Wilt glanced over at the alarm clock next to Frankie's bed. Four-thirty-six, according to the electronic numbers that blared back at him. He guessed that he had been there about two hours.

Frankie whimpered and squirmed a bit closer to him in her troubled slumber. After finally crying herself completely dry, she had finally settled down in an uneasy sleep some time ago, the harrowing events of the day finally getting the best of her. Now Wilt lay down with her on the bed, his long legs overflowing over the end while he still held the miserable girl close with his good arm.

Wilt shivered a bit. Despite the fact that he knew his presence was badly need at this crucial moment, it was still just all too eerily familiar for his liking. It brought back too many memories of those seemingly endless nights. Those all too many times when he would find himself forcibly awoken by the terrified shrieks of a frightened little girl, caught in the grasps of hideous nightmares too awful to be spoken of. Those long, dreary hours of endless lullabies, constant cradling, nonstop reassurances that everything was going to be all right, and the final promise that yes, she could spend the night with him, again.

As Wilt recalled, his first few months at Foster's weren't exactly the greatest few months of his life. Unfortunately, as dark and dreary as they seemed to him, they were without a doubt at least ten times worse for Frankie. After just recently surviving a car crash in which her parents had been killed right in front of her own eyes, she hadn't exactly been in the best of shape when Madame Foster took her granddaughter from the hospital to her new "home."

To put it more bluntly, she was utterly traumatized by the whole experience. Her days were spent moping about the household or holed up in the relative safety of her room. Her nights were filled with nothing but horrible nightmares, forcing her to relive the horrible accident over and over again every time she went to sleep. Frankie was only three years old, and already her life had spiraled down the tubes into a living hell.

Fortunately however, she wasn't alone in a fight in which the odds seemed to be overwhelmingly stacked against her. Whether it was divine will that they were both to be on that same stretch of road that fateful night, or just an extraordinary stroke of luck for her, he wasn't quite sure. But after just barely snatching the little girl from the jaws of death, he wasn't going to just stand by and lose Frankie to a life of mental anguish right in front of his own eyes. Not while he could do anything about it.

It wasn't easy of course. It was an agonizingly long and painfully slow process. No matter how much her coaxed, no matter how much he cuddled or hugged, no how many times he reassured and comforted, sometimes it felt like nothing would drag Frankie out of her abysmal pit of endless misery. She would immediately run off and hide at the slightest of noises. She would burst into tears as soon as she heard someone put on their car brakes as they drove by outside. And both Wilt and Madame Foster continued to find themselves woken up every night by the most heartbreaking shrieks as the endless parades of nightmares refused to give the child any peace.

But Wilt never gave up. No matter how utterly hopeless it seemed at times, no matter how dead Frankie's responses would seem to be at his numerous daily attempts to bring her back from the grips of a deep depression, he never lost hope that everything would turn out alright. Never once did he lose faith in the little girl's ability to recover.

Wilt knew that had she not survived the initial crash that took her parents, he probably wouldn't have had the will to endure any longer a life spent simply wandering the roads, all alone and constantly possessed by pain and grief. But due to the expected attachment the traumatized little creature now had to her lanky savior, Wilt almost felt like he had been given a second chance with a new child of his own to look after, almost a second lease on life. He had failed Jordan when he was clearly needed the most; he was determined not to do the same with Frankie.

Wilt never stopped his incessant signs of love and affection, never once let up with the friendly smiles, the warm hugs, the soothing cradling, not for a moment did he not let up on his constant attacks on the shell of misery that had encased Frankie in her depression. Every day was a barrage of attempts to show the shell-shocked girl that everything was going to be all right, that she was now in a safe place where people loved and cared for her.

Wilt remembered the day of the breakthrough clearly. It was a few months after he had first arrived at Foster's. It was an unusually pleasant day for mid-March, and he decided to go shoot a few baskets outside. He expected to be alone, as the other imaginary friends for the moment were tending to stay a bit clear of the one oddball newcomer who wasn't focused on getting adopted as soon as possible. And Frankie of course, even though she would tend to toddle after him around the house like a sad puppy, wouldn't dare follow him outside, as there were too many cars there. Or so he expected.

All Wilt knew was that while fetching a ball that had bounced wildly off the backboard, he had been shocked to Frankie outside on the court, holding the ball up politely for him to take. Or at least the toddler that was with him looked like Frankie, for besides that she barely resembled the same little girl Wilt had seen sulking about earlier that morning. This Frankie stood up tall, giggled when he thanked her, and demanded in a shrill squeak that Wilt teach her everything he knew about the game she had seen him playing.

He had hardly been able to believe the sudden transformation that took place on that very day, and even to this day the whole thing still mystified him. Just like that, his constant efforts just suddenly seemed to pay off in an instant when Frankie unexpectedly and completely broke completely free from her utter misery. Literally overnight, the doleful little girl who spent her time moping about the hallways ceased to exist completely. Instead, she was suddenly replaced by a giggly, hyperactive redheaded bundle of boundless energy and constant enthusiasm.

Now, instead of sulking in bed, Frankie would forcibly wake up Wilt as early as 6:00 AM, under the pretext that the sun was up again, meaning it was time to play. Rather than run off shyly at a sudden unexpected noise, she suddenly seemed to have transformed into a little daredevil overnight, her favorite made-up game now being "Catch Me Now." Meaning of course, Frankie would jump off of everything she could possibly climb so Wilt would narrowly catch her just inches from splatting against the floor. And now, instead of hiding in the safety of her room, Wilt suddenly found himself fishing Frankie out of the laundry chute, from deep under the sink, and every other nook and cranny she would crawl into during her daily explorations around the house.

Mr. Herriman was practically driven up the wall by her antics and incessant roughhousing.

Madame Foster could barely contain her unbridled glee at the miraculous transformation that had taken place in her grandchild.

And Wilt, despite the shenanigans he had to put up every day with what turned out to be an unexpectedly hyperactive little girl, was perfectly content to have a child to look after as he served as what was more or less her unofficial imaginary friend. Everything seemed to have finally worked out, and the future looked bright and promising.

At least so he thought.

Wilt sighed heavily as he glanced over at the melancholy girl lying by his side. He could hardly imagine the intense grief she was going through. Now, he too was saddened by the fact that Foster's was quite possibly going to be losing it's favorite eight-year-old. But Frankie, he knew she had to be absolutely heartbroken. Wilt could only barely comprehend the extreme emotional pain she must have felt when she heard that Mac's family was dead, or when the boy was taken away, literally ripped out of her very arms and shipped off to some nameless institution which they refused to tell the hysterical girl about. The crushing disappointment she probably experienced when Mr. Herriman just recently flat out refused to let her adopt Mac, the only way she, and basically everyone else at Foster's could possibly get him back.

And if that all wasn't bad enough, Herriman just had to unwittingly reminded her that she too had lost her parents in a horrible car crash in which she very nearly lost her own life. Not good, not good at all.

Now Frankie dozed uneasily by his side, clinging to him tightly as a frightened infant would do to a stuffed animal. It absolutely broke Wilt's heart to see her so distressed. Over the years, watching her grow up from an energetic toddler into a strong-willed, easygoing young woman, Wilt had seen her through plenty of bad times along with all the good times. But he had quite literally not seen Frankie so utterly downtrodden and miserable since she they had first started living at Foster's, when the memory of the accident that took her mother and father was the freshest and most vivid in her mind.

Wilt thought he had seen enough of this, but fate seemed to have a cruel sense of humor. Despite everything she had done, despite all that she had successfully accomplished in her life, Frankie was once again reliving a trauma most hideous. She was losing Mac, the child she adored as the younger brother she never had. She was being forced to step aside as someone she considered her own family was taken away from her. And there didn't seem to be anything she could do to stop the horrible turn of events from taking their brutal toll.

Frankie suddenly whined softly and wriggled some more to get even closer to the imaginary friend in her uneasy slumber. Wilt sighed heavily as he hugged her as tightly as possible, as if only he could somehow shelter the girl from the cruel and merciless world that seemed bent on taking everyone whom she loved away from her.

For the next two weeks, it seemed as if a cloud of depression had settled over Foster's. It was as if with the loss of Mac, the entire establishment had lost its heart as well. All the house residents were upset by the child's shocking departure from them. However, it was quite obvious some of them were taking the tragic loss much harder than the others.

It became clear to all the resident friends that while they were all a little stunned and hurt, the sudden loss had absolutely devastated their resident caretaker. With the listless way she now stumbled about, the almost mechanical way in which she performed her daily chores, and the blank, emotionless stare she now always wore, it was like a part of Frankie had simply died the day she lost her "little brother." In just the space of twenty-four hours, the upbeat, easygoing young woman all the friends knew and loved had vanished from their midst. Instead, all they had left was a former shell of the Frankie they had once known, a mere silent shadow who would quietly wander the endless hallways and rooms performing her daily chores. The chores that she now performed with such speed and efficiency, it was as if they were all the girl had left to cling on to the skin of her sanity. The moment Frankie had nothing else left to do for the upkeep of Foster's, she would immediately run off to her room, presumably to sulk, mope, cry, or any combination of the three.

However, if the devastating loss of Mac left Frankie only a fraction of the girl that she used to be, then Bloo was only a fraction of what Frankie was in her practically half-dead emotional state. No longer was Blooragard Q. Kazoo the official House Troublemaker, or Foster's resident miscreant. The hallways and corridors became strangely empty of strange explosions, wild chases, or Frankie's outraged shrieks. Instead, with the loss of his best friend and creator, Bloo had become nothing less than a ghostly remnant of the energetic little blob he once was. Besides his quick appearances at mealtimes, eating only what he needed, he would immediately slink off to odd, God-forsaken corners of the gigantic Victorian mansion, avoiding all contact with others and wanting nothing more to wade in a pool of his own misery.

Besides this new hobby of his, the only other activity Bloo performed now was following Frankie about the house as she did her daily duties, trailing miserably at her heels. Indeed, whenever the pair were spotted together, it was as if they were just part of some bizarre funeral procession, oblivious to everything around them as they tromped about the house in a gloomy death-march.

Dark times had come to Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends.

"Miss Frances!" Mr. Herriman barked as he hopped along at a brisk pace to keep up with the object of his pursuit. "Miss Frances, please slow down!"

Frankie however, seemed utterly deaf to his incessant protests to her disobedience. Instead she marched along busily across the foyer floor, drooping shoulders carrying a bucket and old mop, which dragged along behind her. Mr. Herriman groaned in annoyance as he tried to catch up with her, holding on to his hat as he put on an extra burst of speed.

"Miss Frances, please!" he begged. "If I could just have your attention for no less than a-"

"Floors are all swept." Frankie suddenly cut in flatly, neither slowing down nor turning her head.

"Miss Frances, that's not what I meant at all! I do not wish to discuss your caretaking duties at this very moment! I simply want to-"

"Trimmed the hedges too." The girl interrupted again in the same, cold, emotionless tone.

"Miss Frances, this is exactly what I want to talk with you about!" Mr. Herriman cried, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "If you'd only allow me to speak for more than two seconds, I-"

"Gonna get started mopping the kitchen now." Frankie droned. At this, Mr. Herriman finally lost his patience and stomped his foot angrily.

"Now listen here, young lady!" he roared, jabbing his finger furiously at her. "I've had quite enough of this! You will answer me correctly for once, and we will finally-"

"Maybe I'll clean out the fridge if I finish early." Frankie murmured dully, never once slowing her pace.

That was the last straw. The glass monocle popped from his eye and clattered to the floor as Mr. Herriman's eyes bulged in fury. Fully at the end of his rope, he ripped his hat from his head, violently threw it to the floor, and yelled at the top of his lungs,

"FRANKIE FOSTER! STOP!" he bellowed in a rare lapse of conventionality. After this eruption, he leaned over a bit and catch his breath with a few powerful gulps of air. Once he had fully regained his composure, and gathered his belongings from the floor, he finally looked up again to see the results of his furious explosion.

Frankie had finally ground to a halt. For what appeared to be an agonizingly long period of time, the girl simply stood where she was, so deathly silent and immobile it was as if she had simply transformed into a statue, a petrified piece of art to be placed alongside her grandmother's bust. Finally however, her head began to slowly turn in response.

"What?" she groaned wearily.

Mr. Herriman had to stifle a gasp of shock. The girl looked as if she had been to hell and back and then repeated the process an insurmountable amount of times.

Gone was the trademark sparkle in her eyes that symbolized the fiery soul within the young woman. Instead, Frankie stared back stupidly at Mr. Herriman with a dull, glazed look through horribly sunken eyeballs. Ugly gray bags finished the job of sufficiently de-beautifying her jade eyes by sagging heavily underneath, as if the girl had been without a decent amount of sleep for days. Her normally almost perfectly smooth skin was badly marred by the way it now sagged, as if the twenty–two-year-old had suddenly aged thirty years overnight. Her clothes, usually clean and immaculate, were now covered from top to bottom with a diverse variety of blemishes and mysterious stains, making it clear Frankie had stopped caring whether her attire had been washed or not. Even her normally bright red hair, usually adorning her head like a halo of fire, had seemed to had lost it's brilliant sheen; it's dull tone reminded Herriman of the color of rust. Topped off with the way her entire posture drooped uneasily, Frankie resembled more of a zombie than the fiery-spirited redhead he was so familiar with.

For a few moments the rabbit could not help but just stare wordlessly at her absolutely wretched appearance in a mix of shock and disgust. However, true to his nature, he quickly managed to snap himself out of it, quickly getting down to business.

"I'm sorry for the outburst, Miss Frances, but please, it's been so long since I've been able to get such an opportunity. I've barely been seeing you around the house lately and…I…this is the first chance in a while that I…I need to…"

"I'm listenin', Mr. H." Frankie replied dully, oblivious to the way he had just rudely sized up her pitiful condition. Mr. Herriman anxiously fidgeted with his hands as he cleared his throat.

"Well, it's just that…your grandmother is quite worried about you…to be quite honest, the way you simply haven't been yourself lately has put most of our house residents at a great discomfort."

He waited hopefully for an irritated groan or a snappy reply. But instead, all he got in response was a dumb nod.

"So…" Frankie murmured as she began to lean heavily against her mop. With a heavy sigh, Mr. Herriman continued.

"Don't get me mistaken , Miss Frances. I most of all have been quite pleased with the way in which you've been so diligently handling your chores lately, but…"

"The kitchen linoleum isn't gonna clean itself you know." Frankie interrupted in that same cold, mechanical tone of voice.

Mr. Herriman groaned sadly. Oh, how he wished she would simply yell at him for nagging at her again, or even just ignore him completely with a huffy grunt. But now that Frankie was actually being so, well…obedient, he actually didn't really know what to say to her. To think that he had been waiting so long for such compliance from her, and now that it was finally here…it almost felt wrong. He took a hard gulp before continuing.

"Miss Frances, please." He begged. "If there's anything we can do to help, please tell us . We don't…I don't enjoy seeing you in such a condition. Please Miss, Frances, for the sake of everyone at the house, if you could just-"

"Could you at least tell me where he is?" Frankie suddenly demanded flatly.

Mr. Herriman gasped. He of all people knew very well who "he" was. In all reality, an imaginary friend of such extensive intellect as himself clearly knew what had been torturing Frankie uncontrollably for the past few weeks, reducing her to the haggard figure who now stood before him. He knew exactly what she wanted to hear. But he couldn't…he just couldn't…yet he had to…

"Miss…Miss Frances, I…" he struggled in vain to get the words out. On seeing him stutter so unnaturally, Frankie actually perked up a little bit.

"Yes?" she asked anxiously, the anticipation on her face revealing the first hint of emotion Herriman had seen on her in days. The rabbit seemed to be choking on his own words as he tried to speak up. He knew exactly what he had to say to make it right, but…

"Miss Frances, I…I'm a gentleman of my word, young lady. And as part of the agreement so as to keep you and Master Blooragard from winding up in jail…I promised the police department and Social Services that I wouldn't tell." He babbled out uncontrollably, hanging his head in shame when he finished.

Frankie stared at him silently for a few brief seconds. Mr. Herriman flinched involuntarily, as if her dull glaze was somehow piercing into his very soul. After a few moments of this treatment though, she quietly turned around and trudged off into the kitchen.

"I should be finished in about an hour." She said quietly before the door closed behind her.

Mr. Herriman groaned wearily as he slapped his forehead.

Blast it all! Not again! I knew it! I knew exactly what to say! The somber rabbit mentally grumbled to himself. I knew just what she wanted to hear. Oh dash it all, who am I fooling? It's the only thing she wants to hear. I knew…

True, he did know exactly what Frankie had wanted to hear, probably the only thing that would possibly bring her back from the edge of insanity she seemed to be wandering dangerously close to. At the sane time, it was also the only thing that would cheer up his own downtrodden creator, thoroughly depressed by the wretched state of her grandchild. Frankly, the whole situation was just all too familiar for Herriman's liking. He knew quite well what they were reliving all over again. If he could just tell Frankie…

But that was precisely the problem; he couldn't. No matter how far Madame Foster's granddaughter seemed to sink in despair, no matter how much his frazzled creator would beg him at night to talk with her, no matter what, he just couldn't do it. He just couldn't let her, much less tell her where Mac even was. True, while not doing so he continued to force Frankie to unwillingly relive the torment of her past along with the emotional stress of the recent tragedy that befell her. Yet somehow, whenever he thought about doing what everyone wished he would do, taking the only action that would benefit everyone, somehow that course of action seemed even worse.

He couldn't quite fully explain it, but that's the way it was. Doing so would seem like a complete violation of his nature, an infraction of who he was as a unique imaginary friend. He was a gentleman, a man of the rules, an upright citizen of the law who set his watch to all that was considered proper and correct. The rules of the house, the laws of the state, all the rules of proper etiquette, that was what ran his life and helped make him who he was.

Oh, if only he could just break one little rule, just this one time, for the sake of his creator's own flesh and blood!

But no, doing such a heinous act and breaking his word, to the chief of police, of all people…it would be like as soon as he did so, he would contradict his own essence and simply cease to exist. How was it that he was able to run an establishment as extensive as Foster's for all these years, managing to keep the house in tip-top shape all this time and everything running smoothly, and yet not even be able to tell a stricken girl about the whereabouts of one child?

Never in his life had he felt so torn. One part of him simply wished to do the compassionate thing, to tell Frankie what she wanted to hear, what was "right". Yet at the same time, the other part of him constantly reminded him to do his duty, to keep his promise, to uphold his honor as a gentleman, to follow what the law had dictated to him. In other words, what also was considered "right."

What a paradox his life had become.

The opening of the kitchen doors rudely interrupted Mr. Herriman's train of thought. The rabbit looked up in surprise as Frankie quickly strode out, heading straight in his direction. Almost immediately he took the opportunity to make another attempt to speak to her.

"Miss Frances, I-"

Before he could get much further, Frankie passed right by as she made a beeline for the front door.

"We're outta detergent. Be back in a bit." She announced flatly, and with that the door slammed behind her and she was gone once again.

Mr. Herriman's shoulders sagged wearily as he let out an exasperated groan. Curses, and after all he had said to Madame Foster earlier that morning to ease her worry about her granddaughter. The poor old woman, ever since Frankie's rapid descent into depression, even she was…

He quickly hopped off to his office. Maybe he'd feel better after he did some paperwork.

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