A/N: Hello my great readers.  I'm sorry for the delay in updating this chapter.  I actually reworked this chapter with help from my great beta-reader, my sister Krystalblaze.  Thanks for sticking around for so long and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.  Constructive criticism is always appreciated.   I apologize for the spaced-out form but italics are important in this chapter. 

Disclaimer:  I do not own Chris Irvine, Paul Leseveque, Shawn Michaels, Joanie Laurer.  I make no claim to their minds or thoughts and any picture here is only a representation.  Frances Nemark and Joseph Paean are my own creations and cannot be used without expressed permission.

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From Here to Heaven

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Chapter Eight

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Hunter: Ebbing Tide

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The nervousness emanating from Chris was so thick I was surprised the counselor didn't notice it.  Or maybe he did, but you couldn't tell from the way he smiled.  He was a young man, with a round face and bright eyes.  He looked about my age, but more clean-cut and good boyish.  His blue button-up shirt was free of wrinkles and spots, and there wasn't stubble on his chin.  Life obviously had dealt him a good hand.

The office was pretty bland, with some posters and pictures on the wall, but not very colorful.  The wooden desk we sat behind was neatly organized into piles and into trays.  A few handmade knickknacks and a dish of mints and butterscotch candy stood by a tattered computer.  A gold-plated nameplate read FRANCES NEMARK.  Nemark sat behind the desk, smiled brightly at us, and it seemed the man's vibrancy was the only thing that lit up this tiny room.

"So, let me introduce myself.  My name is Frances Nemark and I'm the ninth and tenth grade counselor at this school.  And you are . . .?"

"Paul Leseveque," I said, grudgingly citing my legal name.  I had seen the reaction to "Hunter" from professionals and it wasn't exactly encouraging.  "Paul" was a sensible, thoughtful name.  It evoked respect and fond memories.  I hated it.

"Chris Michaels," Chris said, perfectly on cue. Now the only sign of nervousness was his constantly twitching foot, as though he didn't want to sit still.  It was admirable, the way he was able to keep self-control under fire.  Granted, it wasn't all a pressing situation, but still, I knew it must be Watergate to him.

"I'm not Chris's father," I said, putting my papers on the table.  "I'm his uncle.  His father's out of town on an emergency visit, but he felt it was best if Chris enrolled in school now before he lost anymore time.  They just moved here, and we don't want him missing a moment."

Chris's foot stopped twitching and I could see him smirking out of the corner of my eye. 

Had I sounded way too sincere?

Nemark nodded like he understood.  "Of course," he said.  "I see you've gotten our papers in the mail.  I hope you'll find us most suitable.  I think you will.  Now, from where did you move?"

Chris, looking at me anxiously, the only sign of falsehood, answered, "From California."

Nemark smiled widely.  "I used to live in California myself, when I was a boy.  Where did you live at?"

I started to answer, but Chris beat me to it.  "Los Angeles," he said, his foot starting to twitch again.

Nemark smiled again.  "Well, that's good.  I'm sure it was a great city.  Why did you move?"

Chris's foot started going haywire.  "Um . . ."

"It's a private manner," I said, trying to smile at the same time.

"I see," Nemark said, his smile wavering a little.  "Not my place to prod.  Well, down to business.  Have you decided what classes you would like to take?"

Chris cleared his throat, foot slowing.  "Um, yes, but there's something about that.  We had a different system back in California.  I have enough credits to be a junior."

Nemark blinked.  "Is that so?  Do you have your transcript?"

Again with the foot.  "Um-"

"We'll be having it shortly," I said, putting on what I hoped was a charming smile.  "It was left behind in the move and it's being sent over."

Nemark smiled.  "Well, if that's all in order, I don't see why you can't already choose your classes.  Here."  He pulled open a drawer and rummaged for a few moments before emerging with a blank piece of paper.  "Write down what classes you would like.  You know, as a junior, you have to take a history, English, and science.  A math class is not required but it is encouraged.  The other classes are your electives.  PE is also required for one year, but if you've already taken it at your other school . . ."

"Yes," I said smoothly.  "He has, but there's another thing we have to discuss."  I narrowed my eyes at Chris's braced leg and Chris, luckily, took the hint.

"I was injured," he said, stomping his foot a little.  "I have to wear a brace for a few more months."

Nemark nodded without turning to look at Chris's leg.  "We have an elevator to reach the second floor in our two-story buildings.  We can give you a key for a nominal charge and you can use it when you need to."

"That's great," Chris said earnestly. 

Nemark checked his watch.  "Alright then, just write down your classes and your uncle can help me with your living information.  If you would please fill out these forms while I go outside for a second."

After handing me a few sheets to fill out he went out of the office, leaving the door open a crack.  As soon as he was gone Chris glanced at me while still writing.  "My transcript?"

"It'll be taken care of," I said curtly.  "You just fill that out and remember what classes they are."

I continued writing but I was aware that he was still looking at me.  "What?"

"How?"

"I said it will be taken care of," I growled.  "Now hurry and finish."

He complied without further protest and the office felt strangely stifled and quiet.  Chris had stopped writing and was nervously looking around the office again, foot slowing to a gentle tap now that the counselor was gone.  I wondered if he was nervous about Nemark.  I sure was.

What Shawn had asked me to do required dredging up events that I needed to have planned perfectly in my mind.  If there was a flaw I was sure it would be exposed.  I was apprehensive of the counselor as well.  I wasn't too worried about him seeing through my guise, but there was the still the possibility and I didn't like leaving possibilities hanging open.

A few moments later Nemark entered the office again and we handed him the papers.  He scanned the writing quickly and then smiled at us.  "Well, come in early on Monday, Chris, and we'll have your schedule all typed up.  Just bring in that transcript as soon as possible.  Alright then, I think we're finish-"

"Actually, Mr. Nemark, I would like to speak to you in private," I said blandly.

Chris started, his eyes wrenched.

"Of course," Nemark said pleasantly.  "Chris, if you would just step outside."

"About what?"  Chris's voice rose wildly.  "About what?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," I said, praying that he would take the hint and just walk out of the office.  The fear and panic in his eyes hurt me.

"We'll be short," Nemark promised, opening the door for Chris and showing him the way out.  "You can sit and read some of the material we have on colleges.  As a junior, it's smart to start applying now."

"I-"

"Good bye, Chris," I said forcefully, pushing him gently the final few steps out and shut the door firmly.  He'd have to weather the next couple of minutes alone, but he should be able to handle himself.  The pain in his eyes had almost overwhelmed me at first.  I didn't want him to worry, didn't want him to think I was going to hurt him.  Shawn's request took on even more urgency, even more potency than it first had.  It was no doubt, by the look in his eyes, that Chris needed what Shawn already knew he did.

"What would you like to speak to me about, Mr. Leseveque?" Nemark said politely.

I breathed in deeply, arranged the last few facts in my mind, and began to speak.  "Sir, there are a few things you need to know about Chris and then I need to ask you a question.  There is a reason Chris and his father moved here.  Before his father found him he was in a string of foster homes, up until a few months ago, where he was very badly abused.  His foster parents abused him physically and verbally, and he shows the effects of it."  Suddenly the words tumbled from my mouth, tumbled without order or rhythm, in urgency and pain, in the effort to show this man what this child had endured.  "He's afraid whenever somebody tries to touch him, he's afraid when somebody speaks loudly or yells at him.  He tries to run away, tries escape however he can.  He's afraid all the time-"

Nemark's face was purely sympathetic.  "I see," he interrupted.  "He has violent repercussions of his abuse.  I understand."

Relief flooded through me that I had made my point clear.  "So I wanted to ask you-"

"Have you seen a psychiatrist?"

I blinked for a second.  "I was just about to ask you the same question.  If you knew of any child psychiatrists that worked for low-income families and-"

"We have a psychiatrist on campus," he said, smiling wispily.  "I daresay he doesn't get enough work.  It's clear to me that Chris suffered badly and he needs help.  We can arrange it so that Chris sees our psychiatrist at least once a week during school, maybe even more if the need be.  I'm sure Dr. Paean will be happy to work with Chris."

Sweet, sweet relief surged through me.  I had thought Shawn's request would be nearly impossible.  Now I realized my own thoughts were foolish.  Of course they'd have help.  Probably some of the kids in this school already suffered the same fate as Chris.  He wasn't alone in his suffering and this doctor would help.

"That's wonderful," I said softly.  "Thank you."

"It's not trouble.  We want our students to have the best.  I'm sure there wasn't that much help in Los Angeles, with the troubles of that district now.  I'll phone over to Dr. Paean right now," he said, reaching for his phone.  "If we're lucky he may not be very busy and you can meet him right now."

"Now?"

"It's probably better to meet him before Chris starts school so we can work out a programming schedule.  You are doing this on behalf of the father, correct?"

"Of course," I said.  "Let me go and tell Chris."

"Alright," he said, waving his hand.  "I'll be out in a minute."

I opened the door to find Chris sitting at one of the round tables, a pamphlet loosely held in his hands while he stared at the wall.  At the sound of the creaking door he turned toward me, along with the other few students sitting in the room.  I went over to his table and sat down close to him.  Putting the pamphlet on the table, describing a school of journalism, he looked at me as though waiting for an answer.

There was no time to waste before Nemark came through the door.  "Chris, don't argue with me, don't interrupt, we don't have time.  You're going to see the school psychiatrist, the story-"

"I don't need some-"

"The story is," I said, more loudly, "is that you were abused by your foster parents after a bad string and then your father found you, who is Shawn.  There are purposefully holes in the story that you can fill in."  I met his crushed blue gaze and held his eyes fiercely.  "There aren't any excuses.  Shawn told me what happened in the alleyway and I know what happened the first night."  He flinched.  "You need help, Chris, and you need it badly.  I don't know what the hell they did to you, but you're weak from it.  This guy is going to help you and you are going to tell him everything that ever happened to you.  Do you understand me?"

He said nothing nor did he nod his head.

"This is going to happen whether you like it or not and the smartest thing you can do is just to accept it," I went on.  "You have to realize it, Chris.  Normal kids do not try to run away when they're parents yell at them."

"You're not my parents," he interjected.

"Don't give me that crap," I snapped.  "I don't care who we are and what we are to you, but Shawn and I found you, not anybody else.  You accepted that the first night and there's no way you're getting out of it now.  So shut your mouth and just listen to me and you tell that damn psychiatrist what he wants you to tell him."

His gaze was crushed, and his shoulders shook, and I found myself wanting to reach out and hold him.  Comfort him.  Help him find the light through the darkness that seemed permanently stuck to him.

But what good would that do?  Holding his hand wouldn't help him.  If I treated him like glass then he'd break as easily as glass.

The creaking of the door shook me back from my thoughts and I stood up.  "If you'll just follow me, please," the counselor said, smiling a sort of sad smile at Chris.  Chris rose from the chair almost sullenly, but I could still see the slight shivers in his back as he walked in front of me out of the door of this smaller room.

Entering the main hallway again Nemark started to lead us down another hallway.  Through the large glass paneled door I could see the campus.  Sprightly trees stood among a plain of grass that bounded two tall buildings and two other squat ones.  Another building presented itself, with stone tables in front of it and through glass panels in the building itself I could see more tables, indicating this was the cafeteria and quad.  To the left was a larger building, a building I thought could be the gym.  This campus presented itself as a nice campus, a quaint campus.  I hoped that Chris realized that this was one of the better schools in the area, better than the crumbling buildings closer to the big city.

We stopped in front of hallowed doorway, with a bench sitting just outside it.  The words were stamped on a small panel next to the door: SCHOOL PSYCHIATRIST.  Chris balked at the words and stepped back into me, but I gave him a gentle push forward.

"This is Dr. Paean's office," Nemark said.  "He should be expecting us."  He knocked lightly on the door and there came a gruff affirmative.

We entered the room and Dr. Paean greeted us.  He was a big man, smaller than me but not by much.  His hair was cut short and there were muscles rippling in his arms.  He looked the exact opposite of what I would have thought of a psychiatrist.

His office clearly showed that he was a psychiatrist, though his appearance did not. His large wooden desk was covered in pictures and little figurines.  The walls held motivational posters, leaflets advertising upcoming charity events, and two framed pictures, one of little children saying something about God's gift, and the other with psalms from the Bible.  He had a beaten, comfortable looking couch in one corner of the room.  This office indicated that this man could have been could have been Jesus reincarnate. 

"I'm Dr. Joseph Paean," he said, in that same gruff voice he had said yes with.  "Frances, and-?"

"Paul Leseveque," I supplied, offering a hand.  "This is my nephew Christopher Michaels."

"Hello," he said, in a grip that was surprisingly strong.  Releasing my hand he turned to Chris and offered to shake.  "Hello to you."

Chris shook his hand solemnly, sneaking glances at me through the corner of his eye.

"I hope we're not interrupting you," Nemark said. 

"Of course not."  Paean motioned to his desk and the seats in front of it.  "How about we sit and discuss?"

"I'm afraid I can't," Nemark said regretfully.  "I have another appointment."  He smiled quickly at Chris and me.  "Feel free to drop by before you leave and give me an update."  He exited the office without another word, leaving us alone with Paean.

Apprehensively we sat in the wooden chairs behind Paean's desk and he sat on the computer chair on the opposite side.  After a few minutes of rummaging in a drawer, he laid a few sheets in front of him and a pen, along with what looked like a form.  "Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, eyeing us.  His eyes were stormy gray.  "Before we talk about anything, I think that I should talk to Chris alone."

That startled me.  Leave Chris alone in here with this guy?  This guy wouldn't be in here if he weren't certified, that was true.  So why was I anxious about leaving Chris in here by himself?  It had to be just the look of this man.  Truth be told, I was a little leery about his appearance.  When I thought of psychiatrists I thought of mousy men with glasses and sympathetic eyes.  When I thought of this man I thought of prizefighters.

Chris appeared as uneasy as I felt.  His foot twitched rapidly, his whole body was tense.  Waiting.  Prepared to fly is necessary.

I forced a smile at the psychiatrist.  "Of course," I said.  "Whatever you want."  I got up from my chair and I went toward the door.  Tried to ignore the pleading in Chris's eyes.  Tried to ignore every warning signal inside my body.

I closed the door and sat on the bench just outside it.  Trying to calm my breathing I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees with my head in my hands.

Why was I so antsy about Chris being alone in the room with that man?  It wasn't he man himself; I didn't get too many warning signs from him.  Paean hadn't shown anything of wanting to harm Chris.  No indication that Chris would be his prisoner.  No, nothing like that.  He seemed, though I had spoken little words with him, like a good, wholesome guy.

So it wasn't leaving him alone with the psychiatrist that was making me edgy.

It was the fact that I was leaving him alone at all.

Startled, my gaze went to door and its lightly frosted window.  I was worried because he was alone?  Alone?  Just because I wasn't there with him?

It made no sense.  Why would that be the matter?  He was a capable kid- it had surprised me thoroughly when Shawn had called and asked me to spend the next few days over.  He had sounded worried about the kid, saying that he shouldn't be alone by himself.  Not only was the kid almost sixteen years old, he had spent most of his life trying to stay alive.  My first impression that was he could handle himself in any situation.  Apparently Shawn had thought otherwise and now I thought maybe I felt what Shawn had.

He was alone in a room with a strange man and I felt worried at that prospect.  He had spent almost half his life struggling for an existence.  When I had been sixteen, though that wasn't too long ago, my biggest worry was that my "D" would earn me a beating from my father.  And I was worried about Chris now?  I was right outside the door.  If I heard anything I'd be able to charge right in.  It wasn't like he was miles away . . . he was only yards and through a flimsy wooden door.  I had broken heavier men than the door. 

I ran my fingers through my hair.  Since that night nothing had really made sense.  The wear and tear of everyday life, the hurts I suffered in my chosen hobby, the simple goodness I had felt just being able to relax . . . now all of it felt like it was twisted into some sort of strange intangible mass that I couldn't control.  Sometimes I felt like I still wasn't over the shock of what my best friend had done.  Before that night in Salem we had both been struggling with our jobs and with our fledgling careers.  I remembered Shawn's determination to let nothing stand in front of his dream, his highest goal.  He was a man who would kill to keep anything out of his way.  And now?  I had barely spoken to him in the last few weeks.  There was a new kind of determination in his eyes, a determination that I still couldn't name.  It hurt.

My best friend, the man I had started to pursue my dream with, the man I felt was my brother, suddenly had something bigger.  Something more important.  Something that, by all indications, he had devoted his life to.  Something that sat just inside the pine door getting evaluated by a shrink.

Was I jealous of Chris?  Yes, sometimes I felt as thought I could just smash in his face for what he had done to my friendship.  Sometimes I felt as though it was all Chris's fault.  As though Chris had asked for this.  As though he had had a choice when Shawn had forcefully picked him off the street. 

Why was it that just when I thought I had a grip on reality, reality wrested a grip on me?

The door opened suddenly.

I stood up immediately, combing back my hair with my hands, and peered at my watch.  Had fifteen minutes really passed since I had first walked out of the office?  It seemed like a heartbeat.

Chris stood before he, head held low, his hair blocking any view of his face.  The psychiatrist came out behind him, holding open the door, his eyes troubled.  "May I speak with you, Mr. Leseveque?" he asked politely.

"No problem."  I stepped away from the bench, indicating with my arm that Chris should sit.  He complied, head still held low, his foot tapping some unknown melody.  I wanted to sit next to him, look into his eyes and see what was wrong. 

"Come in, come in."  Ushering me in, Paean closed the door behind him and sat behind his desk.  I took a seat on the other side of it and waited for him to speak.

"He's hardly an unusual case," he said.  "Some kids in school are exactly in the same boat as he is."  He took an awkward pause and I saw the muscles in his arms tense.  "However, he does seem more emotionally battered than most.  Can you describe to me what happened while he lived in foster care?"

I considered my words carefully before speaking.  "I'm do know some specifics, but not all.  You'd have to check with his father on that, but I do know to some extent.  He was five when his mother died, and his father never even knew he had a son.  With no way to contact his father, he was given to the government and put into foster care.  I'm not sure of the exact number of families he lived with, but he lived with quite a few and most of them abused him in some way.  Slaps here and there.  Throwing him against walls, burning him.  He's got scars on a lot of his body."

Paean looked up at me with narrowed eyes and I could almost read the message in his eyes: scars on the inside as well.

"After one of the later foster homes, they decided to try and look up his father again.  He had moved back to the city and they contacted him.  This was a few months ago and they moved out here to try and start over."  I paused, unsure of how to continue.

"So basically his father and he barely know each other."

"I would say something to that effect," I agreed.

Paean nodded and leaned back in his chair, letting his pen fall.  "I do want to work with Chris," he said.  "He seems very much emotionally damaged.  I talked to him right now, tried to get a feel for him, and he did show the signs of abuse.  Sometimes it makes children stronger, the abuse.  It is never a good thing, never.  Sometimes it tears children apart.  It will take more time with Chris to tell.  Mr. Nemark mentioned something about fear of being touched."

I told him of the night when Shawn had first presented the idea of a school, and then I told him what I knew of the day in the alley.  He listened intently, sometimes asking a question, and making notes on his pad.  After I finished he pulled out another sheet.  "If you are willing, there is medication that can be taken for Chris's symptoms."

Appalled, I sat back.  Give Chris medication?  It was ludicrous!  Symptoms?  He was just a troubled boy.  This doctor proposed to make Chris a prisoner, a prisoner to drugs and a prisoner to addiction.  With medication Chris would be little more than a druggie, no different from those who lived on the street.

Paean spoke before I could even fathom a reply.  "I will need to evaluate Chris more, of course," he said, gently.  "I was only saying that there is medication to calm him, if the need be.  It will not make him sick or weak in any way, it will only lower his anxiety level.  I will need to get his father's approval first, but I just wanted to tell you that something does exist that can lower Chris's fear."

I didn't speak, still grappling with the image of Chris sick with the sickness of addiction.

"Until then, I will personally speak with his teachers and make sure they understand Chris's case," he continued.  "I will tell them not to upset him and if they do, to send him directly to me.  Is that agreeable?"

"Yes," I answered, breathing hard.  "Yes, it's acceptable.  But until his father comes in, no medication.  No drugs."

"Of course not."  The psychiatrist pulled out another sheet and studied it.  "I can meet with him Mondays and Fridays.  From what I saw today, I believe that two sessions in one week are necessary.  Next week I'm afraid I have to meet with him Monday, even if it is his first day.  No other time slot is open for me.  I'll meet with him again on Friday, and from then on we can continue with a regular schedule."

"That's great," I said.

"Good," he said, standing up.  He tore off a pink slip of paper and handed it to me.  "Give this to the registrar on your way out and he'll type into in Chris's schedule.  The sessions will cut into twenty minutes of his last period before lunch and some of his lunch, but I think it will help."

"Alright," I said, taking the paper and shaking his hand.  "Thank you for everything."


He smiled faintly.  "I only hope I can help," he said, nodding toward the door.  "Chris is hurt badly.  Nothing can change what's happened to him."

Silently, I agreed and prayed that what couldn't be changed could somehow be fixed. 

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"We don't have to go here," Chris protested again, halting another time.  "Come on, Hunter, I can get good clothes somewhere else, this place is expensive!"

"Thirty bucks for a pair of jeans is expensive, kid," I said, my eyes wandering up to the K-Mart sign.  "Twelve bucks for a pair of jeans?  Good deal."

"The thrift store," he said desperately.  "They've got jeans for less!"

"And those jeans fall apart in two weeks," I said, grabbing his arm and jarring him a few feet.  "Now stop whining.  Do you want bad clothes?"

"I don't want clothes that cost a week's supply of food," he said, glaring up at the sign.

"This place is one of the cheapest places around here, kid.  I shop here all the time and it doesn't ruin my image."

"It's not about ruining my image!" he growled, backing up another step.  "It's about you spending money that you don't need to!"

"Okay," I said, shrugging.  "That's nice and all.  Come on."

"Come on, Hunter, there are other stores . . ." His resolve appeared to be weakening.

"Stop whining, Chris."  I gripped his elbow and gently pulled him along with me.  "I can afford this.  Really, I can.  It's not like dead-drop poor."

He twisted his head back to glare behind him.  "Then why do you drive such a bad car?"

He went slack in my grip and, surprised, I peered down at him.  His head was low and despite myself, I felt exasperation.  Every single time I talked to this kid he thought I was going to mangle him.  Battering down my impulse to say something about it, I seized on my next thought.  "What are you talking about?  You know why."

"No, I don't," he muttered, complying with my pressure to move.  "I really don't."

We entered the coolness of the store and to my little surprise I saw very few browsing the aisles.

"Not many people here," I remarked, letting Chris's arm free.

"It's eight-thirty in the morning."

I had wanted to beat the early morning Saturday rush and had woken us up at seven forty-five to get ready.  Little did I know how much time it took Chris to ready himself.  He had taken almost twenty minutes to scramble into his clothes and then eat something.  It barely took me ten minutes in the morning.  Had to be something about youth and tardiness.

"Doesn't matter," I said, eyeing the racks and racks of clothing. 

"You didn't answer my question," Chris said, still subdued as we moved toward the back of the store.  "Why is your car so bad?  Why would I know?"

"Shawn didn't tell you?"  Would this kid be wearing boys' still?  He was thin and short for his age.

"Shawn's never told me why you both have bad cars."

I stopped in the aisle dividing the boys' from the mens'.  "So what looks like you could wear?"

He hobbled toward the mens'.  "Come on, Hunter.  Why do you both have such bad cars?"

"We wrestle, you idiot," I said, focusing on a rack that held some shirts that looked like they might fit Chris.  "That's not free."

"What?"

A shrill bell sang as two more customers waltzed through the doors.  "We better hurry or we're going to get caught in the rush," I said nervously.  "Come on, this looks okay.  It will protect you from punks yet it will make you seem sophisticated."

"Hunter, what do you mean?  You wrestle?"

His bewilderment caused me to turn and stare at him.  "Yeah.  Don't be making a fuss.  You can't come along."

"I didn't know that," he said, his voice drawing out.  "Shawn never told me."

"Shawn never told you?" I echoed.  What?  How could he not?  This kid ate and slept in the same apartment as he did.  "Didn't you ever wonder where he went at night sometimes?"

"He always told me he was going shopping or something," Chris said, biting his lip.  "He was always, always late, but I never asked him why and he always came back with stuff."  He coughed.  "He did seem very battered when he came back, but he never said anything about it, so neither did I."

"That's very strange of him," I said slowly, "not telling you.  We train at the same gym."

"Is that why he said you still spoke to each other?"

"We always see each other," I said uneasily.  "Er . . . we don't speak.  Come on, that shirt looks good."

"What kind of wrestling?  Like amateur wrestling?"

"No, professional.  Like they show on TV sometimes."

"Like all the time in Canada," he said eagerly.  "Sometimes I was able to see it.  Next to hockey, wrestling is actually a really big sport."

"Well, Canadians are strange.  I'm surprised Shawn didn't tell you, but now you know.  And don't be clambering to come along.  You're too young."

"Kids my age wrestle."  Was that an argument I sensed in his tone?  "Bret Hart started training even before my age and he's great today!"

"So what are you trying to say?"

"I . . ." He trailed off, a hint of red flaring in his cheeks.  "I was just saying."

"Just saying because?"

"It was interesting," he said, and very suddenly his attention was diverted to the shirt I was eyeing.  "That looks okay," he mumbled, flipping up the price tag.   "It's eleven dollars."

"And?"

"It's eleven dollars."

"Thanks for the clarification.  Take it off the rack and you can try it on."  The shrill bell sounded again and beside it was a loud chattering.  "Find a few other things.  You need at least three shirts and three pants.  If they're cheap you can get more."

"How much are you expecting to pay on this trip?" Chris asked apprehensively.

"Somewhere under eighty, more than forty."

"Eighty?  Eighty?"

"This ain't no cave, kid, you can stop pretending," I said roughly, prodding him forward.  "Now come on before this store starts to get packed."

"That's too much, Hunter."

"It's not too much.  Most people spend a hundred on their kids' clothes."

"Hunter, eighty dollars is a lot of money."

The thin patience I had been holding onto wore out into vapor.  "Okay, enough with that," I snapped.  "Stop antagonizing yourself about it.  It's my damn money and I'll do whatever the hell I like with it.  Now stop complaining about the cost and start picking what you want.  I'll tell you when it's too much."

His face flamed again. 

I wondered for a split second why it bothered me that he was blushing and then I realized.

This kid never blushed.  This kid lowered his head and acting terrified.

Now his face grew red, his head lowered, and he went quickly away from me, but I saw only little fear in his slouched shoulders.  Through his thin shirt I saw a shiver run down his back, and I could still see his face beyond his hair, but there was no defensive action.  No sudden movement of his to sprint away.  No shying away from my harsh voice or cruel words. 

Just the red in his cheeks.  Just the blush spreading to his ears.

Well, at least we were getting somewhere.

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Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated for this chapter.