Six years ago. Massachusetts. An old well on an abandoned farm.

A boy is crying, treading water at the bottom of the well.

He cries out, begs, but all he can manage is a single word.

A name.

"Grant," he cries. "Grant."

After that day, no one calls him Grant for five years.

It's "Ward," "piece-of-shit," "boy," or "kid."

He likes it better that way.

One year ago. Massachusetts. A battered house with broken windows.

There's a woman shouting, slurring words, and four children, huddled together in the front yard. A man stands behind her, but he is not slurring, not shouting, just staring at the children with a cold, dead look in his eyes.

The youngest boy and girl are crying, and Ward/piece-of-shit/boy/kid/not-Grant-anymore, now thirteen years old, is standing in front of them, arms spread in an attempt to protect them. The older boy is huddled

"So who did it?" the man demands, and the woman spits on the ground in front of the children. The two youngest flinch, but Ward doesn't move. Beside him, the oldest brother is motionless, and suddenly the man wheels on him.

"Maynard," he spits, his lip curling into a sneer. "Stand up."

The oldest boy does, sending a panicked glance at Ward, who doesn't return his look.

"You know who did it," he said. "You know who took the bitch's beer," he sends a scathing look at his wife, who digs her fingernails into his arm. He shoves her off roughly, and she stumbles back, cursing.

If this were a normal family, both of Ward's younger siblings would be crying or hiding, but they are frozen.

They know, even at the ages of six and nine, that silence means they stay alive another day.

"And you know who dented my car, don't you?" their father snarled, dragging Maynard forward, his eyes half-mad. "Was it you?" He shook the boy roughly. "Tell me!"

"It wasn't me!" Maynard protested. "I didn't touch anything I didn't do it I promise it wasn't me I swear to god"—

"Stop babbling, kid!" Their father threw Maynard to the ground and stood over him. "Tell me who I have to punish."

"N-not me," Maynard whimpered, curling into a ball at his father's feet. "I didn't do it. It was—it was"—

He looks desperately at his siblings, and Ward glares back, knowing that Maynard is responsible for both.

"It was Dana," Maynard said, his voice suddenly firm, and Ward moves in front of his little brother, feeling his older brother's settle like a weight on his shoulders. "Dana took the beer, and he—he and his friends were playing near the car. I don't know how they dented it."

"No!" Ward said, but their father was already dragging Ward aside, was grabbing Dana and Michelle—Chelle they called her—was raising his hand—Ward grabbed his father's hand.

"No," he said. "No. It was me. Maynard's lying."

"Did you lie to me, kid?" he rounds on Maynard.

"No!" Maynard says desperately, stumbling backwards and falling to the dirt. "I told you the truth! It was Dana—Dana and Chelle and their friends."

And then it is all happening too fast and Ward is scrambling for his siblings, throwing himself between them and Maynard is grabbing him and holding him back and Dana and Chelle are screaming and Ward wants to say he is sorry, wants to stop them, and then there are two bangs—two loud gunshots—

And it's all over.

Ward's mother is cowering at the door, and Maynard is staring in disbelief and Ward is screaming, screaming at a madman standing over the bodies of two young children.

He acts before he thinks.

Tackles the madman.

Fights back, for the first time.

He was always quick on his feet, always had better-than-normal hand-eye coordination.

He takes down his father.

Takes the gun.

I'm sorry I'm so sorry Dana and Chelle Dana and Chelle Dana and Chelle I'm sorry I couldn't save you I'm sorry I hurt you I'm sorry I couldn't do anything I'm so so sorry—

Two bullets in his father's heart.

One for Chelle.

One for Dana.

And then Grant Ward takes off running as if he will never stop.