"Hello?"

"Martha, dear, have you heard from Jonathan?"

Martha sat up in her bed and cradled the receiver closer to her ear, blinking away the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. "No, Mrs. Kent. Not since this morning. Is everything all right?"

"I'm sorry. I know it's late, but I thought he might have called or come to see you."

The unease in the woman's voice only heightened Martha's worry. "Mrs. Kent, is everything all right?" she asked again, sweeping a strand of hair nervously behind one ear.

"I don't know what happened. We had words about his not going back to school. He got angry and left. At first, I thought he just went out to work but that was hours ago, and he never stays out this late. I've called all his friends. I can't find him."

Martha glanced over at the clock on her nightstand: 1:01 p.m.

"When did he leave?"

"I'm not sure. It's been hours," she repeated.

By now, Martha was on her feet and dragging the phone, tangled cords and all, to her closet, dressing hurriedly in the first clothes she found there. "Everything will be fine Mrs. Kent. I'll find him. Don't worry." She didn't wait for a reply before hanging up the phone.

She was still fighting with her coat, trying to convince it that two arms could indeed fit into the same hole as she made her way hastily downstairs. Somehow she managed to find her keys and was headed to the first place she could think of. The only place no one had been.

As she pulled into the college parking lot, it occurred to her that it might not have been the best idea to wander around the empty streets of the Met U. campus at this late hour alone. The dark, empty streets and the echo of her footsteps against the hard pavement sent an uneasy tingle down her back. She pulled her coat closed and quickened her pace. The tall fountain outside of the library was only a few yards away now.

"Jonathan," she breathed with relief as she approached.

There he was, sitting on the very bench were they had met so many months ago, his shoulders slouched, his face turned toward the shadows. He didn't give a response.

"Your mom's been worried sick. She c-" Martha's eyes dropped to the bottle clasped between both of his hands. "Have you been drinking?"

Her disbelief must have given a shake to his dulled synapses. He turned to her, looking as though he were discovering the truth of it himself, and took another sip. "I am drinking," he corrected before setting the now empty bottle on the ground by a nearly empty case under his seat.

Martha blinked several times. "I see. Do you mind telling me what you hope to accomplish?"

An ineloquent snort was all he offered, then turned away from her. "Just go home," he added stiffly while picking up another bottle and popping off the cap.

If he was looking for sympathy now, he wasn't going to get it. What he needed was to be jerked up by his pity-pants and given a good shake. "Why? So you can become a self-loathing drunk just like your friend Steve?"

He turned back, wide-eyed. "That's not--I'm not Steve Sanders, Martha."

"Really? Take a good look at yourself, Jonathan. It's pretty hard to tell the difference from here." She crossed her arms and watched him process this information, slowed considerably by the alcohol. His shoulders dropped in defeat, eyes once again turned to his feet.

"I don't need a lecture, all right? I just want to be left alone."

"Sometimes we don't get everything we want."

He looked to her again, this time with a coolness in his gaze that stirred her feelings of unease again. A wry grin spread wickedly across his lips. "You don't think I know that?" He stood, bottle in hand, and took a step in her direction, leaving barely a few inches between them. "You don't think I know that?" he repeated in a lower tone. Martha considered taking a step back but stood her ground.

Without warning, he hurled the glass bottle at the base of the fountain behind them with an angry roar. Liquid and glass spattered the ground. Martha flinched at the outburst but stayed put.

She drew a long breath. "I know you do," she said quietly. "But this isn't the answer."

He stared at the broken glass behind her, not responding. She could see the anger and hurt rising and receding in him but not spilling over a second time.

"But we'll find one, okay?"

She tried to take his hand only to have him pull it back, still not answering.

"I'm bringing you home. If you want to fight me on it, I guess that's what you'll have to do, but I think I can take you," she informed him.

Finally, he looked at her, puzzled. He appeared to be considering if she were serious or not and must have decided she was because when she took his arm, he didn't resist. "Let's go."

TBC...