"Ha ha ha, Mom, very funny."

"Come on, you have to admit it's funny!" Her grin is as wide as ever as she glances over at me, small laughs escaping her. "Right?"

I shake my head and roll my eyes, but I can't help but laugh along with her. Her jokes are absolutely terrible, but they make me laugh every time. And that always seems to be her goal on these Thursday evenings — make me laugh as much as possible. With the dread of going back to school on my mind, it is definitely welcomed today.

I look out the window, my eyes looking at Lambeau Field as we grow closer to it. I've never been inside, nor have I (or Mom) ever been into sports, so I never saw what the big deal was. However, I can still marvel at the infrastructure itself. A lot of time was put into constructing that building, so it's nice to see.

As we start to turn the corning, I look back at Mom. "What shop should we hit up fir —?"

The scream that cuts me off is awful. I'm not sure where (or who) it's coming from, but it's there. It's masked, however, by the sound of metal scraping on metal. A terrible sound, if you ask me.

Our car spins, and I can hear more sounds that I'm blocking out at this point to focus on the sharp pains running through my legs. My scream replaces the one that ended, before another jerk causes my world to go black.

I don't know how long I am out for, but the next thing I know, I can smell smoke. My eyes flutter open, confused and hazy. Looking around to try and take everything in, try to figure out what happened. Airbags are deflated, smoke is coming from somewhere, and it honestly look like everything has been crunched. Glass litters the car from the shattered windshield, showering me in painful little pieces. The pain in my legs return, and I close my eyes and grit my teeth together. "Mom, I think my legs are hurt."

No response.

"Mom?" I look over to the driver's side of the car, and the sight causes me to scream.

She is leaning at an awkward angle, her head slumped over, and blood streaks down her face from cuts from the glass. She isn't moving at all, still unconscious from the incident. I scream loudly, whether as an attempt to wake her or in fear, I'm not entirely sure. My heart races in my chest from panic when she doesn't move. I reach for her, trying to grab her, but the angle is awkward. I can't move much as my legs are wedged between metal and fiberglass and plastic and whatever else cars are made from. It hurts, it hurts so much, but I have to push through.

With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I manage to rip my legs out from under the crushed glovebox. They're cut to hell, burned, bleeding, but I'm out. I lean over and touch her neck — she's got a pulse. Barely. I push myself out of the car through where the windshield is supposed to be, slide down the front of the car and get to the driver's side door. Somehow, by some miracle, it isn't jammed.

Without thinking, I grab the pocket knife from her jeans pocket with some maneuvering and cut the seatbelt. My heart is pounding in my ears, beating against my ribcage, my stomach doing acrobatics. She has to make it. She has to.

But she still hasn't moved, hasn't woken up, hasn't done anything. I manage to get her out of the car, get her onto the pavement as I hear sirens in the background. Someone called the police. Maybe they can wake her up.

Pulling her against my chest, I hold her close and tight. "You're gonna be okay Mom. I'm here. Please wake up, let me know you're okay. Please, Mom, I need you, you can't do this to me."

All I get in response is breaths. My entire world narrows down to her, only her, I have to make sure she gets through this. She will be okay. It's all going to be okay.

But it isn't.

As the sirens pull up, cops and ambulances, her body relaxes. Her breathing stops. Her weight goes dead on top of me. I scream for her until my throat is sore and my lungs are screaming for air, but I can't stop. This can't be real. This can't be happening.

Cops and paramedics pull us apart, and I watch them begin to do CPR on her. They're trying something, anything, to get her breathing again. But nothing is working. Between the emotional strain, the pain in my legs, my forming headache, blood loss, and trauma, my consciousness gave up. My world went dark once more.

I jump wake up with a shout, grunting as the seatbelt locks and jerks me back into my seat. My eyes close as I put my head in my hands. The memory has been replaying in my mind since the incident almost three weeks ago. Almost every time I sleep, I repeat that day all over again. I absolutely hate it. I would love a dreamless sleep once in a while.

Mr. Maddock looks in the rearview mirror, his eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright?"

A part of me feels bad for him. He's been the person taking care of me since I was released from the hospital until we could get me on a flight to New York. He's been the one to bring me water and Sprite at night and let me listen to music. He's been so polite and understanding, but I can't seem to reciprocate. My patience and politeness has been corrupted into anger and snappiness since the incident. Lack of sleep probably has something to do with it.

"I'm fine."

He doesn't question me any further.

It's hard to believe that my life has changed so dramatically in such a short amount of time. My first time flying anywhere as well, which was nerve wracking in and of itself, but I was going to meet a father I… didn't even know was alive. Mom and I never talked about him — not as a discussion anyway. She always made side comments ("You get your stubbornness from your father, you know!"), but we never discussed him. I tried once, a year or so ago, but she got so… distant, and quiet. I didn't like that side of her. She was wild and crazy, dancing to her rock songs in the kitchen while cooking supper. She wasn't quiet in any form of the word. Seeing her that way… it was unsettling.

I stare out the window as we pull into Milwaukee. I'm dreading this trip so much. Leaving Wisconsin felt like I was leaving myself behind. I grew up in Green Bay, I have so many memories. It feels like since Mom passed away, my life did too. Nothing will be the same again. I hate that.

I hate all of this.

When we arrive at the airport, I hesitate for a second once Mr. Maddock gets out of the car. Everything feels more real now. These are my last moments in Wisconsin. This is it. I breathe slowly and grab my bags, getting out of the car to follow him.

This all feels like a dream. I wish it was a dream. If it was a dream, I could wake up and go hug my mom. If it was a dream, she would be alive and well, and I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be leaving my life behind.

When I realise Mr. Maddock is talking to me, I half pay attention. He's jabbering on about how I shouldn't talk to strangers, on or off the plane, how I should call my father when I get there, etc. I nod along, pretending to listen along. I'm seventeen, I know "stranger danger" and all that. Strangers aren't typically the ones that you need to be aware of — it's the ones that grow close that are the ones you need to be aware of.

Three hours later, I'm finally on the plane. I shut my phone off and turn my iPod's airplane mode on, and plug my earbuds in my ears to avoid talking to people. I take a book out and start to read as we take off, the book's world absorbing my attention as the world around me fades away.

When the plane lands, I close my book and place it into my bag. I pause my music and place my iPod next to my phone, throwing my small handbag over my shoulder as I stand up. I watch people slowly depart, and I do one last check of my seat to make sure that I have everything I need.

With my back toward the aisle, I feel a hand place itself on my shoulder. I tense up, whipping around quickly to see who the hell was behind me.

I'm met by a tall man. Blond hair, dressed in a bluish grey suit, briefcase at his side. Details are important in these situations, so I've been told. I take in his pale skin, his one eye, the other one covered by an eyepatch. Scars still poke out the top and bottom of the eyepatch, making me wonder exactly what happened to him. He has a creepy aura about him, and I really, really don't like it.

He laughs at me, and it's annoying. Loud and choppy, it's grating on the nerves. "Oh, little one, no need to get nervous. I simply just want you to know you can get off before me."

This guy does not give me good vibes, so I just smile politely and shake my head. "It's fine. I'm looking for something anyway. Thanks for the offer." He might be creepy, but Mom drilled manners into my head at a very young age. I nod and turn away from him again, picking up the few wrappers and random things I could find around my seat.

His stare burns into the back of my head as I open my bag to shuffle around with my stuff. I don't need anything, nor am I looking for anything, but I need to keep looking busy so I have an excuse to stay behind. It doesn't take too long before people push him along, and I sneak a peak of him departing from the plane. I purposely wait an extra minute before I exit myself, as to decrease my chances of running into him again.

Pushing him out of my mind, I run to baggage claim and retrieve my stuff. Nothing has been lost, which was a big fear of mine starting this trip. I've heard many stories of people's bags getting lost, and they never seem to end with "And then they found it ten minutes later, five stars."

After a quick bathroom run, I stand outside the restroom doors, scrolling through my contacts as I find the number of my supposed father.

It barely rings once before someone picks up. "Skipper speaking."

Skipper? They told me his name was Thomas. "Um… is this Thomas McCullock?"

"Yes. Are you Liberty?"

What a warm and welcoming guy. "Yeah, this is Liberty. My plane's landed and I'm by the women's bathroom. Where are you? I can come find you."

"Never mind where we are. I'll come find you." And with that, the call is disconnected. Well, so far he seems… interesting, to say the least. From that short little conversation, I can definitely tell he's not exactly the life of the party. The polar opposite of my mother. How on earth did they manage to be together for so long?

I shove my phone into my jeans pocket and lean back against the wall. People surround me, they're everywhere, and I don't think I've ever been around this many people before in my life. It's honestly anxiety-inducing. I scan the area for anyone approaching me, anyone who could have nefarious intentions. I find myself watching for that creepy guy on the plane, just in case I need to hide.

As I'm scanning the area, I notice four men making their way towards me. They all look… vaguely similar, but also wildly different. They all have black hair, but they're all styled differently. They're all different heights, but they're all pale. I watch them closely, and I see that they seem to be following the one in the front. He stands confidently, his eyes trained on me, the expression on his face completely unreadable. Do they think I'm lost?

They all approach me, and I swallow hard. "Um… can I help you guys?"

"Are you Liberty Peregrine?"

I blink rapidly, standing up straight with a nod. "You must be Thomas McCullock."

"Call me Skipper." The snippiness in his tone catches me off guard, but I nod again. "C'mon, we'll talk more when we get out of this rat trap." His nose twitches slightly as he looks around, throwing glares at random people. The three other men grab my bags, and we are on our way.

Four men and a seventeen year old walk through an airport. It sounds like the beginning of a corny joke. Or, possibly a raunchy one. Either way, a joke nonetheless.

And that joke is now my life.

Once we are out of the "rat trap" as Skipper (Dad? Father?) calls it, the other men who haven't been introduced yet put my bags into the trunk of what looks like a taxi cab that got a horrible paint job. The one with the Mohawk gets in the driver's side, my fath — not ready yet — Skipper gets into the passenger's side. I sit between the two others, one with a Lunacorn shirt and the other being way too tall for the average guy. The car is completely silent as Mohawk starts it up and begins to drive away. The silence is uncomfortable for everyone, and I can tell Mr. Lunacorn is feeling it the most. His hands are rubbing together for a bit, before he finally just entends one. "I'm James Ryan, by the way," he explains, and the British accent pouring from his lips surprises me. "But you can call me Private."

I take his hand and shake it, smiling politely (and semi fakely) at him. "Hi, Private."

The tall guy spoke up next, shifting a bit in his seat to face me more. "I'm John Kowalski, but I just go by my last name."

I nod and repeat the same greeting. I am trying not to show how ungodly uncomfortable this whole situation is, but I'm sure everyone can feel it. The awkwardness in the car was so thick I'm sure I could cut it with a butter knife.

Private nudges Skipper gently to get him to speak up, but all he gets is a slap to the hand. Oh, okay. That was a bit of a jackass move. "This is Skipper," Private explains for him, casting a disappointed glance at the back of Skipper's head. "As you know. He's a good guy, he's just nervous is all."

"Leaders don't get nervous, Private." I look between Private and Skipper for a minute before looking to Kowalski, who just shrugs his shoulders sympathetically. This seems like a fun little dynamic.

"The one driving is Rico Narvaez," Private continues on. "He's got a condition, so he doesn't talk much. He just grunts and makes loud noises, but you'll learn to understand them eventually."

I nod and repeat my simple greeting to Rico, who gives me a rough "'Ello" back.

The rest of the car ride is silent, and I can't tell which is worse. The awkward silence or the tense conversation. Finally, we arrive at a rather large building, a sign calling it the "Central Park Apartments." Looks inviting, anyway.

After about fifteen minutes of shuffling around and moving everything up to the top floor, which seems to be Skipper's apartment. However, it looks… really big for just a simple man's apartment.

"Okay, we need to set some ground rules," he says, starting to pace back and forth in front of me. Ground rules is understandable, considering we don't know each other yet. I nod for him to continue. "One: there will be no parties and no sleepovers. Two: your bedtime is ten. Any later than that and you will be punished appropriately. Three: no boyfriends. Four: any and all friends that you make will come here for my inspection to see if they are a spy. Five: you will listen to me and you will not question anything I say. Got it?"

… I retract my statement. What the fuck kinda rules were those? "Um… yeah. I guess."

"Good. You can call me Skipper or Sir."

I blink. "No offense, but, shouldn't I…?"

"No questioning what I say." He stands in front of me, looking me dead in the eye. For the first time ever, I realise Mom had a good few inches on him. "It's Skipper or Sir, nothing else. Capiche?"

"Capiche."

He nods. "This apartment is called the HQ. I'll show you your bedroom."

"May I ask what HQ stands for?"

"Headquarters. It's where my men sleep, and so will you."

The statement "my men" makes me curious, but I am not about to ask. Not only because he made a rule against it, but also out of fear of what he means by that. Maybe I should get some earplugs at some point. Just in case. "Yes sir."

"Good."

This… is going to suck.