2 April 1914

That April morning would always be one that Eleanor Gussman (née Hirschfeld) would remember even in the years to come. She knew that when she had become weathered & grey just like her own grandmother, she would remember how the sun had hesitantly peeked through the clouds after such a rainy night, how the alarm clock had rung twice before she had risen from bed with curlers still tightly bound in her hair. She would remember that slither of bitterness on the back of her tongue when she noted how cold her husband's side of the bed was, telling her that he either had not gone to bed the previous night (instead preoccupied by his "hobbies") or that he risen earlier and had seen her in such a dishevelled state.

Eleanor had always known that her husband, Elliot, was an eccentric man; that was part of the reason why she had been so drawn to him all those years ago. Stuck in a time when women were only just beginning to fight for their own rights and men were just starting to fly, it was kind of nice to find solace from this topsy turvy world in someone so grounding in his strange colourfulness. But those times had passed, and with it, the initial attraction to his wild ways. Elliot was a fine man—a good man—but good men still leave, they still die, they still have all these different little caveats that could break those rosy-tinted glasses. He wasn't like the other husbands who went out with friends to the local bars, who slipped away in the middle of the night to visit other ladies (which, for that, she was grateful).

Instead, he was the kind of man who had become obsessed with everything 'Other'. Spending hours upon hours bent over his poorly hidden articles and chicken scrawled notes all about the aliens, secret governmental organisations and other such conspiracy theories that would have of sent most people to the asylum. But no matter how many times she thought about doing it, about leaving him or admitting him, she couldn't because she loved him. She couldn't deny it (just as she couldn't deny her lingering fears about what would happen if they separated) and she knew that he loved her, so they muddled through. Still, ten years into their marriage without children or other such things to show for it, left Eleanor often wishing for more.

In the end however, this new change to their life didn't come with a boom or a bang, there was no flash of light, no blood raining down nor a messenger from up on high who whispered words of fate, destiny and prophecies. No, it came simply with the chirp of the morning birds in their gutter-bound nests as they sang in the morning after such a stormy night, and the sound of someone grunting in effort as heavy footsteps hauled something across the living room floor. At first, Eleanor just assumed that Elliot was bringing in a new shipment of radios to sell, but that was strange in of itself because they had employees to do that and it was far too early for the shop to be open, even to the employees.

With brows furrowed in puzzlement, Eleanor rolled from the bed and stepped into her slippers lain waiting by the edge of the mattress, pausing to sling her paisley dressing gown over her shoulders. Tying the belt tight around her waist, the brunette stopped in front of the boudoir to take out her rollers, wash off the face cream she had applied the night before and readjusted her dressing gown before she made her way out into the main floor of the penthouse (because a woman could never be caught off-guard, no matter her state of dress). Instead, what she found made her steps stumble a little. When she had awoken that morning, she had expected to find her eccentric husband trussed up in his beloved rainbow-striped dressing gown that had clearly seen better days as he pottered about the living room with hair all askew and obsessed over his numerous "confirmed alien sightings" articles that he thought he had hidden from her.

Or perhaps, Elliot was rearranging the radios downstairs (but again, they had employees for that kind of thing) for something to occupy his hands with. Mayhaps he had felt the rare urge to go out and retrieve breakfast from Stadtler's Diner across the street, just a small romantic gesture that was rare to see in the ten years of marriage that had gone by. Instead, she found herself confronted by the sight of her husband carting in a young boy who was soaked to the bone and shaking terribly, whilst their pug dog—Mr Pennycrumb—twisted excitedly about his feet, eager to see what they had brought him.

The rain from the night before had beat down upon the town in hair-raising bullets and it frightened her to know that someone so young & vulnerable had been left out in something like that, adorned in nothing more than a few threadbare pieces of clothing (however strange they appeared to be). The boy was young, possibly only just having entered his teen years and he looked like he had seen better days. Garbed in a soggy conical party hat that seemed to give up halfway down as it flopped over on his crown, a war-torn vest of military make (possibly something that had been taken from an elderly family member as it was far too big for the boy's slender frame) bore several holes in the torso and the loose threads that hung from the edges like shredded yarn. Beneath that lay what appeared to the base layers of a school uniform, although the shirt & shorts were stained with ash and something bright blue.

Upon his feet sat a pair of bowling shoes that were just as scorched as the rest of the ensemble and although this was one of the most absurd outfits she had ever seen and she had seen a fair few thanks to Elliot's eclectic tastes and her days as a Counter Girl at The Neiman Marcus Department Store. Which would have of been fine had the boy not been soaked to the bone; brown coils plastered to his face and rosy cheeks splattered with both tear tracks and faint freckles. There was also the scent of blood on the air that set her on edge, a scented note that she could recognise anywhere thanks to her brief ventures in her mother's birthing rooms. All of this fluttered through her mind in an instant, thanks to the vestiges of her Counter Girl training taking everything in at once.

As she watched Elliot haul the young unconscious boy across the living room floor (doing his best to dodge Mr Pennycrumb's eager attempts to see what he was holding) and over to the couch, Eleanor knew without a doubt—without even looking in a mirror or seeing her husband's face—that the both of them wore identical looks of bewilderment at how this morning had turned out. Eleanor was sure, that this would be a day that she would never forget.

A couple of hours after the early morning "package" that had been found with that morning's mail, the atmosphere in the Gussman's household was finally starting to calm down some. Mr Pennycrumb had tired after a few attempts at trying to mount the couch where the mysterious boy lay, only to be removed each time. Now though, he had easily curled up under the coffee table as he gnawed on the edge of his fleece blanket (it was about thrice his size and absolutely slathered in dog slobber), much to the quiet relief of the Gussmans. Bar from a few whimpered and mournful murmurings, the boy had yet to properly awaken leaving the two adults in the dark about what had happened to him.

At first, Eleanor had thought that he might have of been a runaway (there were a few of those around at the moment, mostly from families whose children wanted to make something of themselves, whose families treated them poorly or those who were still suffering from the ongoing influenza pandemic and didn't have the money to feed all those mouths because of it). But Eleanor had seen enough in the eyes of frail women to know that whatever had happened to the boy, wasn't good and if he had runaway, it must have of been for a good reason.

"…How on Earth did he even end up in the alleyway?" Eleanor asked again, gripping tight to her half-empty mug as the Gussmans sat around the kitchen, just watching the slumbering boy from afar.

"I don't know…" Elliot shook his head in reply, not really sure how to reassure his wife. Just as she had been surprised to find him with the boy in his arms, he too had been surprised to find him out in the alley behind Commerce & Knox when he had gone to fetch the paper that morning. Leant up against the doorway that separated the kitchen from the bedroom, he let his gaze travel back over to the couch which sat square in the centre of the living room. The lumpy cushions which bore the now dry body of the unknown boy, seemed to sag in on themselves as he shifted in his sleep from time-to-time. He was tucked in to the couch as much as possible with the woollen throw blanket that had pulled up to his chin and more or less pinned him in place so that he didn't accidentally roll off of the couch when they weren't looking.

Once his wet clothes in question had been peeled off of him, they had hung them out to dry in the bathroom (at least, those that were salvageable, anyway) and the soggy cast which had been bound around his wrist had more or less fallen off as soon as they had tried to redress him in one of Elliot's old nightgowns, plus a pair of thick woollen socks & some boxers that they had managed to scrounge up. A damp flannel had been placed over his forehead in an effort to nullify the fever before it reared its ugly head and made this situation all the more harder. Who knows how long he had been out in the rain before they had found him? Both of the Gussmans had feared that if they had let him stay in those clothes for too long then something worse may have of befallen him; there was a pandemic sweeping the globe after all.

Absently tracing the protruding numbers etched onto the inside of her wrist with a prettily painted finger, Eleanor just couldn't get it out of her head that something—or someone—had delivered unto them the child that they had always wanted. She wasn't a particularly religious person these days (having been prosecuted in the past for such beliefs), but she couldn't think of any other reason such a boy would end up on their doorstep at a time like this; cold, alone & looking for shelter. It was like a sign from the heavens themselves, and she would be damed if she tried to look a gift horse in the mouth. Still, that didn't mean she had thrown her reason to the wind; she was still a logical person after all and when the boy did eventually wake, she knew that they would be having words.

"…Those—those s-scars" Eleanor choked on her words, still slightly ashen-faced from the discovery of all of the patches of marred skin that covered the mysterious boy. "There's so many of them…"

"The—the ones on his arms…are they—are they the newest? How old do you think they might be?" Elliot almost seemed too afraid to ask (Neither could determine what had happened to him before he had arrived on their doorstep, but suffice to say, it wasn't great). But as a Counter Girl he knew that his wife had seen her fair share of skin conditions and would therefore be able to somewhat discern their age as she was trained to do. She wasn't a healer, but it was close enough (or so was the motto of Neiman Marcus).

"The scars?" Eleanor hummed in thought, "A couple of months, at least. The scratch marks? A day? Two?"

"Split my infinities…!" Elliot breathed, gaze drifting back over to the couch.

"Mmm…"

The two sat in relative silence for the rest of the morning, neither really wanting to move despite the fact that they knew they would have to either open the shop soon or close it down for the day, and in doing so, send their employees home without work or pay. But both Eleanor and Elliot were far too wired—too discombobulated—to do anything but sit there and wonder; or at least Eleanor thought so. At one point when she had glanced over at Elliot, where she found him to be staring at the couch with an unreadable look upon his face. It reminded her of when he had discovered a new conspiracy or a new alien sighting article that he though that he had to try and figure out. It was like the boy was his new puzzle piece and he was trying to figure out how he would fit in with the rest of the pieces. She wasn't quite sure if it was a good thing or not. Elliot was a good man, she knew that, but even good men had their breaking point.

What have we gotten ourselves in to? Eleanor sighed into her mug, as she propped her chin up against her hand; the weight of the morning's events finally settling in now that the adrenaline had begun to dissipate. What are we going to do?