I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.

― A.A. Milne

"Hello… can you help me?"

Nicki glanced up-a stranger stood at the front desk. She was pretty, in a preppy kind of way, Nicki thought. Slender, red hair piled on her head, boring makeup, blue button-up blouse, black slacks and flats. Something about her face struck Nicki as familiar, but she couldn't place it. Maybe they'd had a class together.

Nicki set down her nail file and straightened in her chair. "Depends. If you're here for an exam, we're all booked up till Tuesday."

"I'm not here for me." The girl reached into her bag and pulled out a neat folder with a thick stack of paper inside. "I'm looking for someone." She pulled off the top sheet and handed it to Nicki.

Danny stared back.

This was a totally different Danny from the lurking scarecrow that she knew. He smiled broadly right into the camera, blue eyes sparkling, brandishing a bright orange super soaker. He was even a little chubby-cheeked, like a teenager that lived mostly off pizza and french fries. She'd never seen their Danny look half that happy.

Hands slammed onto the poster, breaking Nicki's train of thought. Nicki looked up and found the girl leaning half over the counter, staring at her with a rabid intensity. "You have seen him, haven't you? Recently? Is he here now? Can I see him?"

Nicki pulled back, annoyed. Now the familiarity made sense. That was Danny's upturned nose and pointed chin, more pronounced in this girl. This had to be… the mom? No way, way too young. Sister then. She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

Danny's white face at the party came to mind. Patrick's grim voice as he rattled off that laundry list of injuries. Whatever had messed up the kid up that bad, his family had been part of it.

Nicki's eyes narrowed. Then she tossed her hair and slid the poster back across the counter. "Nah, haven't seen this guy. He just reminds me of this kid I knew in grade school. Scary resemblance."

It was like watching a pool toy deflate. The girl sagged against the counter. "Oh… you're sure?"

"Yeah," Nicki said, feeling the tiniest bit guilty. "Though… you know, there was a guy that looked similar who came in maybe a month ago. He's long gone, though, so-"

The girl's head popped up. "Was he alright? Was he sick? He had to be sick if he came here-or, or hurt-was he hurt?"

"Woah, hey! I can't tell you that stuff. Ever hear of patient confidentiality?"

"Oh… oh, right. I'm sorry."

Nicki studied her. "Though anybody could see just by looking at him that his hand was messed up. He couldn't even fill out the paperwork."

The girl went white. Nicki noted with grim satisfaction that guilt twisted the girl's face. Bullseye. Whatever had happened to Danny, this girl knew about it. Maybe even took part in it. Creep. She wouldn't get another word out of Nicki.

"That's him," the girl whispered. She took a deep breath and her calm returned. "Did he ever come back?"

Nicki picked up her nail file and inspected her fingertips. "Not on my shift."

"If he does, will you tell him that Jazz was looking for him?"

"Sure."

"Can I hang a poster in here?"

She glanced at the paper on the desk with pretended disinterest. "Leave it with me, I'll make sure it gets up."

"Thanks." Her hands rested on the countertop again. Nicki glanced up and to her surprise, realized the girl was smiling. "That's more news than I've had in months. Thanks, really."

"Don't mention it," Nicki muttered, refusing to feel guilty again.

The girl tucked the folder with its stack of of posters carefully in her bag, shouldered it, and walked out. Nicki watched until the door shut behind her, then crumpled up the poster. Danny didn't need more trouble. She raised her arm to pitch it in the trash, hesitated, then sighed and stuffed it in her purse instead. He didn't need more trouble… but he probably ought to know. Eventually.

"Señora?"

Pamela started and glanced around; she was at the foot in the stairs, where she'd become so completely lost in thought that she hadn't heard the man approach.

He stood a polite distance from her, a tray that held two steaming mugs of tea balanced on one hand. "Your tea, Señora."

"Oh, thank you Ferdinand." Ferdie was their longtime chef, a kindly old Spaniard who specialized in vegetarian cuisine. He had proven both talented and thoughtful in observing both Kosher and vegan sensibilities without the slightest loss in quality.

"Sammie hasn't eaten well lately," he observed. He'd arranged a small pile of fruit next to the tea, plums, mandarins and apples nestled together against the polished teak.

"Thank you Ferdie, that's thoughtful of you."

Pamela took the tray from his hands and mounted the stairs, feeling her anxiety mount with her. The last few days had been some of the most taxing and frightening of her life. She wished desperately that her mother had not chosen this year, of all years, to make an extended trip to the other side of the globe. Sam was close with her grandmother-and they could both use a little of her wisdom right now.

Pamela tapped on the door. "Sammy? Can I come in?"

A long silence. She heard someone shift inside, then the door creaked open to reveal her daughter's pale face.

Sam wore a tank top and black sweatpants. Her face looked raw and bleak without makeup, black hair hanging in wet strings around her cheeks. She pushed the door open without a word, then shuffled barefoot back to her bed. Pamela followed.

The huge, gothic monstrosity of a bedframe looked even more gloomy than usual, festooned as it was with varying articles of clothes and a wet towel, all black. Sam crawled onto the bed and rolled over to stare face up at the ceiling. Her laptop sat beside her.

"What do you want?" Sam asked in a monotone.

"I brought tea," Pamela said unnecessarily. She raised the tray, then set it on Sam's bedside table, moving aside the headphones resting there. "It's chamomile. Ferdie says it's a calming blend."

"I am calm, Mom," Sam said to the ceiling. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying. Pamela twisted her hands in her lap.

"Of course you are… now." Pamela thought of the frightening, blank rage of the other day. This unresponsiveness wasn't much better. "I just thought it might help."

"Thanks Mom. Tea will definitely solve all my problems. Why didn't I see it before? Tea. Everything's perfect now."

"Oh come now, Sammy, that's no way to talk."

Sam stared at the ceiling unblinking. "Sorry."

Pamela took a plum from the bowl and cupped it in her hands. What had happened to her Sammy? She'd always been stubborn and a little morbid, but this depression of hers was something different. Pamela felt as if Sam had lost something she hadn't even credited to her daughter before- her joy. The thought made tears well in Pam's eyes.

"I just want what's best for you," she said in a tiny voice, that wasn't at all comforting or reassuring.

Sam sat bolt upright at that, turning with a scowl. "You have no idea what-" she pulled up short, staring. "Mom?"

Pam dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Her white glove came away smudged with mascara. Pamela despised crying. It was messy, and undignified, and in front of her daughter? Disgraceful. She sniffed and tried to draw herself up. Samantha stared at her as if she'd grown another head, and Pamela couldn't blame her; she'd never seen her mother in such a state.

"Why won't you let us help you, Sammy?" It came out wobbly through her tears. "I know we disagree often, and our punishments can be harsh, but your father and I, we love you, Sammy. To see my bright pretty girl so… so despondent, it's terrible. You won't tell us why, or listen to your therapist-what more can we do Sammy?" Pam wrung her hands. "Tell me. Please."

Her daughter recovered from the surprise and looked away, scowling. "I don't tell you things because I know you won't listen. Even if you did, you wouldn't get it. You'd just find new ways to ground me or send me to new doctors."

Pamela dabbed at her eyes again and sighed. Angela was right. "I want to try. Let me try to understand. Please, Sammy."

Sam sighed; she pulled a tissue out of a box on her bedside table and handed it to her mother. "You look super goth right now, Mom."

"Perish the thought," Pamela muttered. She wiped delicately at her eyes.

Sam leaned over and snagged a cup of the still-steaming tea. She pressed it into Pamela's hands "You need this more than I do."

Pamela took a sip of the warm herbal concoction. "You must think your mother's a mess."

Samantha took the other mug and cradled it in her lap. "I'm a mess. I don't know what to do. I feel like everything I try to do to fix this just makes things worse."

This was it; Sammy's secret. Pamela desperately wanted to demand what it was-the Fenton boy, the ghosts, the Foleys? She remembered Angela's advice and bit her tongue, waiting, staring down at the teacup in her hands, the soft glint of the gold-enamel on the rim, heat seeping through the porcelain into her fingertips, a few herbal flowers drifting around in the bottom of the cup.

Waiting, though Sam was stubborn. So stubborn, she'd held out for months without so much as uttering a word on the topic to either of them, or her therapist, or the psychologist... Maybe it was too late. Maybe this chasm that had grown between them was a permanent fixture in their lives now. The Manson family, divided by some awful thing that Sam refused to share. Maybe-

"Could you get Dad?" A small voice, barely audible.

Pam nearly dropped her tea, looking up to find Sam watching her with wary eyes, like a wild thing approaching a trap. But she'd asked. "What for, sweetie?"

Sam pulled her knees up to her chin. "If you really want to know-if you promise to actually hear me and not just freak out, I…" she swallowed. "I've got something to show you."

Danny walked. He'd headed for the bus stop first, determined to get on the first one and just leave, but as he'd turned the corner he saw the bus pull away. The stupid thing only ran every thirty minutes, and the last thing he felt like doing was sitting and waiting. So he strode on past the bus stop and kept walking. Houses with yards melted into clusters of apartment buildings and strip malls, and the town climbed into existence, skyscrapers lining city streets.

Danny's head ached. His senses felt thick and slow from the long night of sleeplessness. The puncture wounds in his shoulders burned as his backpack straps dug into them. The thermos made a line of cold between his shoulderblades, the faint ecto-energy coming off of it making his skin crawl at the contact. He wanted to drop the whole thing into the nearest dumpster, then curl up in his bed and go to sleep.

Not his bed-Shannon's brother's bed. That was an extra twist of guilt in his stomach. He thought of the shade that drifted around Shannon's house, unseen and anonymous. He wondered what had really happened to Todd.

Shannon was still looking. Not just looking, but doing this whole weird penance with taking in random kids.

That would be the sort of thing Jazz would do. Obsess over some mistake she thought she'd made, take responsibility to a ridiculous degree. Danny shoved his hands deep into his jean pockets and slowed. Jazz wasn't... doing that now, was she?

Jazz was going to Harvard. That was all she'd talked about for the past year. Sam and Tucker had an ongoing bet on how far into a conversation you could get with Jazz before she named-dropped her favorite college. She must have left home by now. It must be already halfway into the first semester. Jazz should be going to classes, sucking up to the teachers, taking on way too many extracurriculars-honor-student heaven.

Was she still looking for him? If Jazz did anything better than studying, it was worrying. That idea made Danny's heart sink down to his toes. That was the last thing he wanted. That hadn't been his plan.

...not that any of this was planned.

Danny turned on a random side street, speeding up again. He'd just needed out, so he went. It was that simple. He'd mostly gotten by since then by not thinking too hard. Not thinking helped. He had less bad dreams that way. Whenever he actually let himself think, it all collapsed.

He'd start worrying about Sam, Tucker, Jazz, Dad, Mom…

Spectra's taunts echoed in his ears. "I'd disown my family too after such a trauma."

Was that how Mom felt? Like he'd disowned her?

Danny tried to picture what she might be doing now, but he couldn't. The thing that stuck in his mind was the horrified look she'd given him, smoking blaster in her hand.

He'd left her like that.

Danny kicked at a crumpled soda can. Well, what was he supposed to do? Sit down and pat her on the back, say 'It's fine Mom-I'm totally cool with how you dissected me back then, you didn't know better.'

And who let her think that, genius?

Danny yanked his hands out of his pockets and tugged at the shoulder straps. He knew that Mom would hate herself the moment she realized who he was, but he still hadn't told her.

On the surface he'd told himself it was because of the GIW, that if he could wait it out it would be better for everyone to keep the secret. Which was a good reason, but not the real one. Some part of him wanted her to see it for herself. He'd watch her staring at him, waiting for some spark of recognition, a gasp, something.

He wasn't that good of a liar. They were family. They lived in the same house together. Wasn't it obvious? Couldn't she tell?

It never happened. He'd always assumed in that comfortable way that she'd just never paid enough attention to Phantom to notice, but here she was, analyzing everything about him, and all she could see was a ghost. Some cold, unfeeling monster. Someone she had no problem zapping at the drop of a hat.

He'd felt somehow betrayed by that. Even though he'd done everything in his power to keep his ghost half secret from her, it just didn't seem right that his mom couldn't see right through him.

Then she'd taken his hand, and… there were other things on his mind.

Still. Mom hadn't known. Even when he stayed "just a ghost" to her, she'd come around. She helped him escape, gave his hand back, convinced him that he could make it home. Without that last push, Danny probably would have evaporated right there at the lab and that would've been it.

Then he'd let her find out in the most awful way. Just walked off, abandoned her-not just her, but Jazz, Dad, Tucker, Sam. Everyone. Because he was too pathetic to face them. Because he cared about how he felt more than their pain.

It was easier here. Less complicated. Shannon never asked anything of him harder than washing dishes. He liked helping at the clinic, doing more mindless work-cleaning and letter stuffing. Boring stuff, but at least he didn't have to stress over failing grades, or whether somebody might die if he screwed up. No ghosts. No double life and constant excuses. Things had dropped into an uneventful routine without him really noticing. It wasn't home. It didn't feel permanent. But it felt… safe.

Danny scowled at himself.

Heroes weren't that selfish. Not that he was much of a hero anymore, either. Phantom, the old Phantom, almost felt like someone else now-some shiny fake shell that had cracked after one bad setback.

He held up his hand and stared at it, willing ectoplasm to form. A weak flicker of green flitted over his fingers and disappeared.

What was up with his ghost half, anyway? His hand was… well, it wasn't as bad. He felt better, stronger and healthier. He couldn't count his ribs in the shower anymore. But even just phasing through a door made him feel light-headed and sick. Why? Had Mom broken that part of him past fixing? How was that fair?

Danny smelled smoke. Stinging, dry, with the bitter undertone of lighter fluid. He glanced up, expecting to see a barbecue place or something, but he was on a block of run-down offices, no restaurants in sight. Weird.

A bit of black smoke drifted out of an alley up ahead. Danny blinked at it. It blinked back. White eyes stared at him out of the dark vapor. It turned and drifted back around the corner. A shade?

"Weird," he muttered aloud. Danny hesitated. This pretty much screamed "sketchy" but he was curious now.

He ducked into the alley, which turned a slight corner, and followed the translucent black figure. As he did, he heard harsh laughter, muffled shouting, and the distinct thuds of something-someone-being kicked.

Danny moved into the shadow of the building and crept to the corner.

A fire burned in a rusty old trash can, sending up the acrid smoke. A handful of teenagers stood in a semi-circle facing the alley's far wall.

Arms over his head, a scarecrow-like figure crouched against the wall. He was almost invisible to Danny under a haze of flickering smoke-bodies, but he knew exactly who it was. That old man from the clinic-the one who had a weird collection of shades following him around: Gabe.

The boys were laughing-mean laughter, like Dash when he'd cornered a particularly timid freshman. The hair stood up on Danny's neck and he clenched his teeth.

"Not on my watch," he muttered. Time to do something stupid.

Minds that Move :: tbc...

A/N:

What is that? Some hero-like action coming up amidst all this angst and drama? Hang onto your hats, friends it's gonna get better. Or worse. Hehehe.

Let's hope I did a good job with my initial post-beta edits on this chapter, because I'm way too brain-fried to go over it now. I definitely overdid it this week, guys. Too much caffeine/writing binges and not enough sleep, oy vey. Taking tomorrow off.

Much love to my amazing and hardworking beta readers! MyAibou, Anneriawings, LunarMothim, Misfit-toy-haven, Pumpernickel Muffin, Attu, Chintastic, and Cordria!

And thank you, dear reviewers! It warms my heart that this (not so) little fic is still making a connection and means something to each of you. Shoutout to MsFrizzle especially, your PM meant a lot to me.

Oh, ETA: Now featuring cover art by ToDoJustice on Tumblr from the SoaD fanart contest!

Passing out until next time!

-Hj