he cleaned himself off, the only thought in his mind had been that he couldn't wait to show McNally that he could do outdoorsy camping stuff, and that he couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he'd show her.

Then he had remembered that he was stuck in a cabin, in a place he didn't know, far away from her.

And that she thought he was dead.

This had brought a serious damper to the caveman-like pride he had felt at being able to make fire. And he had gone back into the living area and moved the couch so that it was facing the fire place before sitting down to stare at the flames through the glass door. Which was what he was now doing, relaxing in the heat radiating from the flames while watching them lick the wood and slowly turn it into charcoal.

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep. Nor did he know how long he had slept. But when he woke up, the fire was out, and the room was cold and dark.

It was quiet again.

He just sat there, listening to his own breathing while staring at the burnt out logs in the fireplace.

He wondered what it would feel like to burn. To have your skin slowly melt, how painful it must feel, the heat. And then to survive? Your skin all stiff, black, and charred, like those logs behind the glass.

The thought made him shudder.

To get his mind off it he turned to look out the window at the darkness of the skies, the trees and the water. Everything looked like it was the same color, and it left him with a hollow feeling of emptiness.

He was in no mood to try and get another fire going, and because he had just spent hours asleep on the couch, there wouldn't be any use to try to go to bed either.

He really did hate fishing cabins.

He had been to one once before. It was a long time ago now, but he had been to a fishing cabin. At the right time of year even, for a long weekend one summer. He must have been about eleven.

There had been this one boy in his class at school, Pete. He had been the only kid that Sam had felt the slightest connection to. They both weren't too keen on the talking game and Sam had felt like Pete understood him on a level the other kids didn't. Pete knew when to joke around and when to stay quiet and most importantly; he knew how to mind his own business.

The other boys at school had always asked him why. Why his mother never picked him up, why he was always alone, why he always brought lunch from home to eat at school, why his mom didn't make him lunch at home, why, why, why?

Though Sam always had some clever response or diversion for these questions, it was liberating not having to break them out with Pete. Sam had thought that the reason for this was that Pete really knew what was going on, and therefore didn't need to ask.

One day in the school yard as they watched the other boys play basketball during recess, Pete had turned to Sam and asked him if he had ever been to a fishing cabin.

Sam had never even heard of fishing cabins before, but he feigned knowledge, saying nonchalantly that he hadn't really bothered going any of the times he had been offered to come.

Then Pete had asked him if he'd like to come to their cabin for the first weekend of summer holidays.

Sam had gotten excited thinking about how neat it would be to see if his theory, of Pete's family life being like his own, panned out. He had kept his composure and told Pete that he'd need to consult with his parents first, but that he would come back to him.

Sam didn't really need to consult with anyone. Sarah was away, and his mother didn't care one way or the other. She probably wouldn't even notice that he was gone.

He had packed several days in advance and when the day finally came he had been waiting outside their apartment for Pete and his folks to come pick him up.

He wondered if Pete had a dead parent as well, and if so, if his mother or father was as distraught as his own mother. Then he realized that it couldn't be like that. His mother would never take anyone to a fishing cabin, she could never manage. Sam figured that maybe one of Pete's parents was like his mother and the other was normal. There had to at least be one thing that made Pete's life like his own. How else could he understand?

He had felt slightly disappointed when the car pulled up, two smiling parents in the front seat and a smiling Pete in the back.

Sam had plastered a huge smile on his face as Pete's father had gotten out to greet him before taking his bag and putting it in the car.

He had asked if Sam's parents were around, saying that he'd love to meet them.

Sam had lied, as he did just about all the time, telling Pete's father that his parents had left only a matter of minutes before they had pulled up because they had to take his sister somewhere. Pete's dad, Mr. Allen, seemed to accept his explanation as he grabbed Sam's bag and opened the door for him to get into the car.

After a pleasant drive, involving card playing in the back seat with Pete, they arrived at the cabin and Mr. Allen took Pete and Sam to the room with the bunk bed that he and Pete would be sleeping in. Pete called the top bunk, but for Sam it hadn't really mattered. He was just as content with sleeping in the bottom.

That evening, supper had been amazing. Sam had never tasted anything so good in his entire life. Mrs. Allen's cooking was nothing at all like the canned food he was used to making for himself. And so, he had eaten greedily.

It hadn't been on purpose, but the food had just been so amazing that he couldn't help himself. The Allen's didn't seem to mind though, as both Mr. and Mrs. Allen had been smiling at him all through supper asking how such a skinny boy could eat so much food.

After supper, they had all played cards together. Everyone had been smiling and laughing, and Sam had started to wonder if this was how a real family was supposed to be like and that he had been wrong in his first assessment of Pete and why he seemed to understand everything.

That night, as Sam had lain in bed, staring up at the top bunk, he had felt happy. At least he had thought that the feeling he was feeling was happiness. He had a full stomach for the first time since he could remember, he felt like Pete and his parents liked him, that they genuinely enjoyed having him around and spending time with him and for once, he didn't feel in the way.

The next day Mr. Allen had taken him and Pete fishing. Sam had never gone fishing before. He hadn't even seen a live fish in the wild or any other wild animal for that matter, other than the city's stray dogs, cats, and rats of course.

Mr. Allen had shown him what to do and how to do it, and, to Sam's surprise, he had been really good at it. Mr. Allen had even said so. When Sam had caught his fourth fish in a short amount of time, he had ruffled his hair and said: "Good job, buddy!"

If Sam hadn't been happy the night before, he definitely was after their fishing trip.

That evening, supper had been, if possible, even better than the night before. Mrs. Allen had cooked the fish they had caught, and Sam couldn't believe he'd taste anything that good ever again.

As he had lain in bed that evening, he had been confident that Pete's parents were the ideal parents. The ones every family should be modeled after.

"Pete?" He had asked as he laid there with his arms behind his head, staring up at the top bunk.

"Yeah, Sammy?" Pete's sleepy voice had replied.

"Your parents are the best!"

Pete had stayed silent for a long time before speaking again. "Yeah…"

He had sounded hesitant, unconfident, like he didn't believe his own words. Sam knew it was the cue to either change the subject or stay silent, so he closed his eyes, rolled over onto his side, and fell asleep.

The next day Mr. Allen had taken Sam and Pete for a hike through the forest. He'd taught them about the animal's different footprints and dung and how you could track them by using this knowledge. Sam had been ecstatic.

When they had decided to go back, Sam and Pete had challenged each other to a race to see who could get back to the cabin first.

Sam had been in the lead, ducking under branches and hopping over fallen logs expertly. He'd only stopped when he had heard Pete's scream.

He had doubled back to find Pete lying on the forest floor clutching his shin which was sporting quite the gash. Sam had been unable to look away as he stood there, staring at the blood trickling out of the wound and onto the moss covered ground below.

Finnaly snapping out of his mesmerized state, he had called out for Mr. Allen, who came jogging towards them, a worried expression on his face.

The moment he had seen Pete clutching his leg, the worry had given way to annoyance.

Mr. Allen had proceeded to grab Pete's shirt by the collar and yanked him abruptly to his feet. He had then started asking Pete, in a low and overly pleasant voice, with a strained smile, if he had thought that it was a good idea to fall, how on earth he could be so stupid as to trip in the forest, what kind of retard didn't look where he was running and, when he had noticed that the tears were still streaming down Pete's face, if he could stop being such a wuss for five minutes.

Sam had been staring back and forth between the overly pleasant sounding, Mr. Allen, and Pete, whose head hung low, tears still streaming down his face and the blood still trickling from his wound.

When Mr. Allen had started dragging Pete along back towards the cabin, Sam hadn't known what to do other than follow them in silence.

As they approached the front deck, Mrs. Allen had come outside to greet them. She had stared at them as they slowly came closer, Sam in the back with his head hung low behind Pete who was limping along whilehe being dragged by his father.

"See what your idiot of a son did!" Mr. Allen had shouted when they were in earshot.

"Oh, God! Pete!" Mrs. Allen exclaimed as she bounded down the steps towards them. She had pulled Pete out of his father's grasp and held him close to her chest while stroking his hair. "What happened to your leg, baby?"

"He was too stupid to see where he was going." Mr. Allen spat as he stared at the two in disgust.

Sam had wanted to disappear. He had wished that Sarah wasn't sick and had been old enough to drive so she could come get him, that his mother had cared enough to have come for him, but he knew there was no one he could rely on to do that.

And so, he had stood there, watching as Mrs. Allen cradled an, a little bit too big, Pete in her arms, rocking back and forth to get him to stop crying, while Mr. Allen stood over them yelling at her:

"The only reason he's still crying, or was crying at all is because of your babying!"

"Come here, Sam. Let's go inside." Mrs. Allen had said, ignoring her husband's yelling and getting to her feet taking Pete's hand to lead him inside.

Sam had walked a big circle around Mr. Allen, weary of what would happen if he got too close, and headed towards the cabin.

"You don't get to walk away from me!" Mr. Allen had shouted as his wife turned her back on him.

Sam hadn't dared to look back, but had walked as quickly and quietly as he could towards the cabin.

"Do you hear me! You don't get to walk away from me!"

When he had reached the cabin, Sam finally dared to turn and look back. He had seen Pete vigorously shaking his head as his mother urged him to continue ahead up to the cabin. She had put her hands on his cheeks and told him everything would be okay, that he should go play with Sam, and that she'd come inside in a little while. Pete had nodded sadly and turned around to limp towards Sam and the cabin.

They had just closed the door when they heard her piercing scream and what sounded like, and Sam had known that it was, someone getting beaten.

He had looked over at Pete, who had been standing with his hands covering his ears, eyes closed, rocking back and forth.

Sam had felt like he needed to do something; to help his friend, to help Mrs. Allen.

Another scream had sounded from outside, making him look at the door. It had been louder than the previous one.

Sam had looked back at Pete. He was shaking. Sam had to do something. He couldn't just stand there and let this happen. His friend shouldn't have to feel like that. No one should have to feel like that.

And so he decided.

He'd swung open the door, clenched his fists and stepped out onto the porch...

Back then he'd learnt to trust his gut, no matter what. He had also learnt that secrets always came out some way, and that they usually never came out the way you want them to. He'd later developed his own adage; 'Secrets don't come out all neat and tidy'

He'd told her that.

Back when they'd worked that amber alert.

Back when he was mad at her for going to Callaghan's cabin.

Why was his mind so stuck on those stupid fishing cabins?