Note from author: So sorry for the delay! Took on a new job and it's really sucking up my creativity. Let me know if you're reading this... let me know you're still hanging on!

Caged: Reclamation

Chapter 12

I will stay until you are well enough to go to Rico. I understand you must get to your family but I have a boy alone in that cruel America and I have to know he is well. Your money is nothing. It cannot buy him health or love. You used him for your own purposes…and that brought his life crashing down. You swore love. You have to show me that love. You have to promise me.

Once again, he heard laughter. The peels pierced the stinging haze of Raquel's words before she left and he glanced outside the tower's window. Turistas Americanos. English flew up at him and he chuffed with recognition, unconsciously caressing the wheel of his wheelchair-throne. In the wake of the deal he made with La Doctora to find Rico, he managed to stand and dress himself with these respectable day clothes, for the first time really. Standing as opposed to sitting. Strength suddenly there because… Jesus… he had to get outta here.

Big accomplishment.

God, the things that matter these days.

He took in his tan linen pants, darker tunic-like shirt, and the simple leather sandals. Realized he rather looked like a monk. El monje de la Misericordia. The name of the convent, Misericordia, meant mercy except he heard misery. Way more apt.

A miserable monk.

He laughed bitterly, a sharp rough noise, then didn't. Too much quiet to find anything very funny. The quiet of the tower room forced memories to bubble up and fill the empty space. Regret followed, gut-twisting regret, for the wrongs he did as a teenager through college to the time when he was a fugitive from prison to Blair, to the newspaper, to Téa, to heroin… prison… MK…Havana and Rico, and everyone else and everything else through to the bombing. Huge list, Everest-sized list with him at the peak, gasping for air. Thin oxygen up in regretland.

Our weapons guy is givin' us trouble on the outside.

What's goin' on? Whatcha talkin' about?

He got the ree-gret, hermano. And if he don't get off'a that cross, he gonna bleed out. Can't have the ree-grets to do what we do.

He scratched his head at hearing Rolon's voice in his head and rubbed his face, rough with growth. He definitely had a sick case of the ree-grets. Water dripped in the bathroom, the songbird moved back and forth in her cage, her claws scratching the bamboo rod. The ocean's waves splashed against the shore beyond the forest. Too. Much. Quiet. Here. That was the difference between now and then, and ghost-Rolon clearly didn't get it.

See, back in Statesville they had no time or quiet to regret the shit they did. You made decisions, one right after the other, bam, bam, bam, like a train or a factory. No ree-gret. Clanging bars and yells and fights and negotiations and flesh-on-flesh slaps from fucking or jerking off and farts and burps and more yells made enough noise to block out all thought or reflection. And at night when the chaos would die down? Heroin would take over. And for him, he flew home. Like Rolon said, too much thought, too much looking back… and you'd die from the pain. Naaah… no time or quiet for any kinda ree-gret in Statesville.

Unlike now. Where a bird danced back and forth on a bamboo rod.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The tourists in the courtyard drew his attention again and he thought way back to the earliest crimes he committed. The high school bad acts. Rape. Assault. Drunkenness. Bullying. All-around asshole. A start of a long haul. He swallowed loudly, rubbing his short hair, touching the scar there, while a little girl played with the water in the courtyard fountain. Reminded him of Starr. She splashed and giggled at her frantic mother who scolded her from a few feet away. Now a Misericordia sister went running, smiling, beaming, joining the fun. Mom decided to take a pic of the playful nun and her daughter, giving up on propriety.

Starr. Shorty. His angel who disowned him, who wrote and said, "I am going to college and I will make something of myself without you. I don't need you, I don't want you. Go to hell."

Yeah… his bottomless pit of crimes. The ones he'd done in Chicago had taken place pretty much out of Peter's purview. But what didn't get past Peter was Todd becoming something of a big man on campus thanks to football...and his seeming prowess with women…

So you think you're a bigger man than me? Huh? You got girls calling the house and friends picking you up in their Mustangs for beers in the woods? You think you're a man now?

Yeah, I do! I made the winning touchdown last night and now I'm famous! AND I'm headed to Llanview U. in August. You can't touch me today, DAD.

Todd had laughed in Peter's face. He couldn't remember the context for that little fight. Could have been over the letter he got, final confirmation of his acceptance at the university. They promised a full ride so long as he agreed to play football and keep up grades. In four or five months he'd be leaving Chicago forever. A slap on the side of his head was his reward for laughing at Peter that day, only he just laughed harder. The slaps got harder too. Got slapped until he was bent over and swearing he'd stop laughing but he couldn't. He just laughed and laughed…

I'm fucking famous!

Funny how he could tell the laugh from the tourist was American. Well, not the laugh maybe but the trailing-oh you're killing me, oh it hurts-part. He watched the group mill around and study the view, eyes in his direction. They couldn't see him, couldn't see the man in the tower. But he could see them.

Famous miserable monk. Full of ree-gret.

He remembered the poundings on the foothill field, how welcome getting rolled like that was. Deserving. He figured that was when pain as relief started. He'd run and try for the impossible end zone and players stopped him, brutal, no mercy because of course that was their moment to get a little revenge. And god it felt strangely good, the slam to the grass, the shaking of his insides, the boom to his chest and belly and head.

You're a mad man, Manning!

Funny how pain did nothing for him now. Just made him cry. Question was… what did any of this mean? All these memories, no blank spaces, no more of the white coming to rescue him. He had no idea.

With a groan, he stood up and got to the walker he now used and shuffled across the room. Back and forth, back and forth. Him and the bird doin' a dance. Scratch, scratch, scratch. He let go at some point and shuffled unassisted like an old man, hunched over a bit, pain and strain throughout his back and legs. The sandals helped with the weird foot sensitivity. He could gripe at all of that but hey, no wheelchair, mom! He smiled and ignored the sweat running down his back.

He finally just stood in the center of the room, making a growling sound he couldn't help with every exhalation because he was out of breath. Shuffling and standing took work. He closed his eyes and smelled the centuries old masonry and nuns habits and tropical humidity and palm trees dropping coconuts and the sea. And in that quiet, he could see her clear as day. Her eyes. Her earrings. Her neck… her bare shoulders as she lay on her side in bed, naked.

Téa.

You snore… did you know that?

Do I?

You sound like a bear. Like this.

He smiled at the memory of her mocking him… then didn't. He didn't know he snored until she mentioned it. If he did, nobody told him. If he did… nobody DARED to tell him. Certainly not in college. Blair never mentioned it. A thought, a vague memory though irked him because it was just so fuzzy, about Starr and Lucía. Childlike teasing about him snoring. Tickles that followed. Laughter in a morning bed. Smiles from Téa.

In Havana, Rico had a similar conversation with him…

You really are a lion. You growl all night.

Fuck you.

Yes… come on, León. Fuck me. Fuck me now.

He couldn't quite look at Rico right now. Couldn't quite… see… him. Raquel had tossed a huge pot of boiling guilt and regret about Rico at him and he was damn scalded. He preferred to look at Téa. He didn't feel less guilty or less regret but the wrong hadn't been as… direct... there at the end. He had most definitely drop-kicked Rico into the horizon. Cruelly with fully-formed mal-intent.

So yeah, there she was. Alive and sprawled before him in a Havana hotel room. The sea had infused itself into her hair and spread itself onto her skin and the growling stopped and instead a mewling cry came from him and Jesus Christ how the fuck was he going to get home to her? How was he going to show up alive and not go straight to prison for the bombing? Forget finding Rico. He couldn't set foot in the great U.S. of A. at all! He'd get the death penalty, wouldn't he? Wasn't that likely? Thirteen people died. Would the government care they were evil bastards who deserved to die? That he cleansed the world of the worst on the planet?

He looked at the Savior on the wall, the doomed man's eyes drawn to the heavens above. Todd wasn't religious, obviously, but he knew Jesus had given his life for the souls of everyone. Maybe that's what his punishment would be? Crucifiction for the souls of all the children who died at the hands of the thirteen and for those that wouldn't have to die, the future kids he saved thanks to the bombing. Absurd comparison.

Jesus was a decent guy...

Shuffle shuffle shuffle. Scratch scratch scratch.

He walked to the bathroom and then to the songbird and then to the door and out the door and to the edge of the stone steps. He'd go tumbling down if he tried them. Head first. Brains would spill and smear and redden them forever.

He managed to get back to the throne at the window right as one of the younger sisters walked in with a tray of sandwiches, a fruit salad, and a kettle of tea. She was pretty with her dark-almost-black hair and strangely mesmerizing large amber eyes that held his gaze a little too long. She smelled of the earth, femaleness… fresh-scented soap the sisters got from town and flowers from the garden.

He tilted his head towards her as she leaned forward and placed the tray on a table next to him, her warmth real and enticing. He couldn't stop looking at her. Her breasts were large and the white button-down shirt was open just enough to show the cross on the chain and it rested right at the beginnings of cleavage. The cross lay askew, stuck to moist mocha-colored skin. He licked his lips because he could practically taste her sweat, imagining her nipple in his mouth, pulling it taut, pulling it until she was panting and needing him to move inside of her. Move hard. Move in a way she wouldn't forget.

She blinked when she made the last adjustment to the tray on the table and she turned away and said softly some Spanish apology and he could not believe how eager his dick had become. Twitching even. He was seconds away from reaching into his pants and jerking himself like a circus monkey.

She paused at the door, her back to him. She wore work clothes, like Beatrice, like Raquel… the habit not hiding much of her silky locks. She turned to him finally and he knew the look he probably had on his face because she smiled and said, "I am married to God. Yet here you are, looking at me like a hungry dog."

"I am... sorry."

He dropped his gaze and lifted his knee so it rested on the wheelchair arm to hide his suddenly aching erection. He bit his lip and picked up the kettle of tea to pour. He shook with crazy restraint. If he was stronger, if he was less…caged…

If she was Téa…

Or not.

Images of pulling the sister's habit off, her pants, of her spreading her legs while on her back and him plunging into her ripped through him. He huffed with raw desire, a feeling he hadn't felt since Havana and he almost cried at this other kind of pain.

The sister returned to him and took the kettle from his trembling hand.

"I forgive you. God forgives you."

She poured the tea and added sugar she knew he liked and without skipping a beat said, "If you need a prostitute to make your healing more palatable I can arrange for it. The sisters have been concerned for you, for your… health, since you woke."

The shame choked him.

"I am… not… a dog. I am fine."

She nodded and added, "I am not a virgin so you do not need to be embarrassed. We wondered when you might notice you were surrounded by beautiful women. This is a good sign. In truth."

He took a sandwich and before he bit it he whispered, "Please go away."

She did and he dropped the sandwich back on the tray, hardly able to swallow the small bite he'd taken. He burned at his lack of control, at his complete inability to hide his thoughts. With horror, he realized that maybe this was part of the brain injury. Yeah, yeah. Had to be it. He shook his head… hopelessly… ashamed. He couldn't even explain it. Sex with anyone was way beyond his tolerance.

And out of nowhere, the old self-denial plan reared its head.

Celibacy.

He was a monk. A miserable celibate monk. He should be punished for his sins. He should be in prison. Which he was. He should not be a part of regular life. Of human…life. He would find Rico just to assure Raquel, but he would not show his face. He'd see the family just to assure himself.

But he would not join them because his wrongs were unforgivable. All of them, from the original sin of being born through the Havana terrorism. He murdered thirteen. He was the fourteenth death. It needed to be that way.

He got to his feet. What he needed was to commit his life to the man himself… the man on the cross, on the wall. He needed to lie on his belly, arms out, and give his life to Him. He needed to get down the stairs to the Sanctuary.

Praise the Savior.

He'd find his family, Rico... and then disappear forever.

It was the only option.


Jedediah walked for a while into the tropical forest as the group headed to the winery but he backtracked, getting back into the shade of the sanctuary and tower. He walked the perimeter and then read the plaque in Spanish besides the heavy church doors, seeing the name of San Pancracio, the saint beheaded at age 14 for his faith, the saint to children, the "one who holds everything." Not without a little irony, the expanse in front of the church doors and sanctuary did not hold everything but instead was quite empty: no benches or planters or pretty low-slung rock walls. Nothing but empty space and that plain stone fountain. The water trickled, the peaceful sound emphasizing the silence of the nunnery.

He moved into the sun and glanced up at the tower windows. Wondered where, if it was true, the sisters held Manuel Caro. He had no doubt that was who Pedro Moreno protected. He could almost hear the guy breathing, lurking behind columns and palm trees. Lucky man to have his life while so many undeserving people, children, rotted. Cold comfort that the journalist, Ian, had been wrong. He sighed and rubbed the ache in his chest for his dead father that he knew would never go away for as long as he lived. Tears burned his eyes.

Fuck.

He knew he'd be grieving all over again when the hope disappeared. It was inevitable. Stupid fantasy. He fucking knew it.

Only one thing countered his Caro idea… Caro's name had been floated in the Cuban press, a spearing of him, the placement of him as the corrupted mastermind of the child trafficking ring. Jed had a hard time imagining these kind-seeming nuns housing a monster. Couldn't picture the young sister who played in the fountain with the little girl tending to such a pilloried criminal.

Unless they were forced into it. Finding Caro might be a relief to these women.

That happy nun though. Splashing and giggling. Not exactly acting like a victim of Moreno.

He shoved his hands into his shorts pockets and walked the path that ran around to the back of the church. The entire facility was a large "U," church at the bottom with barracks-like buildings on the two sides. To the right was the clinic. He saw a sign directing visitors to the side entrance.

La clínica médica.

He peeked in the windows and saw examining rooms with one or two patients and a row of beds and a few sisters who clearly acted like doctors or nurses or whatever. One older lady in her habit looked up at him and stared at him a second or two, a pointed-ness to her gaze like she caught a trespasser and he slid away. He then saw a kitchen and a dining hall. Nobody sat at the tables but there were a couple of sisters cooking.

A garden filled the back area, a massive colorful tropical plot where women who had to be nuns tilled and tended to the array of blossoms. A grey cat meowed and lounged nearby, swinging his tail.

Jed studied all the windows he saw, all the doors, all the possible places a man might hide. He stood for some time studying the tower. At the top appeared columns and it seemed like it could house a bell but he didn't see a bell. Below that were closed glass-paned windows, but he knew they opened because out front, he'd spotted similar windows… open. Could be rooms. Could be.

The winery lay some yards down through the forest, closer to the shoreline, maybe as much as a quarter of a mile from where he stood and it looked like a barn that could have more hidden spaces or rooms so he'd check that out later. He was about to turn when someone laughed behind him a distance away and called out a name… another sister running along a path with a dog, a black dog. They were gone before he could get a good look.

Whatever did happen to Abram?

He lost track. Strange days after the bombing. They literally forgot about and lost poor Abram. He always felt bad about that. Hoped he was with good people. Certainly, he never left Cuba. Poetic, he supposed, with that ever present ache.

Jed sighed and made his way to the other barracks, the left side of the "U" where the sisters most likely lived. He saw sheer curtains and more than ten rooms that reminded him of dorm rooms sans decorations. Some rooms had single beds and some had two beds. Wooden crosses marked the plain walls, dressers sat without trinkets. He saw a woman in one of the rooms, through the shifting gossamer… braids piled high…gray… no habit. She was bent over and folding clothes…

He turned to continue his invasive tour and just in that moment, he realized she looked familiar. Yeah, yeah, from Havana. She looked like Raquel, La Doctora. It really looked like her but when he glanced back, she wasn't there. He brushed it off. Come on, what were the chances? Although at this point with all the crazy chance run-ins, anything was possible. Clothes still lay on the bed. Curtains wavered in a rising breeze off the ocean.

What are the chances it's her?

He continued his walk back to the front of the sanctuary, shaking his head. The place wasn't all that mysterious. This sure seemed a good place, way too good for a monster like Caro. Exactly as a convent might be.

But then… nothing is ever as it seems.

Got that right.


Raquel pressed herself hard against the wall of the room, next to the window, heart racing. Jedediah! Eyes wild and keeping still as death, she didn't know, couldn't imagine, why Blanco's son walked the grounds. She froze with indecision, stuck between relief that Blanco might be found and…dread.

She wasn't sure if this was good? Or very very bad.

She tore out of the room, down the corridor and slammed into Beatrice's office. Her sister glanced up from her papers and tilted her head, questioning. Glasses did not hide her typical judgmental expression.

"What demon chased you in here?"

Raquel shook her head, unsure of whether to come clean or let the fates determine what would happen next. The child was here. Blanco might see him. Blanco might finally come out of his exile.

Or would the law follow Jedediah? Could Blanco be facing another imprisonment, or a death sentence for the bombing? She had no idea. She'd encouraged Blanco to talk to Moreno to get a read but he hadn't done it yet. And she… definitely… had no clue what was happening in America regarding the bombing. The idea made her heart race with worry. She did not want him to go to prison.

Funny… she told him she only stayed to make sure he got to his feet and followed through on caring for Rico… but that wasn't true. Of course not. She had a soft spot for the man she knew from her cafe. The bundle of contradictions she'd grown to care about. To even love. But he didn't need her softness. He needed strength and tough positions. He always did better that way.

"Tourists," she panted, deciding on the fates. "Americans."

Beatrice shook her head and resumed her writing, "Yes, a venture by Anna to sell more wine. They are capitalists… not demons."

"They are too free on the property."

Now Beatrice leaned back. Eyes on Raquel's. "You are concerned for Angel. He would not be recognized. No visitor could know him, even if they spotted him."

Nodding, Raquel conceded the point. "Is this going to be a repeat performance?"

"Maybe." Beatrice paused. "You are rattled. Why?"

Denial. "Just surprised at so many… Americans."

Raquel left the room and headed to the Sanctuary. Ran to the Sanctuary. She needed to get to Blanco as soon as

And ran smack into Jedediah Chant.

The two crashed into each other at the back door of the church. She gasped at the sight of him.

And he… he looked so much like his father. Dark suspicion and fury on his face.

"I knew it was you," Jed growled.

"El hijo…"

"Where is he… where is Manuel Caro?!"

His words hit her like a two by four to the side of her head.

"Caro?"

"Don't fuckin' lie to me. How much did it take for you to turn on Rico, on my dad… how much money did you get to cover for that sick asshole? Huh? How much did Moreno pay you? I oughta burn this place down."

Raquel blinked and tried to translate his hateful Blanco-like words and picked up most. My god, she thought, he thinks we're hiding Manuel Caro! She almost laughed aloud. She swallowed it down. She'd laugh if it wasn't such a very dangerous misconception. She reached for his hand and he stepped back hard, disgust on his face.

"I'm right. You're hiding Caro. I can't—"

"No, no! No Caro!" In Spanish, she tried to explain… "He is not here, I would never participate in such a vile act as protecting that bastard. No! For Rico, I would never!"

She huffed, exasperated at his lack of Spanish. Desperate that he know they wouldn't let Caro near the convent. His eyes dropped to the blade at her waist. Eyes back up. Finger pointing.

"You're a liar, Raquel. Why else would you need a knife at a goddamn convent?"


He gripped the iron railing of the stairs, muscles straining and aching and his breath fast and noisy. God had gotten him onto that first flight of stone steps heading to the Sanctuary and the remembered tourists' laughter propelled him down the next.

"Keep going, you asshole, do not stop," he breathed.

His whole body trembled with effort and his hands sweated. He only had two more flights and then he'd be at the door behind the crucifix where he'd emerge into the cool peacefulness of the Sanctuary, into the colored sunlight shining through the greens, reds, blues and yellows of the windows, sunlight brightening the saints…

"Almost there," he huffed.

On the floor, he would lie on his belly, prostrate, where he'd swear fealty to God, to celibacy, to a hidden life forever. His family lost him. How could he make them lose him again? The more he thought about it, the more obvious it was. He'd be arrested, convicted… executed.

So this… was it.

Angel he would remain.

"Todd Manning is dead."

He hit the last flight and glanced upwards.

"One more…"


The tension didn't end with Raquel's swearing on her own mother's soul that she was not protecting Caro. How could he think such a thing?

"I saw Pedro Moreno in town," Jed insisted, "I saw him come here. Why else would he be here?! He obviously has business! And that business is Caro! You are protecting MANUEL CARO!"

He yelled at the end. His voice banging against the pews, the paneling, the heavy air. His hatred for all things MK exploded out of him at that. God, god, he could kill Pedro Moreno for everything he had done to his father, to his family. And now, gasoline on fire, he hid Caro from the law, from a deserved killing.

Raquel sighed with sorrow.

"Oh chiquito…"


Todd slammed to a dead stop behind the door. He'd made it down. All the way. He hadn't broken his neck in a fall down the stone steps. He doubted he could get back up. His heart pounded in his chest, so much that he wasn't sure he heard what he thought he heard.

But he did hear it. That yell. Familiar hate. Familiar accusation. Familiar voice.

You are protecting MANUEL CARO!

He stood as still as the saints in the windows. Listening. An argument. That voice again shot through the small space where the door wasn't flush with the door jamb.

"Why is he here?!"

And that cinched it. Todd gasped, rasping, "No… no… can't be…" The idea fired through him and he fell against the door. He didn't know what to do. He had to see if he was right. To hell with his plans. He had to know and nothing could stop him. Not a bone in his body, not a cell in his brain… nothing. Just like how his tears flew out, and physical desire radiated at whoever he chose, or anger at the kindest of people… he had no control.

He put his hand on the doorknob…


Beatrice came out of her office. She stood like a guard near the crucified Jesus, cool authority dripping off her, years of seeing human pain up close and personal making tears near-impossible. Her deep empathy appeared in her work… not on her person.

"Why are you screaming in God's house?"

A small part of Jedediah remained a boy and his eyes shot to the dramatic sorrow of the man on the cross and he sniffed hard, crossing his arms petulantly. He was surprised to hear English. With only a slight reduction in the level of hate roaring through him, he apologized.

"Sorry," he snapped, "but I need answers from Raquel."

"You know each other."

"Yeah," Jed snapped again, Raquel nodding.

The Mother Superior's gaze was steely, sharp eyes scanning his face and clothes and body. Evaluating him. Beatrice thought he looked awfully young and terribly, incredibly… similar to…

...Angel.

Raquel spoke up, "Jedediah here… misunderstands my presence here. He saw Pedro Moreno and made assumptions."

Beatrice moved towards Jedediah and sat down on one of the benches. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes a moment. A prayer.

"Sit and explain," she said.

"I am not leaving until I'm satisfied you are not hiding Manuel Caro. And no, I ain't gonna sit."


When he opened the door, it made a loud click and everyone in the Sanctuary turned to him. And at the sight of Jed, he knew his kid had come for him. Of course he did. Jed's hound dog of a self would never let that bombing set as an ending.

Holy...shit.

Todd Manning stood behind Jesus Christ, peering out from behind the tortured limbs of the savior. Hazel eyes gripped the shocked face of his son. With the help of nobody but God, he stepped forward onto the dais.

"Raquel isn't… protecting...Manuel Caro," he said in his scratchy rough voice that still hadn't regained its old power. "That motherfuckin' bastard… is dead."

Jed stood still, white as a ghost, his breath caught in his throat. His mouth dropped open and without any of his own doing, he collapsed to his knees. "Jesus… CHRIST…," he groaned, eyes on his father.

His… father.

All words left him, all purpose for being here at all left him. Why Cuba, why Baracoa, why anything? All he knew was that he was looking at a very-much-alive Todd Manning who just proclaimed Manuel Caro deceased. He shook his head because maybe he was hallucinating. Because those words were exactly what Jed might have imagined his dad saying. The Mad King had just declared it so! That motherfucker! Dead, I say, dead!

When he looked again, Todd still stood there, hand on a table a priest probably used for sermons or blessings or whatever Catholics do.

Raquel moved quickly to be his support. The two looked at each other, eyes hard and perplexed. Without words they both asked, what now? Eyes answered just the same, hell if I know.

Todd inched forward with Raquel's help and made it to the bench near Jed. Sitting heavily, he stared at his child in front of him who'd turned in place, just following him, there on the dusty ancient wood floor. His son. The toughest, smartest, most stubborn-ass kid he knew. Hound dog didn't come close to the persistence of Jedediah Chant. Beautiful goddamn boy. This kid had been finding Todd from the depths of hell since Jed emerged from childhood. There was no place in this world he wouldn't go to get his father.

And here he was. Goddamn.

"How did you... find… me?"

Jed was too stunned to answer, unable to stop staring at him. Todd looked so different with his nearly shaved hair, stubble, thin body in strange clothes, an expression of pain now. Relief at sitting.

"You walked down the stairs?" Raquel asked.

"All by myself, mama."

Jed stood at last and just stared. Todd's eyes moved from Raquel's to Jed's.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Pops? Oh my god..." His voice broke at that and now tears came. "Dad…" Jed wiped his face hard to clear his vision because he needed to see, to stay seeing. All his nightmares, all his agony… God, Téa! The kids! Starr!

"You're alive," he choked. "How the hell are you alive? What the fuck?!"

"Long…" The word, the word… what's the word? "...story."

"You're hurt."

"Yeah… you could say… that. Fuckin' hell."

Relieving familiar anger showed on his father's face, the frustration obvious, thick, and Jedediah found himself laughing. He was still his father. Todd Manning was still… Todd.

Jed threw himself at his dad at last, hugging him with all his strength. "Dad… god, oh my god…" Jed couldn't let go. Wouldn't. Arms tight, breaths desperate. Arms around him, crushing him against the wooden seat. "Dad… Dad…"

"It's okay, kiddo," Todd sighed, holding his kid in his own arms. "It's okay."

What now?

To be continued….