The boy stared at the strange men. They wore strange dark clothing and thick padding on their arms and legs. Some were holding guns - he knew what they were because his mother's friend always had one - with the ends pointing to the ugly yellowing carpet. The boy tilted his head a bit to the side in confusion.

Why were they here?

Was his mother in trouble again?

This was not the first time men like these ones came to their run-down house. Two months before a small group of them had come. They had made the boy nervous as they had been watching his every move. But the boy did not run away from them, even if they did look scary. Instead, he glared at them.

One of the men stared down at him, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. "What's your name, young man?"

The boy narrowed his eyes further. He knew not to give his name out to strangers. That was something one of his mother's friends taught him a while ago.

"Is it Breckin?"

Again, the boy did not say anything.

The man turned to one of the others. "Not much of a talker, is he?" Then he returned his blocked gaze to the boy, Breckin. "Do you know why we are here?"

Breckin thought for a moment. There was no clear reason why these men were in his home. They were not any of his mother's friends, and they were not dropping off any weird white circles or clear tubes with sharp points at one end. He shook his head.

"Does your mother talk about something called Flare?"

"No."

"Oh, so you do talk." The man seemed happy. "You are a very lucky young man, Breckin. Do you know why?"

Breckin shook his head again.

Before the man could speak, his mother came walking out of the kitchen. She caressed Breckin's hair as she passed him; Breckin tried to flinch away, unused to her being this awake. "Is everything okay?" she asked, coming to stand in front of the group of men. "Is it done?"

The man who spoke to Breckin nodded, mouth turning down in a frown. "Yes, ma'am." He reached into his pocket. Breckin watched as the man pulled out a stack of green papers. Money. Why was the man giving his mother money? "All accounted for."

His mother snatched the bills from the man and quickly leafed through them. When she reached the end, she nodded, a smile forming on her sunken face. "Brilliant! Now, take what you need and leave." She motioned to the door with a wave of her hand. Small marks littered the inside of her elbow.

Breckin let out a gasp as the sleeve of his too-large sweater was grabbed. He dug the heels of his dusty shoes into the old carpet, grunting with effort. The man who had a hold of him gave another harsh tug. Breckin's body flew through space, and he landed on his knees with a cry.

"Mom!" he cried as thick tears welled up and ran down his face. "No! Mom! Don't let them take me!" He struggled against the hard grip on his sweater. "Mom! Mommy! Help!" He looked around frantically for her; then he saw her standing with her back to the group, to him. "Mom!" A sharp cry of pain came from him as he was dragged to his feet. He hiccuped loudly, pleading for his mother to look at him. To save him. But she was walking away, back to the kitchen. "Mommy!"

A sharp yank cut off another scream for his mother. The man holding him leaned down until his face hovered in front of his. "Your mother does not want you anymore," he said with no emotion. "Now, stop struggling and come with us."

Breckin shook his head until he saw stars. He tried to pull himself out of the strong grip but failed. Still crying for his mother, he was dragged out of the house. The scorched yard flashed past him as the man hurried him to a large dark-colored van. When the sliding door was opened enough, the man picked up Breckin and set him on the seat. Breckin fought when another man buckled him in.

The rest of the group took the remaining seats, and the van roared to life.

Breckin stared out the window at his home. The front door was shut. He waited impatiently for his mother to come running out the front door, screaming for the men to return him. He watched the house leave his sight as the van started to move. Still, his mother did not appear. Breckin choked loudly on a sob. His mother was not coming to save him.

She really did not want him.

Sobs shook his body. He curled up into a ball, feet on the seat, head on his knobbly knees. A hand patted his shoulder, but Breckin flinched away. He did not want comfort, especially not from these men.

He wanted his mother.