Disclaimer: I own no rights to Bridge to Terabithia, the character names, or Leslie's essay, Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, which was copied directly from the film. I do, however, claim ownership of Atticus and Covalent.


Chapter 29:

In the Darkness


Underneath the surface of the water was not what Joyce Ann would've expected. It was...beautiful, in a peculiar sort of way. The water itself was inky black, deeper than night itself. But the sun shone brightly, penetrating many layers of the liquid and sparkling down on Joyce like some sort of beautiful star. Her breathing was soft, light and easy, little bubbles flying up and tickling her nose. The scene reminded her of a story her brother had told her once during a thunderstorm to help her get back to sleep.

"I am moving gently forward, over the wild, beautiful unexplored world below. I am floating in silence, and breaking it up with the sounds of my breath. I'm diving, I am a scuba diver. Above me, there is nothing but shimmery light, the place where I have come from, and will go back to when I am done here. I'm going deeper, past wrinkled rocks and dark seaweed. towards a deep blueness, where a school of silver fish wave at me. As I swim through the water, bubbles burst from me, wobbling like little jellyfish as they rise. I check my air. I don't have as much time as I need to see everything. But that is what makes it so special."

The story was so pretty, it seemed like a lullaby. The voice telling it morphed from a memory of Jess to another voice, a feminine one. It was soft, soothing, rhythmic and calm, maternal sounding. Though, it wasn't a woman's voice. It was a girl's, an older girl's, younger than Brenda but not as young as May Belle. The story rolled off her tongue easily, like it had been her voice that had told the story first.

"Above me...there is nothing but shimmery light..."

The voice became softer, it was fading away. Joyce Ann felt a pang of longing. She wanted it to come back! She trusted the voice, she felt safe with the girl speaking.

"You want to meet the girl behind the voice, Joyce Aarons?" This voice was different. It was a man's, light and airy, but seething with malice and danger. "She's a very sweet girl. Leslie, that's her name. Leslie Burke. She was very good friends with your brother, once upon a time. You were just a baby when she died, and your pathetic, broken hearted brother is too weak to tell you about her. Because, you know what? He loved her. Loved her more than anything in the world. But, sadly for Jess and his beloved Leslie, he was too naive and scared to tell her. He chose a music teacher over her, and she died because of that choice. Sad, sad, sad isn't it?"

Joyce Ann was scared. The man's voice seemed to pull all the air from her lungs and drag her further away from the sun's magical light. She squirmed desperately, trying to move towards the water's surface. Her clothes weighed her down, exausting her.

"Now, now..." The man's voice laughed easily, like a father laughing at his young child doing something sweet and funny. "No need to run away. After all, I need you, and Miss Leslie will be so upset if you don't come. I don't want to hurt you before I have to, because then your little soul won't be as useful to me as it can be. And we wouldn't want that, now would we? Of course not. I'm very glad you see it my way, Joyce, so glad. Now, quit your struggling. I don't work for my souls. The souls work for me. Oh, don't worry. You'll understand once we get to Covalent. What's Covalent? Well, as far as you need to know, it's your home for the rest of eternity...


"I can't believe they took Joycie!" The blonde girl huddled in the corner of the cell, crying into her knees.

The elderly man sat awkwardly beside her, stroking the long, tangled locks and trying his best to comfort a younger version of his only child, one whom he had assumed had been thoroughly destroyed by the monsters that now held him captive. However, upon further investigation and some in-depth conversation with Leslie, William Burke--or at least, the elderly, dead and alternate version of Bill Burke--had discovered that his assumption was most incorrect.

"Shh, honey...don't cry..." He tried to comfort her, but his soft words only seemed to make her cry harder. "Shh, Leslie...shh...they'll hear you, honey, no more tears, shh now...it's okay..."

Leslie's head snapped up, flinging back her hair and revealing her red-rimmed, teary blue-green eyes. Despite the obvious despair in them, her eyes were alight, something Bill hadn't seen in a while.

"No, it is not okay! They've got Joyce Ann Aarons, Jess's little sister! She's just a baby, she didn't do anything!" At this Leslie began crying again, though her sobs were softer than before.

"I know," He began rubbing her back in slow, rhythmic circles, trying to calm her. It didn't seem to change anything. "I know. It isn't fair. But that's exactly why Atticus and his goons are doing it. If they can get a host, hurt the girl, hurt her family, and on top of it, hurt you, someone they've already got captive, well...to them, it's like they just won the lottery. They're evil, Leslie, too evil even for the devil himself. That's why they're here. This is a prison for them, to keep them in line..."

"If this is a prison, why can Atticus get out? Why is he building his army so that he can slowly dominate the world? Why did I die? Why is that Samantha girl here at all, and in so much pain? Why is little Joycie's soul about ready to be removed from her body...why is Jess so upset...?" The sobs took over again, and she put her head back onto her knees, allowing her hair to create a curtain around her face.

Bill sighed and looked at her sadly. The long, willowy figure of her body was bony and thin, weak with hunger and the never-healing injuries. The skin around her face was gaunt and stretched, eyes sitting a bit deeper in her head than they were supposed to, deep purple-and-black circles surrounding them. A tattered dress made of old bed sheets clung to her in a sad, dirty state, and her pale blonde hair hung in soiled, knotted and oily locks. Cuts and bruises covered her arms and feet, and a large, dark pink cut was barely scabbing over on her neck.

He looked for a long while at the bruises and the faint scar across her forehead that would peak out from time to time. Those injuries were the aftermath of her death three years prior. Leslie could not remember anything about the day of her death, only the day before and after. The day before it had been described in great detail, how wonderful it had been, and the confusions that came at the end, ones she could not fully comprehend, not even after three years. Bill, however, understood its meaning. Jesse staring after her in the rain was only the beginning of his daughter's story, or so he had thought. The world he had known was much different from the one the now emotionally distraught Leslie had lived in. His world was brighter, happier, for both himself and his family, Judy and Leslie included. He had never imagined that in some other world, he had outlived his only child.

Bill had arrived in Covalent shortly after his death. The guards had put him in the same cell with Leslie, because their last names were the same. Kinship was never suspected, or even pondered, by the guards as well as father and daughter themselves, mainly because the family resemblance had faded so much over time. When Bill first arrived, they hadn't even known each other's names. Leslie was terrified by him, and whenever he spoke to her she would give a little jump and look at him, eyes like a deer in headlights. After a few weeks he gave up trying to converse with her, as he was concerned that any unnecessary fear might push her right over the edge. There was little to do in Covalent when one was not on duty, so most of the time was spent lying in their bunks, pondering their odd half lives and wondering when and how they might come to an end. When he first arrived Bill did not see much of Leslie during the day, as she had worked as a maid for the head demon, Atticus. She would follow him around and did as he pleased, completing whatever infinitesimal task he asked her to. It was through her quiet work that she learned more about Atticus and his plans.

Leslie's death had not been an accident. It had been executed by Atticus himself as a test to see if he could successfully carry another person with him back to Covalent. The test had been a success and shortly after her revival from unconciousness she had been placed in a cell and more or less been forgotten. She had not been stripped from her mortal body, as many soon would be, and despite its many injuries and imperfections, she somehow managed to survive. Sometimes she would sit and listen to Atticus speak to himself or his assistant, and begin to piece together the puzzle he had laid out.

It became clear that once Atticus had been a wicked and awful man. It was estimated that he had lived sometime during the seventh or eighth century, around the time of Homer. A merciless murderer and cunning charlatan, he would deceive people into doing his bidding, most often doing away with them when he got what was needed from them, as to not soil his scheme. Atticus died in a battle near the foot of Mount Olympus, leaving behind the impression that he was an honorable man and fearless contender. His soul was found by Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus and goddess of love and beauty. Zeus had wanted nothing to do with him, but Aphrodite pleaded with her father, believing his heart could be molded into one of kindness with the help of her gentle nature and physical beauty. Against his better judgment, Zeus complied with his daughter's desire, and allowed Atticus's soul to be brought to the immortal's peak. For a while, it had seemed that Aphrodite's affections really had changed him for the better. He doted upon the beauty, and treated everyone else with kindness and respect. But all the while, an evil plan began to form in his mind. He began to learn everything he could about magic and immortals, crafting his plot as he gained new knowledge. Decades passed, and at last Atticus's plan was to be executed.

He concocted a plan to rid the world of all the glorious immortals, leaving himself in charge of all the humans below Olympus. Day by day he worked, slowly slaying everyone, even Aphrodite. The only ones that survived his destruction were Zeus and his daughter Athena, who fled from Greece after his plan killed their family, as they were afraid of being harmed. All contact with mortals stopped, and eventually the great Gods became those of legends, the true Lord's helpers became nothing more than fairy tales.

Before fleeing from Greece Zeus made sure to do away with the evil man whom had harmed his brothers and sisters and children. He created a place hidden away from the world and cast a spell on it to keep Atticus locked away forever. He stripped his body of all the glorious immortal beauty and allowed his body to take on the appearance of his soul.

His figure was tall and thin, nothing left for hands except exposed bony fingers with long, claw-like grey nails. He was swathed in tattered black robes that hung disgracefully around his skeleton, the moth eaten holes in the fabric revealing nothing but the smelly, inky black smoke that were his remains. He had no definite face; what was left of his head—nothing but more smoke—was covered in a hood attached to his robes. His voice seemed to come from a place under his eyes, the sparkling blood red irises that glimmered with malevolence, bubbling maliciously like a volcano ready to erupt. His voice was aged and wispy, broken like a worn piece of paper that crumbles when you touch it. Despite its frail sounds it could still be angry and commanding, a noise that made anyone flinch in terrible anticipation of the pain that would most surely follow.

Leslie stopped working as Atticus's assistant shortly after Bill arrived. She was then assigned a new job, as a Filer. There was only one Filer, someone who worked in the room of the Aura. No one except the current Filer truly understood what the Aura was, something that all the other demons and captives at Covalent were happy about. Because it seemed that whoever became a Filer slowly lost their minds, dreaming terrible dreams and imagining great physical pain that was not really there. Leslie was no exception, Bill began to notice. She would come back even more terrified and distracted than usual, squeaking pitifully to herself before curling up on her bunk with her back to the cell door and not uttering another word until she fell asleep. It was after she fell asleep that the dreams and the sleep talking that accompanied them began.

In her sleep she would whimper, begging someone for forgiveness. Sometimes she would scream out in anguish, thrashing around under the thin, moth devoured bed covers, sweating profusely. Her mouth would soon become dry after her screaming fits, and the noises would reduce to being nothing more than a detached squeal in the back of her throat as she tossed and withered feverishly until she woke the next morning. But most often she would cry, simple, almost silent, but never ceasing, a heart broken sound that made Bill want to run to the strange sad little girl and protect her as he had not done to his own daughter.

"I'm sorry!" She would whisper sometimes, in between sobs. "I'm sorry, don't hurt him anymore!"

Then, after a while, she began to change. She seemed almost sadder than she had before, but she slept more soundly that she had been, the only words spoken in her times of dozing being indiscernible. Sometimes she would clutch her pillow in longing, trying desperately to shelter the thin form from everything. The pillow would soon fly from her grasp in an angry rage, soaring across the cell and landing with a light thump in some distant corner. She would then cry, steadily and strong, as if she were awake, then quickly falling into a silent and undisturbed sleep.

Bill would lie quietly on the bunk above hers, ear pressed to the thin mattress, listening to her even breathing and waiting for an upset. Sometimes he would climb down from his bed and try to make her more comfortable: sliding her thin body into the center of the bunk, unwinding her pale skeletal legs from the blanket and turning the sweaty side up towards the ceiling, laying the pale grey material over her skinny figure and watching the fabric cling to the malnourished curves of her body. He would pick up the pillow way across the cell and lay it under her head, spreading the dirty, knotted white blonde locks over it. At last he would climb back up the rusty ladder to his own bunk and wait patiently for her to mangle herself again.

She started to talk to him, too. After a while she finally broke, saying that she needed to tell someone about her nightmares.

He said: "Of course I would be happy to listen to your troubles Miss…"

"Leslie." She said. "My name is, or was, Leslie."

This had surprised Bill a great deal. "Leslie? My daughter's name was Leslie. I'm Bill."

"Bill was my father's name." Leslie had replied, shocked too. "What was your Leslie like?"

"She was…she was unique, my Leslie. Very bright, and pretty, like you. You two look a lot alike, you know. It's puzzling, really. Why, if she wasn't thirty, I'd say you two were long lost twins!"

The young Leslie's face had gone rather pale, and for a moment Bill was concerned.

"Perhaps you'd like to tell me about your dreams now…?" He had asked tentatively.

"No." She had told him rather abruptly. "Tell me more about your Leslie. I think…I think it might help my bad dreams."

"Very well. May I sit?" He had asked, gesturing to the empty space beside her on her bunk bed.

All she had done was nod, watching him with the queerest expression in her eyes. He settled himself on the bed and began talking.

"Leslie didn't have many friends when she was younger. She was very bright, as I said before, and I think some of the students felt intimidated and jealous. All the teachers loved her, whenever my wife and I would go to parent-teacher conferences her teachers would go on and on about how brilliant she was academically and physically. She excelled in writing and history, and she ran like the wind. She was a sweet girl, kind and friendly. She wanted to make a good friend more than anything…"

"But she never could. No matter what she did, she never could." The young Leslie had murmured, more to herself than anyone.

"Yes." Bill had agreed, rather dumbfounded by the strangely quiet girl by his side. "Leslie tried hard as anything to make a friend, but she just couldn't. The girls teased her; they called her a bookworm and a teacher's pet. I suppose us moving around all the time didn't help…see, Judy—my wife—and I were full time authors during Leslie's youth. We both loved travel, and moving helped us see new people and places, which was good for us as writers. Les was in her early elementary school years when we moved all the time, so we figured it was easy for her to adjust and make new friends. It wasn't until her fourth grade teacher…"

"Mrs. Calloway." The young Leslie had whispered, so quietly that Bill had been certain he was being paranoid and was making himself hear things.

"Her fourth grade teacher Mrs. Calloway," He had continued, trying to keep the tremors out of his voice. "Informed us how lonely and sad she was all the time. She never interacted with anyone, during recess she stayed in class and talked to Mrs. Calloway—who had studied English in college—about Shakespeare. She ate lunch on the sink in the girl's bathroom…she must have been desperate, to eat in a public school restroom…" He had trailed off for a moment, obviously lost in memories and guilt. A few minutes later he had begun speaking again.

"Her mother and I felt tremendously guilty. That summer we looked into finding a more permanent residence away from the hustle and bustle of the city. About mid-August—just before her fifth grade year started—we found an old fixer-upper farm house in a little town called Lark Creek, about an hour away from Roanoke in Virginia. We hoped that the children in the country had been reared differently, that they'd be more kind to our eccentric literati of a daughter. Unfortunately, not many were. We didn't own a TV, and within the first week the other children found out and began teasing her for it. However, there was one person who was at the very least kind to Leslie…a boy in her class, who was even quieter and more reclusive than she was. She tried to make friends with him the very first day, but he apparently held some minute sort of grudge over her because she beat him in the first-day-of-school foot race. It turned out they lived across the road from our house. Leslie somehow managed to make him talk to her, and after a while they became best friends. They were inseparable all through elementary school and junior high. The first two years of high school were rocky; but by their junior year they managed to straddle their hormones and become friends again."

"Did they stay friends for long?"

"No. They weren't simply friends for much longer after that. Can't say I was surprised, or upset, as most fathers would be. Both of them were seventeen by then, and both Judy and I had been expecting something like this from the first time we saw the two of them interact. The only difference was we expected it sooner!"

"What happened to them?"

"They dated until they were twenty-five and finished with college. Then, Jesse asked Les to marry him…"

"I said yes." The young Leslie had finished quietly, tears brimming in her eyes. "And we moved to a little house in Williamsburg, where I became a writer and Jess became the great art teacher I always knew he would be. We had one little girl, named Samantha, who looks like me except she has dark hair like Jess. You died when Samantha was seven, and then Jess and I died too, and now Samantha is living with Mom in our old house in Lark Creek. But Jess is still alive; he's fourteen, and he's still talking to his mother and sisters, and his Dad won't start smoking and drinking hard for another two years. The only thing that changed is that I died…"

He had stared at her, dumbstruck and terrified, until she had explained.

Her job as a Filer was to monitor and work with the Aura. As a Filer she would select the files, or life records, of certain people still alive on Earth. She would be able to watch what they were thinking and see what they were seeing, and, if she touched the liquid of the Aura, she would be able to communicate to the person with her voice and thoughts. Atticus used the Aura to send other Covalent demons down to Earth for the infiltration he planned. Demons would slowly take the place of humans until the entire planet was filled with them. Leslie had been rather frightened of her job, and had remained frightened, especially when the first person she was assigned to was none other than Jesse Aarons. She had no idea if Atticus understood the friendship the two had shared, and if he did, perhaps using Jess was a test of her compliance and strange loyalty.

But Leslie had no loyalty, to Atticus or to anyone other than her best friend. She chose to secretly defy her commands, communicating slyly with Jess to see how his life was going since her passing. It destroyed her to see that he hadn't appeared to move on; memories of her and their friendship were constantly looming in the back of his mind while in consciousness, and when asleep guilt pounded his dreams like a herd of stampeding elephants. Devastated, she tore herself away from him for a while, moving onto the next file as commanded, this one belonging to someone named Samantha Aarons.

Discovering Samantha was her ultimate downfall. As she watched the little girl she discovered the strange world in which she lived, one so accidental, one so very different from the world she had known. She grew to love and enjoy the child that was in a way her own daughter, pangs of longing reminding her that the brunette girl could never truly exist with her as she was, because she was dead, and while dead there was absolutely no way she could grow up, get married, and give birth to a baby. She began to feel a strange sense of jealousy towards her older alternate self, longing for the recollections of comfort and happiness with both Samantha and Jess. Her feelings of jealousy subsided for a brief moment as she contemplated why marrying her best friend didn't seem utterly repulsive and impossible.

Confused and irritated, she turned back to Samantha's world, only to find that both she and Jesse had died. She didn't know what to make of it; after all, she was already dead. But what did that mean for Jess?

Once more she abandoned the now grief-stricken world of Samantha Aarons and returned to the one to which she had belonged, relieved to find that everyone in Jess's family—naturally including him as well—were alright. Jess, however, was still emotionally detached and lonely, and no longer could Leslie contain herself. She spoke to him, telling him about Samantha and the dangers that would most likely follow.

She would watch the little girl from time to time, listening to her cry and reveling in how much she resembled Jesse on the inside. Nightmares began to plague her: Having a beautiful little baby, only to have her snatched away by a pair of icy claws the second the newly opened blue-green eyes stared Leslie in the face. The infant's vulnerable cries rang in her ears, begging her to help. And yet, she could do nothing. Frozen by shock and overcome by sadness, all she could seem to do was remain in the bed and weep as her innocent little daughter was tortured to death by evil demons with glistening blood red eyes.

Other times, the girl was older. She looked exactly like Samantha did, and every time she was crying.

"My mother didn't love me!" She would sob, reminding Leslie so much of the vulnerable infant girl being physically tormented by the demons. "She didn't love me, she left me all alone!"

Time and time again Leslie would try to put her arms around the girl and comfort her, assuring her that she was her mother, and she most certainly did love her, and she would never willingly leave her. But no matter how she tried, the sad motherless girl would not believe her. She shoved her away, yelling at her.

"You're not my mother! The only one I'll ever let love me is my mother. She's not here, because she doesn't love me, but maybe one day she'll come back and love me."

The nightmares broke her heart, and sometimes at night she would wake Bill and ask him to tell stories about Samantha's world. Being the storyteller he was, he could retell every detail perfectly, and the tales would carry her away from the sadness for a while, comforting her fears until they both crawled back into their beds and Bill's snores began. The darkness of the cell would seem to swallow her heart, and she would lie still, curled in a ball, wondering why the happy recounts were never potent enough to pierce the dark feeling the dreams created.

As Bill watched her cry he remembered, feeling his own heart break at the pain she was showing.

"I can never win," She whispered brokenly, knees knocking together. "All I do is hurt him, over and over and over again!"

"Honey, that's not true…"

"Yes it is…!"

"How is that so, Leslie? How do you keep hurting a boy who loves you so much, that'd he'd willingly take whatever pain he had to just to be near you?"

"That's just it!" She wheezed, looking up at him with her wet eyes. "He shouldn't love me as much as he does. He shouldn't be missing me so much. It's been three years, he should be…"

"Should be what, Leslie? Should be disregarding your friendship, pretending you didn't exist, that it didn't break his heart when you died. Should he be lying to himself every damned day, telling himself that he doesn't look for you at every corner?"

"STOP THAT!" She screamed at him, getting up from the floor by the door where they were sitting and backing across the cell, sinking down on her bed.

"He hasn't done anything." She hissed tearfully through her teeth. "I'm the one at fault. I'm the one who can't let him go, and yet I'm the one who's dead. It's my fault, because I'm selfish. I'm so selfish that I can't seem to bear leaving him alone. I can't seem to bear the thought of him being happy without me, moving on from my death and maybe forgetting that it hurt him as much as it did. If he forgets how much losing me hurt him, maybe he'll find a new best friend, one who he likes more than he liked me, and I won't be important anymore."

After a moment she laughed scornfully. "Look at me. What an idiot I am. Dead, and yet still so unbelievably human."

"Yes, you are." Bill agreed, getting up and slowly walking towards her. "Only because you're being forced to be."

"What do you mean?"

"They chose to bombard you with memories of the most important thing you lost after you died. Don't you see, Leslie? You being uncontrollably human is what they want. They want the overpowering emotions of grief and love you would sacrifice yourself for because it's what they don't have. They need those emotions to make the army feel like fighting for control of Earth. Bloodlust and evil can only carry one so far, and what keeps soldiers in battle fighting to the death is love for their family and their friends and their country. They don't have that, and so therefore they need us to give it to them."

Just then the cell door creaked open.

"Atticus has commanded us to leave the girl with you." One of the guards, swathed in black cloth like the others, spoke. Both Leslie and Bill turned to him. Leslie's eyes widened, and Bill motioned for her to stay silent. She bit her lip and complied, turning her face away so that the demons would not see the tears welling in her eyes.

Little Joyce Ann Aarons was unconscious, dangling between two demon guards, one arm being held by each beast. Her head was tilted back, her eyes shut, her little body already bruised from the experimental tests the demons did on all human's bodies before their souls were removed.

"Who is she?" Bill asked in a cool business like tone, rising from the bed and walking calmly towards the guards.

"Her name is Joyce Aarons. Atticus captured her this morning in a lake, using a memory of hers."

"I see. Do tell me, will she be left in her body as my cell mate and I have been?"

"She will remain in her body for now, yes." the guard's voice was beginning to sound suspicious. "She is very small; it is unlikely that her soul would come out of her body completely intact. Children have much naivety and innocence, two traits we cannot afford to waste. Any loss of her soul would be a large inconvenience for Atticus, and it would anger him greatly. The master does not want his plan disrupted."

Joyce Ann's body was then tossed carelessly onto the floor, flying easily through the air like a rag doll. She landed with a dull and lifeless thud by the foot of Leslie's bunk, curls flopping over her face. Leslie wanted nothing more than to jump up and throw her arms around her, to pull her into her chest and cradle her protectively, to snarl at the guards and do whatever possible to heal her best friend's sister. But she restrained herself, wrapping her fingers around the blanket and shoving her rear into the mattress. She kept her face blank until the guards locked the door and floated away, then jumping up and running to her side.

"Don't touch her." Bill advised quickly. "We don't want to cause any more damage."

Leslie retracted the hand that had been hovering over the child's ribs, staring at her in disbelief.

"The monsters." She whispered. "How could they?" A tear ran down her nose and dripped onto Joyce's clothing. The little girl shuddered, but did not wake.

Bill walked away from the door and crouched beside Leslie, brushing the curls off of her ashen face. "Are you sure this is Jesse's Joyce Ann, my dear?"

"Positive. I saw her in his memory, and she looked just like that." She gently ran her fingertips over the reddish brown ringlets. "She's so big. Last I saw her in person she was a baby, maybe two. She's probably around five now, wouldn't you think?"

"I'm sure she'll tell us when she wakes up." He rose from his knees and looked around the tiny metal cage, feeling disheartened. "We don't have a bed for her. I could give you my bed, Leslie, and Joyce Ann could have yours…"

"Nonsense." Leslie spoke firmly, eyes still glued to the unconscious toddler on the floor. "You're not giving up your bed, Dad."

The name Dad caught him off guard. Leslie hadn't called him that while they were in Covalent, in fact, she had never addressed him by any sort of name at all. It seemed that in that moment, she had gone from being the frail fourteen year old to the strong and independent woman he had watched grow up and start a family of her own.

"Where do you propose she'll sleep, then?"

"With me, in my bed. She won't take up much room, she's tiny. It'll keep her warmer, too. Shall I lie her down now?"

"No, as I said, we don't want to move her until she's conscious again, it may cause more injury. Check for anything serious, like a fractured spine, concussion, or broken bones, and if she's alright, leave her as she is and cover her with a blanket until she's coherent."

Leslie nodded, and began silently feeling along the back of her head, her neck, her back, and over all other limbs, searching for anything mildly wrong.

"I don't feel anything." She announced after a moment of careful prodding. "Do you want to check, Dad?"

"I trust your judgment, sweetheart. You were always better at noticing Samantha's illnesses than anyone else in the family."

She tore her gaze away from Joyce Ann for a moment to smile at him kindly, then rising and removing the threadbare coverlet from her bunk. She spread it over Joyce, tucking the fabric in around her curves. She patted her hair softly before turning away, surprised to see Bill smiling joyfully.

"It seems that your maternal instincts did not have to come with age, my dear, for you are treating Jesse's sister with as much delicacy and care as you ever treated your own little girl."

She found it easier to smile wider now. "I owe it to him." She replied softly, once more settling on the hard cold concrete floor by the door.

"Why sit there?"

"I don't want to startle her when she wakes up." With that she pulled her knees into her chest, draped her arms across them, and settled her chin on top. For hours she sat, watching and waiting.

And, at last, Joyce Ann stirred.