A/N: I can't believe that it's been since SEPTEMBER since I updated! I feel so so soooooo awful about that you guys, you have no idea. This semester was just insanity though, that's the best excuse I've got. But, I'm on break now, and you better believe I was rushing to update ASAP. This section of the story was always a little rocky for me to plan out too, so I guess my insecurity is a bit to blame as well. I'm so sorry. Hopefully there are still some people out there willing to read, and hopefully (like I'm really hoping) there are still people out there still willing to review and let me know what you think of my little story. Thank all of you SO much for your patience, I hope this update is to your satisfaction- Jess ;-)

Chapter Thirty Eight: The Little Boy

"How're you feeling Ellie?" Cat patted the older woman's hand sympathetically as she sat on the edge of the hospital bed beside her. She hoped that Ellie wasn't as uncomfortable as she was in just seeing her hooked up to all the monitors and machines. They were bad enough on their own, but even they hadn't been as bad as that phone call she'd gotten from back home telling her that the woman who'd practically been a second mother to her had had a stroke.

When she'd gotten to the hospital back in her hometown, Cat had gotten the opinion of several doctors in the area who said that though it had been quite a scare, the odds were fair that Ellie would make a decent recovery from it. Presently, she was still a little weakened on her left side from the paralysis, and her memory had been affected in some ways. The important things her mind had retained (mainly who Cat and the other Lintons were, remembering Will, Henry and Harry, etc) But other things commonly slipped her mind. Cat had to frequently remind her that no, she couldn't have Harry come in to her visit, as he was back home and they were in New York City, where Cat had felt most comfortable having her hospitalized, not only for the superior medicine, but for the ease of being able to visit her and still maintain her career schedule.

Ellie smiled at her, as if to give her comfort, "It's nothing honey, really." Her voice was faint and raspy from the medications they'd been giving her. "Really the worst part of all of this has been me worrying about Henry and Harry and how they're getting along without me!"

Cat shook her head reassuringly, "Don't worry about that, okay? I call the house when I can to check on them. Henry and Harry are doing just fine." If she were to be completely honest with herself Cat would admit that this was something that she was only partially convinced of. It was true that she called home to talk to her brother and nephew from time to time, but the phone calls weren't all that reassuring to her. She was able to hear slurring in Henry's voice all too often, and because he didn't have a job, she could only assume that the money she was giving him every month was in some part going to support his drinking habits. In spite of this, he swore to her that he was looking after Harry properly. Cat wanted to believe that he was telling truth if only because she knew that Henry did care for his son, even if he felt nothing for himself.

More than once the idea had entered her mind of proposing taking Harry into her and Edgar's house and taking care of him in New York. The idea never really went beyond being just that however. Cat knew for one that even if Henry could be persuaded to sign his parental rights over to her and Edgar (unlikely in itself), there were still other complications to her adopting her nephew. She was still a model, and still a busy one at that. Her job kept her busy and when she did get time on her own, she wanted it for herself. She wasn't the mothering type, and she never had been. Edgar's job kept him busy as well- even busier than her at times. And though she knew that he had nothing against Harry, she also knew that Edgar would have nevertheless been uncomfortable in taking him in. He wanted them to have children of their own- a topic that had raised more than one argument between them lately. And Cat knew Edgar. He would try and bargain with her; if he agreed to take in Harry, she would have to agree to get pregnant. And that of course, was out of the question.

So she reasoned herself out of bringing Harry to New York to live with her, and hoped for the best in his living with his father.

"Edgar said he'd be by later." She told Ellie, "Him and Isabella."

Ellie shook her head, "Tell them they don't have to bother, I know how busy they are."

"It's not a problem. Edgar's missed seeing you, and Isabella's got to have someone to complain to about her bullshit!" Cat answered wryly. "Lately all she's been doing is bitching about how lonely she is, and how she'll never find anyone to be with."

"I thought she had numerous boyfriends." Ellie said confusingly, to which Cat nodded with a smile,

"She does. And that's the problem. Look, she'll probably start talking about how lonely she is, how she can't find anyone worth showcasing in her art gallery, and how all the available men are pigs. Just reassure her that she's not getting too old, there's a very special guy out there just for her, and that she'll get married soon- that usually shuts her up."

"You have experience with this, don't you?"

"More experience than I can handle." She leaned forward and kissed Ellie on the forehead, then stood up to her feet, "I'd stay longer, but I've got to get going. Try and get some rest okay? I've been trying to convince the doctors to let me take you home with us, but they're pretty stubborn."

"They're doctors, hon. That's a part of their job description."

"Well the more you do what they say, the sooner I can get you out of here. I'll see you tomorrow, Ellie, okay?"

Cat steps down the hall of the hospital were quick and brisk. She didn't look at anyone, keeping her eyes averted down to the floor, even when she was in the elevator and walking out to the parking lot where her car was parked.

She couldn't stand being in hospitals. They made her remember far too many bleak memories that were better left in the past. Every time she was in one, she lost someone she loved. To have Ellie there now was all too chilling.

She couldn't lose Ellie. Not Ellie too. Ellie was really one of the only people she had left that she felt truly understood her. Her father was dead.

And Heath…Heath was…was-

Cat shut her eyes, hastily quelling the surge of emotion that threatened to prick behind them. She swallowed hard and breathed deeply in and out, in and out.

It had gotten easier. She couldn't deny that. There wasn't a day that went by when she didn't think of him, but the pain of losing Heath had lessened more and more as the years went by. She willed it to lessen.

What else was she supposed to do? He was dead. She loved him, she'd die loving him, but that didn't change reality. He was dead, and she was married to someone else. Would Heath have really expected her to be in mourning for him for the rest of her life? To stop living just because he was dead? That would have been unfair- not only to her, but to Edgar, and Cat felt a measure of obligation to him now.

Heath was her past. Edgar was her reality. Edgar was here…Heath was dead.

He was dead.

"He's not dead? What the hell do you mean he's not dead?!"

Edgar's face was ashen as he leaned forward in his chair. He looked across the desk at Louis Kane incredulously, his mouth literally hanging open. His hands gripped the armrests so tight his knuckles were white. "You…you said there was a fire. You said he was never identified among the survivors, that he was dead!"

Kane's own face was grim as he looked back at him. His hands were folded over his belly resolutely, and he gave a heavy sigh, "Edgar, I said that he may be dead. I never said for sure that he was- you were the one who wanted to take that route, remember?"

Edgar was shaking his head, "It can't be him…it can't be…" he muttered to himself, "Are you sure you didn't just make a mistake? See someone who looked like him?"

"Someone who looks like him and has a penchant for watching your house and your wife? I don't think so."

Edgar froze, his eyes widening a little, "He's watching Catherine?" he murmured, to which Kane nodded,

"Yeah. I'm telling you Edgar, it seems like this son of a bitch just came out of thin air. The only reason all this came to my attention was out of sheer luck. One of my buddies who was working with me on this back in the beginning saw him in Tribeca one day a few weeks ago, remembered the physical description, then gave me a call. "

"What was he doing in Tribeca?"

"Apparently, he's passing himself off as some up and coming artist. Trying to get his art into some of the more posh art galleries for an exhibit."

Edgar was massaging his temples his eyes shut tight, "Jesus Christ…" he muttered under his breath.

"What? What is it?"

"Isabella's art gallery is in Tribeca…" he answered, "She's been trying to find a new artist to showcase their work in it for weeks now." He looked up at Kane, the worry etching lines into his face already, "Do you think maybe…"

He didn't need to continue. Kane understood his meaning. He was quiet for a long moment, "It's possible, Edgar. I won't lie to you and say that I don't think that's what this is all about. It would give him easy access to your sister. And through her, somewhat easier access to-"

"Access to Cat." Edgar finished for him bleakly, "Yeah. I know. God..." He rose to his feet and began pacing the room, "I don't know what to do. If she finds out," he shook his head, "If she finds out-"

"Edgar, so what if she does? I mean it has been five years. I thought you said she seemed to be getting over it."

"She did. She does seem to be getting over it. But I'm afraid that…" he paused, "I'm afraid that that's only because she thought he was dead. And if she finds out that we lied to her, that I lied-" He broke off, "I can't let that happen. I can't."

"What do you want to do?"

Edgar was silent for a long time, "I don't know." He said at last, "I don't know."

There was something bothering Edgar.

Cat had been able to sense it for days. At first it had struck her as something insignificant and fleeting- most likely just a stressful time he was going through with his job, something he eventually got over. But then she began to notice a difference in the behavior he exhibited during those times, and how they so differed from what she was seeing in him at present.

He seemed…nervous. Jumpy and easily agitated. The smallest thing seemed to make him irritated and snappish, things that Edgar never was no matter how stressed he became. At nights, Cat could feel him tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. He was always asking her or Isabella if anything unusual had happened during the day when he was gone, if they'd had any strange calls or seen anyone suspicious around the neighborhood. When she tried to question him as to why he wanted to know, Edgar would always assure her that it wasn't for any particular reason- which he must have been crazy to think she would believe. Cat was worried at this, but she tried to shrug the feeling away, and instead preferred to instead be intensely curious as to what the hell was really going on here.

The two of them sat at the breakfast table, Edgar's gaze cast downward to his plate, seeming to concentrate on the food, although Cat knew he was miles away in his thoughts. She watched him, her expression becoming increasingly impatient.

"Your mother called you last night. She wants to know when we're coming down to Florida to visit."

There was no reply, but she knew that he had heard her. Edgar raised his glass of orange juice to his lips and took a long sip before resuming eating his food. Cat searched his face, hoping he would look up and catch her eye. He didn't.

"By the way, I want a divorce." She said casually. Edgar still said nothing. She gave another impatient sigh,

"Edgar? Edgar!"

He blinked, startled, "Wh-what? What was that?"

"You're not listening to a word I'm saying!" Cat shook her head bewilderingly, "What's the matter with you, what's going on?"

Edgar shook his head, the somber look returning to his face, "Nothing." He mumbled, "It's nothing."

"And you really expect me to buy that? I'm not blind, Edgar, something's going on that you don't want me to know about, and I want you to tell me what the hell it is!"

"Catherine, please," Edgar's voice was low and tight, and he still refused to meet her gaze, "Please don't push me on this."

"Edgar whatever it is, it can't be so bad that you can't tell me!" she argued, "What are you so afraid of?"

He pounced on her final words, snapping, "I'm not afraid! Do you understand me? I'm not afraid! I'm-" he stopped short, regaining a hold of himself, "I just…have a lot on my mind, and I need some time to think. Alright?"

Cat stared at him, stunned at the vehemence of his words.

He was afraid. No matter how much he denied it, something had happened to make Edgar afraid. That much was clear to her. What it was though, she couldn't even begin to imagine…

Cat did the only thing she could think of. She reached out and took up Edgar's hand in hers, stroking the back knuckles with her fingertips. Though he still didn't look up, she did notice that he gripped her hand in his tightly.

"I love you." Cat was struck by just how grave he sounded as he said it- as if he knew something terrible was about to happen and he wanted to tell her he loved her just in case he would never be able to say it again.

"I love you too."

Edgar looked up at her then, a bleak smile on his lips, "Do you?" he whispered, "Do you really love me, Catherine?"

She frowned, searching his face confusingly. What had made him even ask her that question? What was the matter with him?

Before either of them could say another word, Isabella came into the dining room humming brightly, a smile turning up her lips. Cat glanced back at Edgar, btu he retreated back into his thoughts again and had pulled his hand out of hers.

"You're in a good mood Isabella," she said to her sister in law, "Is it something we should know about?"

Isabella pulled her chair out, then sat down, helping herself to the scrambled eggs, "Correction Cat," she said , "I am in a perfect mood today- and you know why? Because I have succeeded in recruiting one of the newest, freshest, most promising artists in the business to have his grand opening at my studio!"

Cat rolled her eyes surreptitiously and turned back to her food. Isabella's art studio was of very little interest to her. She was always saying that she was getting the most promising artists to premiere their art there, but when all was said and done they never really went anywhere.

"That's nice." She didn't even attempt to disguise the disinterest in her voice.

Isabella waited a few moments, shifting her gaze back and forth between Cat and Edgar. When she saw that they weren't going to reply, she made a small sound of impatience, "Well? Aren't you guys at least going to ask me about him? You just have to see some of his work! It's just…" she shook her head, "It's beautiful. He deals mostly in oils, but some of his charcoal drawings are amazing too. Every studio in town's been asking him to premiere at their studio- including that bitch Gina Tolstone. But anyway," she said, the scowl disappearing from her face, "Out of all the rest of the competitors, he said that he wanted to choose me!"

"I wonder what made him want to have his show at your studio," Cat wondered aloud. Edgar remained silent but Cat noticed that his grip on his fork tightened, and she heard him suck in a sharp breath.

"He just knows quality when he sees it, that's all!" Isabella said triumphantly. "I know how to make stars- I know all the right people to invite. He's probably heard that."

"What's this Picasso's name?"

Isabella frowned, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment, "Hmm…I forget… Cliffe's his last name, I think. He didn't tell me his first name when I talked with him on the phone. I think he prefers it that way-"

Edgar had been reaching for his glass of juice as Isabella spoke, but at the mention of the name, the glass slipped from hands and to the floor, shattering it into pieces.

Isabella got up and knelt down on the ground to try to gather the broken pieces of glass, "Edgar, what the hell?!" she exclaimed "This is from one of Mom's best dining sets! Cristina," she called out for their maid, "Bring a broom and a dust bin!"

Edgar pushed his chair back and swiftly strode from the room, going off in the direction of his study.

Cat wasn't focused on the glass, or the broom and dustbin. She was focused on Edgar, and the reaction he'd had at the mere sound of the name of Isabella's new artist. She called after him repeatedly, but he didn't stop.

"I don't know what the hell his problem has been," Isabella was muttering under breath, "He walks around here like some scared rabbit, sulking here and moping there- what's the matter with him?"

Cat didn't answer. She wouldn't have been able to give a reply even if she wanted to.

The Little Boy awoke cold and hungry.

At this time of year, the temperature always dropped in the morning, filling the large, drafty house in a brisk chilliness that magnified both its size and emptiness.

But the morning air wasn't the only reason that the Little Boy was cold. He was cold because the furnace in the basement was broken. He was cold because the windows in the house were either broken or cracked open and were wedged too tightly for his own strength to try to close. And then, he was cold, because he was always cold. He'd had the sensation for so long now that it just became something he was used to, and experienced as a habit. In fact if he'd by some miracle woken up one morning and felt warm or even comfortable, he would have thought something was wrong with the world.

The hunger was something that was harder for the Little Boy to deal with. Coldness, shivering; those were things that could gradually degenerate into numbness and eventually be ignored. But hunger was a vicious, gnawing beast that attacked the little boy's body and senses relentlessly. He thought about food constantly. He even dreamed about it; enormous cheeseburgers with greasy buns and lots of ketchup, pizza loaded with extra cheese and sausage (his favorite toppings), pancakes and syrup, bowls of macaroni and cheese like the ones the Nice Old Lady who used to live in the house with them used to make. The Little Boy's hunger was almost his obsession, and like a true obsession it was never satiated.

Rolling off his bed (that really didn't belong to him, it belonged to the Nice Old Lady, but he slept in it anyway to remind himself of her), the Little Boy stepped into the shoes that were becoming increasingly holey and worn. The shoelaces had long been snapped and frayed into uselessness. He walked out of the bedroom and into the hallway, trying to be as quiet as he could as he walked by the shut bedroom door across the hall. The Drunk Man inside the bedroom was most likely passed out on the mattress in the corner (or the floor, it sometimes varied) but if he ever heard the Little Boy making noise, he would get angry and start yelling and screaming things that the Little Boy didn't understand, but was frightened at all the same.

The Little Boy ignored the groaning cries of protest that rumbled in his belly. He'd gotten used to them a long time ago. They were unfortunate, but a fact. There was no food to be found in the large drafty house, not anymore.

In those first few weeks after the Nice Old Lady had gone away in the ambulance, the Little Boy had been able to live off of the food that had still been in the house. Whenever he thought about the leftover meatloaf that had been in the refrigerator, he wanted to kick himself for having such an enormous appetite and eating so many portions at a time. He wished with all that was within him that he had eaten the food sparingly, so that it could have lasted for perhaps two whole weeks instead of three days. He hadn't known the Nice Old Lady would be gone for such a long time. The grownups at the hospital and the Beautiful Lady (he knew she was his aunt only because the Nice Old Lady told him she was), had told him that the Nice Old Lady was just a little sick, and that she would be home before he knew it. 'Before he knew it' turned into one week, then two, three, four, five, a month. The food from the grownups at the hospital stopped being placed on the front porch outside the door. Then two months passed. Then three. Then the Little Boy just stopped keeping track of the time.

The first and only time he'd asked the Drunk Man inside the bedroom for food, he'd received not food, but a smack in the face and an order for him to get the hell out of the Drunk Man's face. The Little Boy had run away, pressing his hands over his ears so that he didn't have to hear the Drunk Man scream at him that he wished the Little Boy was dead, that the Little Boy had killed the Drunk Man's wife.

So the Little Boy went through the canned goods (it'd taken him two hours to figure out how to use the can opener), he went through the cereal, the crackers, bread, everything.

Eventually, his hunger had become so great that he even consumed the condiments in the refrigerator; when he sucked the sauces on his finger they settled the hunger in his stomach.

When there had been no more food or milk or juice, he'd followed the Drunk Man in the bedroom out to the bar that the he frequented more and more the longer that the Nice Old Lady was away.

The Little Boy could smell food on the inside of the noisy, rowdy building as he crouched there in the bushes. He never tried to go inside the bar- he just stayed there to smell the air, letting the aroma fill his nostrils and enter his lungs for hours. After he'd done this for a few days, the Little Boy had taken to climbing into and picking through the garbage dumpster in the parking lot, trying to find food. Some nights he was lucky- he would find remnants of someone's dinner or lunch- some soggy French fries, crushed potato chips, a chicken wing with some of the meat still left on it. If the Little Boy was very lucky, there wouldn't be a rat in the dumpster he had to fight over the food with (He had a number of rather nasty bite marks on his arms and fingers from previous failed battles)

It had taken about two weeks of dumpster diving and scrounging for him to notice he was being watched.

The Watching Man never spoke to him or tried to approach the Little Boy. He would stand in the shadows at the edge of the parking lot that met the forest, watching in silence. He drove a motorcycle that he sometimes sat upon while he watched the Little Boy. His hair was dark and somewhat long, pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck.

The bar wasn't the only place the Little Boy saw the Watching Man. He'd even seen him at his house once or twice. The first time had been when the Drunk Man was away, still drinking at the bar. The Little Boy had come back at sunset, when he had still been able to see rather clearly without squinting in the darkness. As he'd approached the house, he'd suddenly seen someone coming out the back of it. A toolbox was in their hand. When the Little Boy had come closer, he recognized the person as the Watching Man from the bar. Just as he had never said anything to the Little Boy in the parking lot, the Watching Man had said nothing to him then. But he had stared at him for a long moment. The Watching Man had taken the tool box back into the garage that adjoined the house, come back out, climbed onto his motorcycle and driven away. The Little Boy couldn't remember anything strange from the encounter, besides the fact that after that day, the heat in the house had stopped working.

He had been afraid of the Watching Man at first, but now he had simply gotten used to seeing him, used to being watched.

He could become used to anything if he needed to. He was used to the perpetual coldness of the house. He was used to being hungry. He was used to the loss of the electricity and plumbing in the house. He was used to the visits from people he knew were called bill collectors- he was used to hearing them knock and call through the door that they needed to speak to Mr. Henry Ernshawl as soon as possible, that it was very urgent. He was used to the Drunk Man taking the envelope that the Little Boy knew came from the Beautiful Lady every month and spending the money inside on alcohol. He had become so very used to it all by now…

The morning was still and quiet as he went out of the house, down the stairs and across the field towards the forest. The mist hung above it like a cloud that had descended down from the sky. Normally he didn't go out this early, but he'd taken to doing it more and more often because he didn't want to be in the house to have t listen to the sound of knocking and yes, even banging on the door. These days the bill collectors started throwing around words he didn't understand like 'foreclosure' and 'eviction.' If he woke up now, he could leave the house before they got there and stay away from it long enough so that they'd be gone by the time he got back. And besides, he liked this time of day best- it made him feel as though he was the only person in the entire world, and though he was dirty, cold and hungry, the little boy almost felt safe when the world was like this. He passed by the sprawling willow tree that he had climbed a hundred times before. It was another sort of refuge for the Little Boy- he stayed there entire nights sometimes, sleeping beneath the drooping branches on the soft soil, temporarily forgetting the reality of his life.

He tramped through the forest now, hopping over logs, ponds and easing himself between tree branches and bushes. He knew exactly where he was going- he could walk this forest blind and still not get lost.

He finally reached the small lake located in the center of the forest and began climbing down the small hill towards the bank.

The splash of cold water on his face was refreshing. The Little Boy cupped his dirty palms together and scooped them into the lake. He drank the water he'd caught up, uncaring of how dirty or unsanitary it may have been. It was the only source of water he had left. When the water had stopped flowing in the house, he not only used this water to prevent himself from becoming dehydrated, he had used it to bathe in. He hadn't had any soap anymore, but he splashed the water underneath his arms, between his legs, in his hair, behind his neck and ears- every place that the Nice Old Lady had taught him to wash in the bathtub upstairs in the house. It was too cold for that now- so the Little Boy smelled. He didn't like it, but he'd rotated through his clothes as much as he could and by now they were all dirtied or smelly in some way or other- there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Suddenly, the Little Boy lifted his head, alert. He let his nose rise up a little higher in the air, inhaling deeply. A lurch hit his stomach, and as if on cue, it growled.

Food...

A moment later, he heard a twig snap from behind him. He started, and whirled around.

The Watching stood nor more than five or six feet away from him. A paper bag was in his hand- the source of the wonderful smells that were now filling the Little Boy's nostrils, making his mouth begin to water with hunger.

The eyes of the Little Boy and the Watching met with one another and held in a gaze that seemed to last forever. The Little Boy looked on in blank wonder, while the Watching Man stared at him with a stoic intensity. The Little Boy noticed how green and piercing his eyes were. Then his gaze returned the paper bag, and a look of intense, regretful yearning entered his wide, dark eyes.

Without another word, the Watching Man held out the bag to him, as if he could read the wanting in the Little Boy's eyes. At first, he hung back, as if he was afraid that if he so much as took a single step towards the Watching Man, he would be punished. The Watching Man gave the bag a little shake, as if to emphasize that the bag was indeed for the Little Boy, and wasn't some cruel joke. That gesture was all the reassurance he needed. the Little Boy immediately started forward, snatched the bag and knelt down on the forest floor, tearing it open. His hunger was so great that he had begun eating the hamburger before it was even fully unwrapped from the paper, and he accidentally ate some of it with the food. But he didn't care. He took large, ravenous bite after bite, almost as if he was afraid the Watching Man would try and take it from him if he didn't hurry. But the Watching Man didn't. He only stood there in stoic, yet serene silence, watching the Little Boy gobble up the food.

He ate the two hamburgers in the paper bag so fast, he was panting by the time he finished. He knelt there in the dirt, and looked back up at the Watching Man. The gaze coming from the emerald irises almost seemed like a cross between pity and hatred. He felt as though despite the fact that he had just given him food, the Watching Man could and might, at any moment, draw back his black boot and kick him square in the face. Still not a word passed between them.

Suddenly, the Little Boy doubled over, holding his stomach. His face contorted as the cramps washed over him. He'd eaten too quickly.

He refused to throw the food up. He refused. He wouldn't. Not when he didn't even know if he'd be finding any food to eat in the bar dumpster tomorrow. He could stand the pain if only to make this full sensation stay inside his belly for as long as possible.

The effort to keep the food and bile from rising in his mouth, while also combating the stomach cramps was intensely difficult and he groaned softly, shutting his eyes tightly.

He felt his eyes begin to burn and tingle, as an egg rose in his throat. He began to cough and choke, but stubbornly refused to let the food come up. He sputtered and coughed harder and harder until at last, another sound broke from his lips.

It was a sob.

The Little Boy's eyes blurred from the hot moisture and the tears spilled down his cheeks. His body began shaking with coughs and sobs. Snot and salt water mingled together, flowing more and more freely with every second that passed.

He was crying because of the pain in his stomach. He was crying because of what the Watching Man had just done for him. And he was crying because he kept thinking about how for the past few days, he really had begun to become seriously afraid that he was going to starve or freeze to death there in that big, drafty house, with no one there who even cared that he existed or not.

The Watching Man hadn't made any move to help or comfort the Little Boy as he cried. He only continued looking down at him in silence.

When at last his cries subsided, he raised his head, his red rimmed eyes meeting with the Watching Man's emerald colored ones.

And something happened then.

Still not a word had passed between them, but an understanding had been made nonetheless. An understanding that even years later, when the Little Boy became a young man, only the two of them would truly be able to comprehend.

The Little Boy bound himself to the Watching Man in that moment. Without knowing the real reason that the Watching Man had been watching him for so long and the real reason the Watching Man had even chosen to show him the simple act of charity, the Little Boy pledged his allegiance and loyalty to the Watching Man forever. He would have eaten dirt for the Watching Man in that moment, if he'd asked. He would have even eaten his own shit. From that day on, anything the Watching Man wanted of the Little Boy, he had only to say (not even ask or request, for the Little Boy was more than willing to follow his orders.)

His devotion had been bought for nothing more than the price of two cheap, greasy hamburgers.

The Little Boy and the Watching Man only looked into each other's eyes for a few more moments. The Watching Man made a small, abrupt motion with his neck to the him. Then, with still not a single word passing between them, he turned and began walking up the bank back into the thicket of the forest. The Little Boy followed him.

And that was how things between them would be from that day on: wherever Heath went, Harry would follow- without question, protest or even words. Only loyalty. Unwavering, dogged, unexplainable loyalty.