Premonitions

by CrazyKater

(3rd in a series. Sequel to Predicament) A month before two of his sons set out to Eastgate Ben Cartwright began to have a recurring bad dream. An AU take on the episode The Crucible.

2. 2

Ben and Kane stood alone on the cliff's edge.

The air was thick with the threat of cool moisture. Rain, sleet, or snow was destined to fall from the night sky above them. There were no stars, no moon of which light could be provided. Darkness surrounded them, extending in the horizon for miles. Gazing intently into this darkness, Ben did his best not to acknowledge or provide any attention to the man standing before him. He tried to ignore his chilling smile and the wicked gleam in his blue eyes.

While Ben was awake, caring for his injured son, the Eastgate sheriff had called this man, Peter Kane, a devil, and others had insinuated he was a demon in disguise. The words had haunted Ben in his waking hours though, if he were honest, he had never believed such a thing could be proven true. He would never allow himself to believe it.

While a man could be corrupt, depraved, malicious and sinister, that didn't make him an archfiend. Men were men; devils and demons were something else entirely—in his waking hours he knew Kane had been no more than a monster of a man. But in his dreams, being forced to stand before Kane as he chuckled and sneered, his eyes glistening and gleaming as he recounted things about Adam, Ben himself, and the past, things no stranger—no man—should have ever known, he wondered who or what Kane really was.

"So, you're changing the rules," Kane said, his voice disrupting the silence around them. "Good plan, Papa. I wonder what Adam will do in response?"

"I will not speak to you anymore," Ben said firmly. "I do not care for your tales."

"Why? Because you're afraid of the things I say? Or is it because of the truth I know? Oh, the things I could tell you if only you'd listen."

"I will not," Ben said.

"Hmm," Kane hummed disapprovingly; the noise which escaped him was grinding and deep. "I am disappointed in you. You may have heard tales about me, but you have no idea the tales I have heard about you. The Great Ben Cartwright, one of the bravest and strongest men the world has to offer." He scoffed. "You're not as great as the stories would lead one to believe, and you aren't brave, at least where your sons are concerned."

"Do you dare talk about—"

"Your sons are your strength but they're your weakness too. Your love for them makes you a coward. It makes you do mindless things. Take yesterday for example, Adam was lost and then he was found and now you're not taking time to consider what happened. You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him to distract you from the questions you should be asking. How did he get from the timber camp to the lake unseen? When did his direction change and why?"

"I don't know," Ben said. "And I don't care. We found him, that's what's important."

"How do you know? If you aren't privy to the truth of certain events then who are you to decide their importance?"

"I will not discuss this with you. I will not discuss anything with you."

"With God all things are possible," Kane said. "I wonder what kind of things the devil can allow one to achieve? The devil was in Ross Marquette, remember? In the end, even your son thought so; although, after Ross's death he kept that particular belief to himself. He kept a lot of things to himself. Do you remember what the time that came after was like? What Adam was like?"

Closing his eyes, Ben tried to ignore the question and the memories Kane was so determined to unearth. He didn't want to be reminded of the past. The present and future seemed difficult enough without recalling old wounds.

"The day Ross and his wife died a part of your son died too," Kane said. "He killed a part of himself when he killed his best friend. His actions which followed made that abundantly clear. You were so afraid of losing him then, do you remember? Fear consumed you. You were so worried he was becoming like his grandfather was, drinking himself into oblivion. When you didn't worry about the amount and frequency in which he was drinking, then you worried he would become too liquored to think clearly and get himself killed. And when you didn't worry about either of those things, you worried about something worse. That fateful day was coming. You could feel it approaching, remember? It was becoming closer and closer with each minute that passed, that dreaded inescapable day when he would leave home and you for good. And for a while he did. Where were you then, Papa?"

Opening his eyes, Ben didn't want to respond, but he was incapable of remaining silent. It was too painful of a memory to be ignored; Adam had left after Ross's death, but he hadn't remained gone.

"He came back," Ben said. "I brought him back."

"Even then he was different. Quiet. Distant. He became more careful and reserved."

"He came around."

"He wasn't the same. There was a distinct difference between who he had been and who he became. That was when his need to leave home truly became apparent. It was as though he couldn't tolerate remaining in place for more than a week. He began favoring business trips over being home and anytime travel was needed you began delegating it to him. You chose him for those trips over your other sons because you knew the truth. That dreaded day was closer than it had ever been; someday was approaching quicker than it ever had. What you could offer him, the life and legacy you built was ceasing to appease him. He was born a wanderer, but it was his later actions, it was his pain which gave birth to his need to run. He couldn't stay where he was, not forever. Not for long. The memories of the past were consuming him. There was too much pain for him to contend— "

"What is the point of this conversation?" Ben growled. "Why must you always repeat what I already know?"

"You're the Great Ben Cartwright, don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future. You know, you should really be thanking me."

Chill creeping up his spine, Ben was appalled.

"If it wasn't for me," Kane continued, "Adam would have remained unchanged. He would have continued wandering and running until he never came back and now..." He paused, his lips curling into a toothy grin. "...He'll never leave."

Waking from the dream suddenly, Ben found dawn had come uneventfully. He dressed quickly and quietly, silently struggling to dismiss Kane's final words. They were hard to ignore and had awoken a new kind of pain. How could he ever look upon the changes in Adam as something to be thankful for?

Striding through the hallway, he found Hoss emerging from his bedroom.

"Mornin', Pa," he whispered. Pulling his arms through his brown vest, he was careful not to shut the door behind him.

"Good morning, son."

"You look like you're in need of some good news."

Hoss nodded at the bed beyond the doorway and Ben's eyes found Adam sleeping peacefully. Seeing his eldest son in his middle one's bed was a difficult thing to interpret as good though he knew it was. If Adam had moved, if he had risen from bed and walked to Hoss's bedroom then that meant his unresponsive state had ended.

"He came in early this morning," Hoss whispered. "Of course, he didn't say nothin' but he walked in on his own. I don't mind sayin' I'm grateful he didn't remain how we found him yesterday for too long."

Ben was grateful too though he remained silent. It was difficult to feel anything beyond the disturbed emotions his dream had left behind.

He'll never leave, Kane's vicious words singsonged in his mind, torturing him with their agonizing truth.

Moving to the side of the bed, he watched Adam sleep for a moment, oddly taken by the very contradiction of his son's appearance. Curled into a tight ball beneath the blankets, his form was deceiving. He was skinny and he appeared small, the state of his body more fitting of someone much younger. It was his face which gave the truth away. The length of his beard and the slight beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes which had become more pronounced due to his dramatic weight loss. It occurred to Ben that his son did not look like a boy and he no longer looked quite like a man. He looked weak, sickly, the state of his body reflecting illness of his mind, leaving him captive somewhere between a man and a child.

How could he possibly have believed his son was capable of venturing into the outside world? How could any of them think a trip to the timber camp or even town was an appropriate idea?

Despite these grim questions there was one answer which remained unchanged since the evening before. Asking too much of Adam and then struggling with the consequences of his actions were the only things which could have demanded they see the situation for what it really was. Adam was sick and he wasn't getting better; in fact, with each day that passed, he seemed to be getting worse.

But today was bound to be better, Ben was reminded, because yesterday was decidedly worse. Yesterday Adam had been missing, lost to the land, and running from whatever he had seen or felt. Today he was safe and warm, tucked into his brother's bed and Ben intended to keep him that way.

Longing to feel him, to have tangible proof of Adam's physical presence, Ben extended his hand and carded his fingers through his son's unruly hair. Adam looked so feeble, so defenseless beneath the blankets. He looked like someone who needed to be protected and cared for. He looked a stranger in comparison to who he had once been.

Ben thought of Ross Marquette then—though he didn't want to. It was a hard comparison to avoid. A glaring one that everyone around him seemed as aware of as himself. Doc Martin had likened Adam's mental confusion to that of Ross. Ben still knew they were drastically different. While they both were unbalanced, the symptoms of their respective unbalances were different. Ross had taken to hurting others but Adam seemed intent on only hurting himself. Even so, violence was violence and both types of brutality demanded to be stopped. It was Adam who had been forced to stop Ross, and Ben knew it was he who needed to stop Adam. He would do for his son what couldn't be done for another. He would save Adam from himself. One way or another, somehow, some way he would.

"Doc was worried about leavin' him alone," Hoss whispered. "You want him up and out?"

Reaching for an extra quilt folded on the top of the bureau, Ben shook it and his head. "No," he said. "Let him sleep. We'll leave the door open and I'll check on him after a bit."

Tucking the quilt over Adam, Ben glanced at the oil lamp. It was flame burning so slightly that it was in danger of being extinguished by even the slightest burst of air. It was a problem Hoss quickly noted and rectified before following his father out of the room.

They came upon a Joe in the hallway. Holding his boots in one hand, he was covering his yawning mouth with the other. Nudging their backs with the palms of his hands, Ben silently shepherded both of his sons down the stairs.

"We need to talk about Adam," he said, standing at the foot of the fireplace as his sons gathered around.

"What does that mean?" Blinking blearily, Joe sat on the blue chair and dropped his boots on the floor and cast Ben a tired look.

"It means things are gonna change," Hoss provided softly.

"What kind of things?" Brows furrowing, Joe looked between his brother and his father; any tiredness he had been feeling was chased away by anticipation and concern. "Now what does that mean?"

"We need to accept the way things are," Hoss said. "What Adam can do and what he can't. He ain't the same, Joe. We've all known that for a while, and if we didn't then yesterday was proof of it. Adam's in a bad way, there's no use in hidin' that from each other now."

"He's sick," Joe stubbornly insisted. "That doesn't mean he can't get better."

"He's not getting better," Ben said sadly. Oh, how the word hurt to say aloud. "Joseph, he can't take care of himself."

"He ain't to be trusted alone," Hoss said. "He hurt himself before, he'll do it again."

Ben wondered how in-depth Hoss's conversation with Doctor Martin had been, if this was another thing which had been advised or if it was a deduction Hoss had made on his own. It was bound to be the latter; Hoss was as aware of Adam's odd behavior as his father. He had seen and acknowledged his older brother's self-harming actions and it had concerned him enough not to offer Adam a gun prior to their visit at the timber camp.

"Is this about what Frank Marshal said about Adam yesterday?" Joe demanded. "Because, I'm tellin' you, Pa, Frank is a liar. He was a liar when he worked at the Silver Dollar and he's a liar now."

"It ain't about what Frank said," Hoss said. "It's about what Adam did. Now I don't like or believe that man any more than you do, Joe, but that don't change the fact that Adam is the one who chose to run away. He was the one who decided to go missing and take himself to the lake. Nobody helped him; nobody told him to take off his clothes and sit in the cold water. He did it all on his own. I'm worried; Pa's worried and you should be too, because we don't know what else Adam might choose to do on his own."

"Yesterday we were lucky, Joe," Ben said softly. "We found him and brought him home safe; in the future we may not be so fortunate. Adam needs to be... watched. He doesn't eat; he doesn't sleep in his own bed. He needs to be cared for and told what to do."

"You'll turn him into an invalid," Joe said, his voice trembling and eyes filling with furious tears. "Adam is strong, Pa. He's always been so... strong."

"I know," Ben said, his voice tight. In Joe's expression he saw his own emotions, sadness over what Adam's life had become and fear over the unknown deterioration the future could potentially bring. He empathized with his youngest son's dread and anxiety over changing anything where Adam was concerned. What if they made it too easy for him to remain sick? What if by changing their expectations of him, they were ensuring he never improved?

"Things have to change, Joe," Hoss said. "You know it, don't act like you don't."

"Haven't they changed enough?" Joe asked. Elbows propped in his knees, he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. Breaths coming in shaky gasps, it took a moment for him to compose himself enough to continue. "You're giving up on him."

Ben frowned. "I am not— "

"Yes," Joe insisted. "You are. You both are. It's like when we're searching for him in the desert all over again. Don't you remember, Pa? The minute when we were gonna give up is the very moment we found him. We were ready to give in and then there he was."

It was an occasion Ben didn't think he wouldn't ever forget, both due to the relief and guilt attached to it. They had given up on finding Adam and then out of nowhere he had appeared. If it was a decision made five minutes earlier, if Adam's pace had been any slower, they would have missed him completely. He would have died in the desert, laughing and chattering nonsense while carrying Kane's body around. They had given up then and Adam could have died. It was a decision that haunted all of them, he supposed. But this decision was nothing like that one. He wasn't resigning himself to accepting his oldest son's assumed death; he was doing what was necessary to keep him alive.

"Joe," Ben said gently. Moving away from the fireplace, he crouched in front of his son. His knees ached and cracked in protest of the movement, irrefutable evidence of his age. "Look at me."

Staring at the floorboards, sniffling, and swiping his hands over his eyes, Joe did not comply.

Ben wanted to tell him there was no shame in shedding tears over the conversation; some truths were harder to accept than others. There was no harm in expressing sadness; there was nothing wrong with grieving the loss of the Adam they once knew. However, there was wrong and fault in remaining in denial, in not doing everything possible to help the person Adam had become.

"I know this isn't easy," Ben said. "I know it hurts."

"It hurts more because it's Adam," Hoss said, soft knowing words which finally prompted Joe to look up and set his eyes upon his older brother. "Like you said, Joe, he's always been strong. Maybe that's why it's got to be okay for him to be a little weak. Nobody's infallible, little brother."

"I know that," Joe whispered. "I just wish I knew what he went through; I wish I knew what was making him feel or do what he does."

"We all wish that," Ben said.

"I wish I could help him," Joe said.

"Adam's always been our older brother," Hoss said. "And he'll always be that, even now. It's hard to accept him the way he is now because he's never been like how he is. He's always been stubborn and strong, lovin' and protecting us, both when we was kids and even sometimes when we were grown. He wasn't always happy about it neither, but he did it because that's what older brothers do. He watched over us our whole lives, Joe, and now it's time for us to do the same for him. We got to love and protect him, even if it's from himself, and that's how you help him now."

Joe considered the words for a moment, then cleared his throat and swiped his hands over his eyes, wiping away his tears. He glanced at Ben, then at Hoss, then repeated the motion. When he laid his eyes upon Hoss a third time, he didn't look away. Green eyes shining with determination, he pursued his lips and nodded firmly.

"Okay," he agreed.

"Okay," Hoss repeated. "Now, let's see what Hop Sing has on for breakfast."

Smiling slightly, Ben finally stood. As he watched his sons rise from their seats and make their way to the kitchen, he was grateful for the wisdom shared among brothers, all the things his middle son could convince both his older and younger son to believe and do. Hoss's patience, kindness, and quiet insight were all gifts. Though Hoss would never ask for one, Ben knew he owed him an apology for his previous doubts.

"Hoss hold back for a minute," he said.

Casting a forlorn look at the kitchen, Hoss hesitated in place and then turned around. "Yeah, Pa?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pants pockets as he closed the gap between them.

"I'm sorry," Ben said. "For the things I said last night. I was worried, which I know is a poor excuse."

"Ah, Pa," Hoss said, scrunching his nose. "I know that. You don't have to apologize. I reckon sometimes there's just nothing fear can't make a man believe."

"That doesn't make what I said to you right."

"It don't exactly make it wrong neither."

"Well, either way, I want you to know I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted you. I trust you indefinitely when it comes to your brothers."

"I know." Smiling Hoss turned, then hesitated and looked at his father once more. "Pa?" he asked. "Just what exactly did Frank Marshal say to you when you rode together lookin' for Adam?"

"What do you mean?"

"What did he say about Adam?"

"Nothing much. He said they were friends."

"Friends, huh?" Hoss appeared perplexed.

"Well, friendly," Ben qualified. "Why?"

"I don't know much about Adam and Frank being friends or even friendly. In fact, I recall them being just about the opposite."

"Frank said Adam was the one who hired him."

"Oh, he did," Hoss said. "But I don't think Adam offerin' Frank a job had anything to do with them being on good terms."

"What makes you say that?"

"Like Joe said, Frank was a hand from Silver Dollar. He's the wandering type, used to come and go quite a bit in those days. He'd turn up to work round up for Ross every year and he wouldn't stick around after. He showed up in Virginia City a month or two after Ross and Del died, about the time when Adam was really going through his... difficulties. He and Frank were known to have violent disagreements at the saloon. Hearsay was that Frank was of the opinion Adam owed him a job because... well, because he was the one who killed Ross and by doing so he had dismantled the Silver Dollar's business operation and cost him his job."

"Hearsay?"

"Hearsay to me." Hoss shrugged. "I never witnessed the fights myself and never could get anything out of Adam afterward about what started 'em."

Ben didn't need specific details; he could imagine the derogatory things that could have been said and how it would have made Adam feel. During that time, Adam had felt bad enough—he had blamed himself enough for what had happened to Ross—he hadn't needed anyone else to declare him guilty of what he already perceived as a crime.

"Frank said Adam saved him from himself," Ben said. "He said it was a favor he would like to return."

"Frank says a lot of things."

"Like what?" Ben pressed.

"Does it matter?" Hoss asked.

Ben wasn't sure. The information Frank had volunteered conflicted with what Hoss or even Joe knew. Had the man been lying and if so, then for what gain?

"You know, I thought a lot about Frank last night," Hoss continued. "Adam and Ross Marquette too. I kept thinking about what happened with Ross, what Adam was forced to do and how he was after, all the drinkin' and running away he did. And then I thought about how he ran away yesterday and how Frank said he looked him in the eye and grinned. I don't know if I believe that, but I think maybe seeing Frank at the camp may have something to do with Adam running. Don't ask me why. I just do."

How did he get from the timber camp to the lake unseen? Kane's words echoed in Ben's mind. When did his direction change and why?

"Do you trust Frank Marshal?" Ben asked an odd feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "Do you think he was telling the truth about how your brother left that camp?"

"No." Hoss shook his head. "Not even a little bit. Not that matters much though, because whether I believe Frank or not, it still don't explain how Adam left without anyone noticing or how he made it to the lake without being seen. Somebody should have seen something, Pa; it doesn't make sense that Frank was the only one who did."

Nodding, Ben silently agreed. It was odd, the things Frank had said and the things Adam had done. He didn't like strangers and he didn't like to be alone, but he hadn't been alone at the timber camp. He had been in both of his brothers' company, and, friend or something else, Frank hadn't been a stranger. So why would Adam run?

This was a question Ben would spend the afternoon considering whilst in the company of his silent oldest son.

The day was relatively unspectacular, which was a gift in comparison to one which had come before. Adam slept late into the morning, then rose, dressed, and descended the staircase on his own. He appeared slightly tired but not overly so. His facial expressions were temperate and unenthusiastic. To Ben, it seemed as though the day prior hadn't happened at all—as if Adam's unresponsive state had come and gone without Adam being truly aware of it ever taking place.

Nursing a cup of coffee, Ben sat with him at the table, carefully watching as Adam shoved the breakfast Hop Sing had cooked for him idly back and forth on his plate. They sat there for a while, long enough for Ben to refill his coffee cup and for Adam's food to become cold.

Watching his son fiddle with his fork before placing it on the table with a heavy sigh, Ben finally decided some encouragement was needed.

"Adam, if there is something else you would rather eat that can be obliged. If you don't want what has been given to you then use your words to ask for something else. You have to eat, son; you've lost too much weight, even you must be aware of that."

He waited for a reaction, for a stubborn spark to appear in Adam's eyes as he silently opposed the ultimatum. He expected some kind of unsavory response; the threat of shoving the plate on the floor, or of something else. He anticipated some sort of stubborn challenge.

One never came.

Retrieving his fork, Adam gave the contents of his plate one final shove before he began to slowly eat. More time passed around Ben and his son; it took a while but Adam was able to stomach half of his breakfast. Dropping the fork, he pushed the plate back slightly and peered at his father as though to ask if what he had eaten was enough.

Smiling, Ben decided it was. "That's good enough for now," he said.

Nodding once, Adam pushed his chair back from the table, preparing to stand as his father grasped his forearm and ceased his movement.

"Wait," Ben said. He hadn't meant to keep Adam at the table any longer than necessary; he hadn't had any intention of addressing what had happened yesterday. His instruction was impetuous, as unpredictable as the next words out of his mouth. "I met a friend of yours yesterday, Frank Marshal. He's one of your men at the timber camp. He said you hired him. Do you remember doing that?"

He wasn't expecting an answer; he was looking for a reaction. Hints of conflict or familiarity etched on this oldest son's face. He saw neither as Adam's stony expression did not waiver. Eyes set on the wall behind Ben, he didn't appear bothered by the mention of Frank; he didn't seem the slightest bit concerned about the recount of yesterday's events. It was as though they were happenings which had nothing to do with him; it was as though his father was chronicling sparse events of someone else's day, a person whom Adam had no interest in or concern for.

"He helped me look for you," Ben said. "He said you ran up the mountain and into the trees. Do you remember doing that?"

As Adam's focus didn't waiver, Ben wondered if he was being ignored. Then he wondered why he was pushing this topic of conversation, struggling to glean answers to questions Adam remained unwilling to speak about or completely unaware of.

Squeezing his son's forearm reassuringly, Ben forced a small smile and himself to abandon the conversation. "Well, we found you," he said. "That's what's important."

How do you know? Kane's question rang in Ben's ears. If you aren't privy to the truth of certain events, then who are you decide their importance?

Suddenly fidgeting beneath the weight of his father's hand, Adam turned in his chair and cast a wide-eyed gaze at the end of the table opposite his father. It was the oddest thing—Ben recognized that in the moment. Eyes focused on the empty chair at the end of the table, Adam's breaths were quiet and labored as he began to tremble.

"Adam?" Ben asked. "What's wrong?"

Shaking his head in an overwhelmed manner, Adam pulled his arm away from his father and stood. A series of frantic paces took him from the table to the base of the staircase, where he suddenly stopped; turning in place, he set his eyes on the empty chair once more. Hand moving absently, he tugged at his shirtsleeve until the button on the cuff gave out and fell on the floor, then slipping his fingertips beneath the gaping fabric, he began to scratch his arm.

The movements were slow, harmless at first. Then, as Ben approached, they became something more; quick, furious, and violent, his nails dug and raked his skin deeply, reopening the wounds he had inflicted upon himself the day before and leaving a set of fresh long puckered lines behind.

Grasping his son's arm, Ben held it firmly and pulled it away, his own eyes wide and horrified. Blood dripped from Adam's forearm, a thick, deep red substance which matched the stains on his fingertips.

"Adam," Ben said, his voice soft, thick, and full of shock.

Looking at his father, Adam's face was void of emotion. He stared at him for a moment, then looked back at the empty chair, then looked at his father, and then back at the chair.

Ben felt as though he was missing something, something important, something big. Some invisible detail that would allow him to finally understand everything. Why Adam ran away; why he hurt himself; and why he suddenly seemed so afraid.

Looking at the chair, Ben didn't see anything. It was empty; there was nothing to see. Nothing to explain Adam's behavior; nothing to explain anything at all.

Breathing coming in panicked gasps, Adam's body grew weak beneath his weight. Wobbling slightly, his knees buckled and he began to fall.

Letting go of his son's wrist, Ben caught him easily and hoisted his limp body into his arms. Though he had never seen the beginning of one of his son's unresponsive states before, he was certain that was what this was. He had no idea what caused it. How could something as harmless as a chair possibly give birth to such a thing?

Cradling his son, he placed him in a different chair, the blue one that was so loved, safe and familiar. Kneeling before Adam, Ben held his cheeks in both of his palms, forcing his son to look at him.

Slowly, Adam's eyes were becoming dull and glazed.

"You're not doing this," Ben said, forcing as firm of a tone as he could. "Do you understand me? You're not doing this, not now. Not ever again. Stay with me, Adam. Don't run away like this."

Staring absently, Adam's head began to grow heavy in his hands and Ben felt a panic rise in chest. Little by little, he was losing his son to another state of absentness that would last for who knew how long. He had had him and now he was losing him again.

There were splotches of blood everywhere, smeared stains collecting upon both their shirts, the chair, and the floor. Bright and accusing, they served as evidence of another good day turned bad. Tired of all the bad days, Ben was desperate for some good.

"Stay with me, Adam," he repeated firmly. "I can help you; I can protect you from whatever it is you can't escape. Please, please, son, don't do this again. Darling, I..." He hesitated, shocking even himself with the epithet. It had been years since it had escaped him, ages since it had been directed toward one of his sons.

It was the word that seemed to change everything. Body becoming rigid beneath his weight, Adam pushed the back of his head toward the chair as the dull, glazed look in his eyes transformed to something else.

Hands falling from his son's cheeks, Ben gripped Adam's knees. A relieved smile danced on his lips as he saw a hint of anger and indigence in his son's hazel eyes. While Adam may have retained Papa, keeping it in his vast repertoire for use in private and as ammunition, he hadn't allowed Ben to do the same.

"You always did hate when I called you that," Ben said. "Even when you were a baby, I'm convinced. You put an end to its use as soon as you could speak. I suppose, it is a comfort to know some things will never change."

Trembling beneath his father's hands, Adam cast a worried glance at the chair once more. Brows knitting, his face contorted painfully as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was still terribly upset, frightened, and intimated by a dining room chair, the presence of which was something he had been accustomed to for years.

It didn't make sense how the morning could start so well and then end like this. It simply didn't seem logical for Adam to be fine one moment and then so overcome the next, overwhelmed by seemingly nothing. There was nothing in the chair, any rational man could see that, but Adam wasn't a rational man, not right now. Not anymore.

Watching Adam's focus remain frozen on the intimate object, Ben thought about Frank Marshal and his odd recount of how Adam had left the timber camp. Frank had said Adam seemed nervous. He had said he kept looking over his shoulder and staring at the base of the mountain.

It was weird, Frank's recount echoed in Ben's ears, the way he was looking at it, like somebody or something was there. I didn't see nobody, but I think maybe he did.

Ben cast a confused glance at the empty chair. There was still nothing to be seen, nothing suspicious at all.

His eyes, they were gleaming, glistening with something akin to evil.

Looking at Adam, Ben found his son's eyes were gleaming, glistening not with anything close to evil but unshed tears.

"What's over there, Adam?" Ben asked softly as Adam's bottom lip began to quiver. "What could possibly be bothering you this much?"

Adam didn't answer; Ben didn't expect him to. He did anticipate, however, the sobbing fit which quickly consumed his son.

"It's okay," Ben reassured. "I promise you it is. Whatever it is, it can't hurt you. I'm right here.

Adam's cries were full of agitation, so deep they rattled his chest. Panicked, fearful, and devastated, they were accompanied by tears which seemed to have no end.

Ben did the only thing he could think of to help his son's pain. Pulling Adam's shaking body close, he held and rocked him, rubbing slow circles on his back. Mournfully, he couldn't help noting this was the most noise he had heard from his son in weeks. It was so reminiscent of the sobbing fit Adam had when he had been found wandering the desert—or even the ones which had come after. It was knowledge that did nothing to calm his worry, or hasten what felt like age-old questions as they sprung to the forefront of his mind.

What was going on? What was happening to his son?

Xx

In the following days, Ben came to believe it was not the chair that had disturbed Adam.

Of course, he never really believed his son's distress had been because of the inanimate object. He just hadn't known what exactly had caused it, what could have been so frightening, overwhelming, and daunting to prompt or demand such a violent reaction.

The chair was removed, a decision swiftly made by Hop Sing. He had been waiting, quietly watching Adam and Ben's interaction from the small hallway connecting the dining room and the kitchen. When Adam's tears had finally calmed to a sporadic sniffle and he had not yet been willing to emancipate himself from his father's arms, Hop Sing had quietly entered the dining room. He took the chair, removing it without explanation, permission, or apology. Ben neither asked why he was doing such a thing nor did he ever glean where the dreaded item was to be taken. At the time, he was too focused on Adam to be concerned about anything else.

But Hop Sing came to him later, when Adam was in the company of his brothers.

Standing in front of the fireplace, a drink in his hand, Ben stared absently at the flames. He wasn't thinking of anything, rather he was trying not to think of anything at all. Taking solace in the absence of thought was a difficult thing to do; there were always so many things to think about, countless moments to recall, and endless worry.

Hop Sing was quiet, light on his feet; Ben hadn't realized the man had approached until he turned around, his back facing the flames. He discovered Hop Sing standing paces away. They assessed each other for a few silent moments, each seemingly waiting for the other to speak.

It was Hop Sing who spoke first, his face contorting, pinching with concern. "What frightens Mista Adam not chair," he said. The statement was matter-of-fact; his voice was quiet but his tone was firm; there was a conviction behind his words and in his dark eyes.

The statement was not something Ben needed confirmation of. Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, he took a series of small sips, allowing a few more moments to pass and the right words to come to him before he finally replied.

"He's confused," Ben said, repeating the obvious. "His mind is sick."

"No," Hop Sing disagreed firmly, shaking his head. "No. He no sick. He no confused."

Ben frowned. It had been such a taxing day; he was not in the mood to navigate Hop Sing's denial.

"Hop Sing—"

"Mista Adam leave. He go with younger brother to deliver cattle. He become lost." Hop Sing pointed at Ben. "Father and brothers leave too. They gone for long time. They find him; they bring him home, but Mista Adam no come back alone."

"I know. He returned with us."

"No," Hop Sing said. "Father take time, see through Adam eyes, he understand Adam only one who see clearly."

"He sees what clearly?"

"Móguǐ," Hop Sing said grimly. It was a word and reference Ben couldn't begin to understand as he watched Hop Sing raise his hands and waive them purposely through the air, firmly punctuating his next words. "No sick, no confused. He no come back alone."

Ben dismissed the concerned warning. He accounted for the odd, determined statement to cultural differences and definitions of words lost in translation. Surely, he and Hop Sing equally understood the sad truth of what was happening to Adam; if they could speak further on the topic, both utilizing and comprehending the same language, then they would come to find they were saying the same thing. After all, Adam had not come home alone; he had been in the company of his family. He hadn't been sick then or confused—at least not at first. Those things had come later. And as for the chair, both Ben and Hop Sing knew it was nothing to be frightened of. It was only Adam whose opinion differed.

In the days which followed, the chair remained absent from the table and Hop Sing lingered closer to Adam than he ever had before. Using a fine-tipped brush began to paint Chinese symbols on the tops of Adam's hands, whispering what sounded to Ben like prayers or incantations in his native language while the ink dried. Ben didn't know if he approved of such a thing but something about the symbols seemed to be comforting to Adam; they calmed him in a way nothing had before.

When Hop Sing's drawings expanded from the back of Adam's hand to the back of his bedroom door, however, Ben was furious. Adam's confusion didn't justify defacing the woodgrain of a perfectly good door. He immediately demanded it be replaced, then something incredible happened. No longer rising in the middle of the night, Adam remained in his own bed, in his own room. And that was when Ben decided to leave well enough alone. Hop Sing could write all over the house if it left Adam confident enough to spend the night on his own.

Adam's newfound nighttime routine wasn't so easily accepted by everyone. With his older brother in his own bed, it was Hoss's slumber which became disturbed. He woke multiple times during the night, overcome by worry and anxious to verify Adam's safety.

"Sometimes I dream we never found him," Hoss admitted to Ben one morning. "It was easier to ignore my nightmares when I woke up and he was on the other side of my bed. Now, with him gone, I open my eyes still believing the dreams are real and I have no choice but to look in on him, and every time I do, I find myself wishin' he was still too afraid to spend the night alone."

Shaking his head, Hoss's conflict over stating such a thing was clear.

"I hate I'm sayin' it, Pa," he continued. "I really do. But just because Adam suddenly decided he ain't afraid to be in his room alone that don't mean he should be allowed to be."

"Why?" Ben pressed softly.

"He don't sleep. Every time I look in on him, I find him awake. He's never in bed; he's always by the window, standing or sitting as he stares out into the darkness like there's something out there to be seen. It's like he's standing watch. It's like he's waiting for something to come. I know that don't that don't make sense, but swear that's what it seems like."

It was Hoss who had first discovered Adam's odd behavior during the night and it was Ben who was the first to identify and note his eldest son's strange reactions to things during the day. The occasion with the chair was the first and most of the ones which followed were subtle in comparison to that morning; they were so minute they could have almost gone unnoticed. Ben began to wonder if he had been missing them all along.

Adam would be peaceful, unbothered one moment, his attention set on whatever lay before him, and then it was as though he perceived something about his surroundings as suddenly changed, then he would change.

Brows knitting painfully, fists clenched, he would set his focus on something neither Ben nor his other sons could see. His breathing would change, each inhale becoming more labored than the one before; his eyes would change, widening with dread and fear. He would move then; seemingly turning his back on whatever it was he saw, he would find a new place to sit or stand and then it would be over. The situation would be calmed as quickly as it became troublesome.

They were such quick, small reactions, easily missed or overlooked by a casual observer, and Ben was convinced he had been missing them. Determined not to see what was before him, afraid of seeing Adam as who had become, of bracing himself to react rather than prevent a bad day, he was convinced he had missed the strange behavior as it happened before. But now, keeping careful watch, viewing his oldest son under almost a microscopic lens, he missed next to nothing.

He came to be grateful for the moment Adam was bothered by the empty chair, for the emotional breakdown which followed, and his own reaction to his son's behavior, his determination to keep Adam mentally present, not allowing him to disassociate with the here and now. It was a moment that changed nothing and everything at the same time. It didn't change how Adam was; it didn't make everything suddenly better; it didn't magically transform Adam from the person he had become back into who he once was but things did improve, because Ben's understanding shifted. His interpretation of his son's behavior changed.

Adam was seeing things, of this Ben was certain. And it was because of this certainty, of the new lens he used to interpret and understand his son's behavior, he was able to assist him more effectively. When Adam became truly bothered, frightened, and tormented by something unseen, when moving away from the assumed source of distress did nothing to calm him, Ben no longer allowed his son to run away or give himself into another state of unresponsiveness. He remained by Adam's side, holding, and speaking to him, grounding him in the moment in a way only a father could.

On particularly bad occasions, times when nothing seemed to calm his anxiety or fear, Adam would reach for his arm, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve to scratch. Ben would reach to his son's hand then, directing it away from the harm he intended to inflict and towards something else. He began employing an age-old tactic he had once depended upon when his sons were much younger than they currently were. He would distract him, stealing his attention away from whatever was causing him so much distress. It didn't often work, but sometimes it did.

Distraction was a tactic Hoss quickly picked up on and utilized, coaxing his quiet older brother into countless games of checkers around the fireplace when Adam seemed particularly tense. Adam's enthusiasm over such a thing was lackluster; still, he played, besting his brother more often than he lost.

Little Joe still seemed to struggle with accepting how things were, the changes he perceived as Hoss and Ben giving up on Adam. But he did what he was asked of him; he watched over Adam when his brother ventured into the yard and then barn, assisting him with morning chores. Ben had been conflicted about stripping away what was left of Adam's sparse duties. He neither liked the thought of his oldest son having no responsibilities nor did he think it was prudent to allow him to complete such rigorous chores given the state of his emaciated body. What was currently good for his body, Ben was certain wasn't good for Adam's mind, and he struggled with making the appropriate choice for his son.

Unbeknownst to him, it was Joe who solved his father's conundrum. Advising Adam to dress warm, he had asked him to accompany him outside to do what he did best, supervise him and Hoss as they completed the chores. Ben was grateful for the magnificence of the idea, the discretion and kindness displayed by his youngest son toward his eldest one. Later, he was grateful for another thoughtful gesture Joe made. Traveling to Virginia City for supplies, Joe returned with a couple of items not on either Hop Sing's or his father's lists, two new books which he promptly gave to Adam.

"I don't think you've read these before," he said. "I thought maybe you'd want to."

And much to the surprise and delight of his family, Adam did want to read them. They became the first books he opened since returning home.

Ben began to regard the quiet peaceful moments with Adam as gifts. He was grateful for each and every one. It was so easy to forget anything had changed when they were taking place; with Joe and Hoss bickering about this or that and with Adam, sitting cross legged in front of the fireplace, his head buried in a book, it was so easy to pretend nothing had ever changed.

Of course, things had changed.

Adam was still anxiety-ridden and agonizingly quiet. If one didn't know to look for him, to note his presence and watch him carefully, he could spend hours in a room without anyone realizing he was there. His eyes were still glazed, dull and absent; most of the time it appeared he was looking through rather than at the things which surrounded him. He was still thin; disinterested in and adverse to eating, he ate sparingly—some days not at all and others the minimum his father required for him to leave the table. He still had good days and bad, occasions when the presence of his father was enough to calm him and others when it wasn't.

Overall, however, things felt different. Adam seemed different and his brothers were different too. Calmness had enveloped them, a kind of curious peace. No longer waking each morning anticipating a good day or bad, for Adam to improve or decline, they were able to negotiate each day, each moment as it came without feeling hastened by what it could or should have been. His younger sons had relaxed, accepted things as they were. Ben only wished he could do the same.

The knowledge of Adam's odd reactions to things which couldn't be seen lingered, as did Hop Sing's actions, his validation of whatever it was Adam feared. To Ben, it all seemed so strange, Adam's tense reactions to seemingly nothing and his acceptance of Hop Sing's support; he couldn't help likening the behavior of the Adam of the present to the one of the past.

Adam had always been indefatigable, unrelenting in his beliefs. He wasn't afraid to stand alone; he had never needed anyone to be on his side. It bothered Ben that Hop Sing's actions soothed Adam. It began to make him think—as ludicrous of a notion as it was—that something about what his son saw and feared was real. If someone other than Adam believed in whatever it was, then who was to say it wasn't?

It was a preposterous idea—Ben knew that. Adam's mind was sick, therefore susceptible to suggestion— Ben knew this too— but something about how Hop Sing was able to soothe Adam so efficiently with his painted symbols and prayers. Adam had always been so stanch, obstinate in his beliefs. If sickness had truly grabbed a hold of his mind, embedding itself and rendering him incapable of practical thought, then would anything Hop Sing did help? Would anything any of them do ever actually help?

It was the quiet moments which forced Ben to consider this question. It led to other others, unearthing haunting memories of the things he had heard.

Father take time, see through Adam eyes, then understand Adam only one who see clearly, Hop Sing had said, advice he had given freely in the hopes Ben could understand what was apparently so clear.

Was I a man? Was I a demon? Or was I a devil in disguise? Kane had asked in Ben's dreams, a question which had never made sense when it had been asked. It was only as of late that Ben began to truly wonder who or what the man actually was. Was he a demon? Sent by the devil to torture and break Adam and then the rest of the family. Adam had once said that if a man believed in God, then he had no choice but to believe in the devil too. Like Kane had reminded Ben in his dream, Adam had once admitted he thought the devil had taken over Ross Marquette.

They were close like brothers, Doctor Martin had said, speaking about Ross and Adam. I recall a time when people used to call them twins. As adolescents they followed each other like shadows. If one was in trouble the other wasn't far behind.

How do you save your son from the devil, Mister Cartwright? Kane had asked over and over again. Oh, the things I could tell you if only you'd listen. Adam was lost and then he was found and now you're not taking time to consider what actually happened. You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him distract you from the questions you should be asking.

Were these the questions he should be asking? Should he be less worried about what happened in the desert and more concerned about what had prompted the changes in his son after?

When they found Adam, he had been upset but still talking—though the things he had said hadn't made a lot of sense. He didn't want to play anymore games, and he wanted to be let go. Those were the most prominent things he had said, repeating them over and over again. And then, seemingly finally becoming aware of his words, Adam stopped saying them. He stopped saying anything at all.

What did any of those things have to do with right now?

It was the past which haunted Ben now. Eternally eager to rise from the depth of his memory to torture him with their shifting contexts and inexplicit possibilities. He could recall the words which had been said, however, he never seemed able to define the explicit reasons they had been said. Intention was fickle and fleeting. He no longer assumed he had ever understood the true reasons anything had been said.

If you need somebody to blame, then blame me, Adam had said that night about the campfire. It was one of just a few things Ben could readily recall his son saying after being found. Because what happened was my fault. It… it was all my fault.

Had Adam really been talking about how the events which had led him to be lost in the desert, or was he referring to something else?

I thought I'd never see you again, Adam had said. It was a relieved statement he had directed toward his beloved horse. He hadn't said anything of the sort to his family. Once he became aware of himself in the Eastgate boarding house, he had never directly expressed relief over being found. In the days which followed, he had never acted as though he was happy or grateful to be alive.

Dragging Peter Kane's body around the desert, had he wanted things to turn out different than they had? Had he wanted to die too? Was this the reason for his actions now? Starving himself and disappearing, giving up on life and quietly wasting away before his family's very eyes.

Guilt can make a man do asinine things, the Eastgate sheriff had said.

I'm sorry, Adam had said almost immediately upon waking. It was an apology meant for losing the money for the cattle when he was robbed but nothing else. He never spoke about why he had gone against his father's direct orders, deciding to extend his trip and enter the desert alone. He never spoke of what he had been looking for or what he had found.

But later he spoke of other things.

That's going to be me out there, Adam had whispered breathlessly as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth.

I wonder what kind of story he's going to tell? Kane's memory was always so quick to ask. Is he willing to take responsibility for what he's done or is he going to try to hide it?

Time had forced Ben to believe it was the latter. Adam had chosen muteness over explanations, confusion over acceptance, prolonged sickness over deliverance. He had abandoned his old life—his old self—in exchange for what he had become.

You don't know what happened, Adam's words often echoed in Ben's mind. You don't know… You don't know... You don't know... You don't know!

He still didn't. It was a fact Ben was ashamed to admit he had given up on refuting or hoping would change.

Xx

Frank Marshal came calling on Adam one particularly cold afternoon; Ben didn't know what to think of the man, the things he had heard about him, the things Frank had said himself, or his determined interest in eldest son. He didn't know what to think, but he knew what to do. Adam wasn't up to seeing anyone; he told Frank as much, which seemed to sadden him.

"Winter is on the immediate horizon," Frank said. Brows furrowing, he squinted through the sparse snowflakes falling from the sky.

"It is." Ben wondered why such an obvious thing needed to be addressed.

"If he ain't up to it now, do you think Adam might be up for a visit come Spring? I really need to talk to him."

"Hard telling," Ben said.

"I take it he's never been the predictable sort."

Looking at Frank warily, Ben didn't reply.

"Well," Frank said, expelling the word with a hearty exhale. "If he ain't up for a visit today then can you remind him of something?"

"Maybe. Depends on what it is you want to say."

"You tell him that summer goes awfully fast. Spring and Fall pass by a man before he even knows they've truly arrived. It's winter and now there won't be going much of anywhere at all, except for maybe the barn, some of the closer pasture."

The statement was invasive, odd coming from a man whom Ben considered a stranger. What did Frank care about where Adam went? How was it his business or concern him at all?

"Why do you want him reminded of that?" Ben asked.

Frank shook his head. "You just tell him. Trust me, he'll understand."

Nodding curtly, Ben bid farewell to Frank, half-hoping the man would see fit to never visit his home again. It wasn't until much later, when he was lying awake in bed that he recalled Frank's statement, recognizing it as something he had heard before.

Adam had said those words. Sitting on his father's desk, he had said what Frank had repeated nearly verbatim when making his argument to drive the cattle to Eastgate. It was an unsettling revelation. One which led Ben to believe more had taken place between Frank Mitchel and Adam than previously believed.

Even so, Ben didn't relay Frank's message to Adam. He did share it with Doc Martin and Hoss who both reinforced the decision he had already made. Adam had enough to deal with without adding Frank to his load. There was no sense in sharing a message from an assumed adversary that could disrupt what little progress he had made.

"I think Adam sees things," Ben said one frigid morning.

Sitting across from Doctor Martin in the doctor's small office, he looked forlornly out the window at the large snowflakes falling from the sky. Large piles of the frozen flakes were beginning to accumulate, composing cold piles, and leaving any roads and trails to be traveled rimy and taxing, slightly dangerous for those who didn't see fit to taper their horse's speed.

"You are aware of the event with the chair," Ben added. "There have been others since; though not quite so dramatic, they have occurred nonetheless. He sees things, things that the rest of us can't."

"That does not surprise me," Martin said evenly. "Given his level of psychosis, I would say seeing imaginary things is a predictable development."

"It surprised me," Ben grunted. "Adam has always had such a logical, literal mind. Never once in that boy's life did I believe him capable of seeing things which were not real."

"Pain and suffering are very transformative things. Sometimes they can make the most logical of men disconnected and confused."

"Hop Sing believes the things Adam sees are real."

"He told you that?"

"In so many words." Ben shrugged. "As you know, we really only share a few that can be mutually understood. But it is his actions which declare his belief."

"Painting on Adam's hands and door," Martin provided.

It was information that was not eagerly disclosed; Martin had noted the drawings on Adam's hands during a visit subsequent to his distress over the chair as he treated the wounds marking Adam's arm. The deep, long scratches had since healed, leaving red, puckered scars behind. Though they would fade with time, a hint of them would always remain, proving as a reminder of what Adam had done. They served as a permanent warning of what he could always do again given the chance.

"Hop Sing prays over him too, scatters collections of herbs and things," Ben said. "He carved an amulet, hung it on a strip of leather and around Adam's neck. He won't allow it to be removed. Adam won't even take it off when he bathes."

Martin was nonplused. "Eastern medicine is capable of amazing things." Tilting his head, his lips curled into a small smile. "I won't pretend to understand it but that doesn't lessen its effectiveness."

"Is that what it is? Drawing on hands and doorways, whispering prayers, and carving periapts? None of that sounds like medicine to me."

"Easterners have their own way of doing things. The power of suggestion is a very efficacious thing. Sometimes all that is needed is for the tiniest seed of an idea to be planted for a concept to grow. Adam feels better because Hop Sing acts as though what he's doing should make him that way. It isn't the acts themselves that are allowing Adam to improve; it's his belief in them."

"He isn't gullible," Ben disagreed. "He's careful about the people and actions in which he places faith. He may have decided to become mute but he's not simpleminded. He's thoughtful, calculated, logical and literal. He isn't an easy man to convince."

"Yes." Martin cast Ben a sad look. "He was. I'm sorry, Ben; I do feel a duty to remind you, the things you're saying about your son, you're describing the Adam of before, not now."

Exhaling heartily, Ben hung his head. He hadn't intended on embarking on a conversation that would betray the hope he held on to, or the doubt he harbored about what Adam felt or why.

"Statements like that do nothing to answer the question as to why Hop Sing's methods work," Ben said. "Adam is nothing if not determined, even now. His current behavior is testament to that. He's stubborn, steadfast in what he knows and believes. He's never needed anyone to validate his opinions or the truths he is certain of. He is unfaltering in his truth, even when no one else holds the same opinion as his own."

"It bothers you that Hop Sing's efforts help," Martin said matter-of-factly.

"Of course, it bothers me."

"Jealousy and resentment are natural emotions given the situation. As Adam's father, you are accustomed to being the person who he comes to during troubling times. You've always been the one who could advise and comfort him best, and now you aren't."

"I am not jealous or resentful of Hop Sing," Ben said firmly. "I'm grateful for his efforts and how they have helped my son. It's because of Hop Sing that Adam has made the improvement he has."

"Then why are you bothered?"

"Because I saw how he looked at that empty chair," Ben said. "I saw how afraid he was. He wanted so badly to leave that moment and I forced him to stay in it. Things like that don't happen over nothing. People don't break without ample reason to. I know my son. I know how he thinks and what he would do. If Adam was afraid of something which existed merely in his head, then nothing anyone else did or said would help. He doesn't need validation. He's never been afraid of standing alone."

"Until the day he finally was," Martin said seriously. "It is a sad fact that those of us who seem the strongest are the hardest ones to watch break. Adam is not who he once was; I thought you had given up on the Adam of the past."

"You say that like it's easy," Ben snapped. "Like it's something one can just decide upon and do." He didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. He knew his son had changed; he didn't need to be reminded. He was no longer concerned by changes themselves rather what prompted them. The indefinable, elusive thing that transformed Adam right before his eyes. "For thirty-four years that boy has been by my side. I know him. Sick or not, that hasn't changed. I'm telling you, there's more to this. There must be more. It's almost as if..." He paused, his brows furrowing in thought.

It was almost as if what? What was it, really?

He couldn't help thinking of how Adam had been as a child. Late to talk, he was always so purposeful with his words, thoughtful and articulate; even as a youngster it was as though he took the time to think of exactly the right words to communicate what he wanted to say. There had been times when he had stopped speaking back then too, regretful occasions Ben tried hard not to unearth. There was no avoiding thinking of them now. There was no ignoring the rough moments they had experienced during their travels West; the things Ben had done to protect his son and how Adam had reacted after. He had been afraid, so terribly afraid; it had led to periods of prolonged silence. Days and sometimes weeks would pass without Adam daring to utter even a word.

Adam was a grown man now and with all the ways he had changed there was one which he had remained the same. True terror, pure and overwhelming, had always rendered him speechless. It was his defense mechanism when he didn't know how to employ anything else. When he didn't know how to articulate how he felt or the things weighing on his soul. But never in his life had Adam taken this long to come around and speak about things; previously, Ben had always been able to process what was haunting his son and discern what he needed to do or say to help.

What about this situation was different than anything that had happened before? What was important? The unknown things that happened to Adam in the desert or what had come after?

"I think Adam is afraid," Ben added, soft words he hadn't intended to say aloud. "More than that even, I think he's terrified. I am certain he sees things the rest of us can't. Either he is frightened because he knows the things he sees are not real and he can feel reality slipping away from him, or he's terrified because he knows the things he sees are real and he doesn't know how to make them go away."

"Do you really think that's a distinction he could make? Do you think him capable of identifying and declaring his own behavior and delusions irrational?"

"Yes. I do, because if that is the case then his actions would make sense."

"How so?"

"His silence wouldn't be so confusing. He's always been quiet when his mind is troubled. He doesn't talk about things the way my other sons do. He doesn't seek advice or help until he's certain he's up against something he can't handle on his own. He's broods, something which I don't think has changed. It's like..."

Ben's face contorted with thought. Had Adam always seen things? From the moment he had woken up in Eastgate, had he always been haunted by something the rest of them remained unaware of? He was so different upon waking. Quiet and strange when he was amongst his family; skeptical, spiteful, and palpably fearful of anyone he didn't recognize.

Let me go, Adam had cried when Hoss held on to him after being found. I just want to get away from you.

It's not right, Adam had once protested weakly. Pulling anxiously on his shirtsleeves, his troubled gaze had shifted nomadically around the boarding house bedroom. I don't like it.

Get away from me, Adam had said to the Eastgate doctor as he assessed him with an astounding level of hatred. I-I just want to get away.

"Something has a hold on him," Ben said. "Something has wormed its way inside of his head; it's impacting his judgement and actions; it's making him change. I'm not sure what it is exactly. I don't know if it's guilt or pain or the memories of the things that happened to him."

"Or the invisible things he sees," Martin provided. His skepticism was clear. "Which you believe might be real."

Ben cast Martin a wary glance.

"You're a good father, Ben," Martin said, his voice softening. "You have weathered the difficulty of this storm admirably, but wanting something to be true does not make it so. You say you think Adam sees things, something which Hop Sing has decided to support him in. I'm telling you hallucinations aren't real. Wanting to believe the things Adam sees are real is never going to change the fact that they are not. They aren't real. If the rest of us can't see them, then they can't possibly be real."

"It's real to him. I'm his father, shouldn't that be enough to make it real to me?"

"No. You allow him to glean whatever comfort he can from the indulgences of others, but you are his father, Ben, and as such, you must always serve as a beacon of truth. Take solace and joy in the quiet moments, the ways in which Adam has improved. You give thanks for the good days and you love and support him through the bad. Don't you dare start feeding his sickness by affirming his irrational beliefs. You have always been a pillar of strength to your sons, it isn't becoming for you to grow weak now. Sometimes slight improvement in conditions can become more like hindrances rather than gifts. Adam has gotten slightly better than he was; I don't think anyone can fault you for wanting more, or for a reason to attribute his condition to that would allow it to be suddenly fixed. There is no fault in hope but do not allow it to conceal the truth in front of your eyes. Adam is sick and he's likely to stay that way."

Nodding, Ben conceded the conversation but not the nagging thought. What kind of father was he if didn't support his sons in their beliefs? What kind of man abandoned their child, especially when they seemed the most lost?

Though he knew it had been offered with the best of intentions, he was longer certain if he would continue to follow Martin's advice.

Xx

In the following days more snow came.

Falling eagerly from the sky, it collected in gargantuan piles in the landscape surrounding the ranch house as the temperature continued to drop and once again Adam began to favor his time alone.

It should have been a favorable sign, and, in a way, it was. With Hop Sing's symbols painted prominently on the doorframe, Adam was no longer averse to remaining in his bedroom. He spent hours there; it was time he spent mostly alone though never with the door closed. Ben never allowed the door to be closed. It was something that had become somewhat of a silent bone of contention between him and his eldest son.

Curiously, Adam wanted the door to remain shut; each time he entered he would close it only to have it immediately reopened by his father or one of his brothers. He looked so disgruntled each time it pushed open, his brows furrowing with disdain, defiance glistening in his eyes. He looked so reminiscent of the Adam of before that Ben was always left anticipating the terse words his son could say. Fierce statements about being a grown man in need of space and privacy and the freedom to close his own bedroom door. These declarations remained imaginary, however, as Adam remained palpably angry but silent, and the door remained open, untouched after each time its closure was corrected—something Ben verified again and again, traveling up the staircase and down the hallway to check in on him.

Adam always looked the same when his father looked in on him. Sitting in a chair next to the window, his legs curled up beneath him, an open book lay ignored in his lap. Ben wasn't certain when he discovered it wasn't being read, rather just held on to; he wasn't sure when he had noted what the book was or that the page in which it was turned to was always the same.

It was the Bible that Adam had begun to cling to; it was the story of Cain and his brother, Abel, that the open book eternally displayed. This was a coincidental detail that bothered Ben when he really thought about it. It reminded him of Peter Kane, a supposed evil man who had been exiled to the desert outside of Eastgate. It made him wonder if Adam had heard the stories about Kane prior to meeting him or what kind of stories he could tell about him if he ever spoke.

Absently toying with the pendant Hop Sing had made, Adam's gaze was set on the frigid landscape outside of the windowpane, his attention focused on whatever he believed lay beyond.

There was something about Adam's eyes that worried Ben. Sparkling with resignation and sadness, ever-so-often a hint of longing could be distinguished, rising above the dull, glassy pools the family had become accustomed to seeing. It was a longing Ben recognized; a solid hint of the old Adam being displayed by the new. His son always had a difficult time enduring winter; cold and short, the days seemed to pass at a sluggish pace; each seeming longer than the one before as the intensity of the weather grounded him in place for too long. It was this same longing in his son's eyes that took Ben by surprise. It frightened him in a way he couldn't explain.

If this Adam chose to leave; if he ran away, became lost in the elements, and was never found, he would most certainly die. He was not capable of surviving the way he once had been.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Ben asked gently. Gripping his son's boney shoulder, he held tight. It was an assurance he asserted frequently these days; words he hoped Adam would hear, internalize, and believe. "There is nothing you could do or say that would change the way I feel about you. There is no fight you could ever find yourself engaged in which I would not stand by your side."

Adam's gaze didn't falter from the window as he seemingly ignored the words.

"I'm here, Adam," Ben added softly. "I'm not going anywhere." He shook his head sadly. "And, I suppose, neither are you. You know there was a time, not so long ago, when I used to dread what your future held, the kind of difficulties and gifts it would bring you. Now I find myself dreading the very same things only for completely different reasons. You will always have a home here, you know that. I will always do my best to keep you safe and take care of you, and when I'm gone, I have faith that your brothers will do the same. The only question that truly remains is what will you do? Is this the kind of life you want to lead? Is a future where you become someone to be taken care of permanently, something you aspire to?"

It wasn't an easy thing to say or ask. But the words had to be spoken; they had to be heard—even if they weren't ever properly acknowledged. Just because Adam had chosen not to speak it didn't excuse him from conversations about the truth. It didn't render him exempt from listening to his father's advice or point-of-view. If anything, it made such conversations more needed, valuable when making decisions about the future.

What you allow will most likely continue, Doctor Martin's aged words rang in Ben's memory. It was advice given so long ago now but that didn't make it any less true.

Don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future, Kane's words sprung readily to mind.

Mista Adam leave, Hop Sing's statement quickly followed.

I wanted to be alone, the memory of Adam's explanation around the campfire chimed in, composing a heart-wrenching conversation that existed somewhere between reality and imagination. The statements had all been said by the respective parties though neither in response to one another nor in the same conversation.

He become lost, Hop Sing said.

It was my decision to go, Adam said sadly. It was my mistake.

What could have happened to make him feel as though he would rather die than live? Kane taunted.

I'm the one who's responsible for carrying the burden of what happened, Adam said.

He doesn't want to fail you, Kane said. He doesn't want you to know the truth.

It was my fault, Adam said.

He is a very sick boy, Doc Martin's words echoed.

No sick, Hop Sing protested.

Wanting something to be true does not make it so, Doc Martin said.

No confused, Hop Sing said.

Adam is sick and he's likely to stay that way, Doc Martin said.

He no come back alone, Hop Sing said firmly.

Hallucinations aren't real, Doc Martin disagreed. If the rest of us can't see them, then they can't possibly be real.

I wonder what your son knows about me that you don't? Kane asked. Dead men don't talk, at least not in normal ways.

Ben's heart skipped in his chest, Kan's words suddenly frightening him in a way they hadn't before. Were the things Adam saw real? Such a thing didn't seem possible. But what if it was?

"I know you see things, son," he said bluntly.

It was an impetuous admission; one which had only escaped him to prevent any more haunting statements from emerging from his memory. The words had spilled so freely from his mouth, filling him with a feeling of overwhelming rightness. Hop Sing's belief in unseen things had helped Adam improve. What kind of improvements could he experience knowing his father believed?

"I know they frighten you," he continued. "And I know Hop Sing's belief in them comforts you. I don't know why he believes you. If he knows more about what you're experiencing than me or even if he sees them too. I want you to know I believe in your belief. Whatever you're experiencing, you're not alone. If a day should ever come when you want to explain to me what it is you see, I want you to know that I will listen. I will listen and believe anything you have to say."

Eyes widening, Adam seemed surprised, taken aback by his father's words. Mouth falling open, he didn't say anything, but for the first time in a long time, Ben was certain he wanted to.

He stood there for countless moments; hopelessly waiting, woefully anticipating all the things he wished his son would say. If Adam would just talk then things were destined to turn out okay. If they could just have one conversation, he was certain it would lead to another and then another after that. It would lead to something, wouldn't it? Further understanding and explanation, allotting him proper knowledge to know what to do.

He wanted to know what to do. He wanted Adam to speak, tell him what he saw and what he needed him to do. The ways in which he was able to currently help seemed inadequate in comparison to all the things he felt he should have been able to.

Pressing his lips firmly together, Adam returned his attention to the windowpane.

Squeezing his son's shoulder, Ben tried to dismiss his painful disappointment. "I think it's time for you to rejoin us downstairs," he instructed gently as he forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've been sitting up here far too long. You know how we feel about you being alone for prolonged periods of time."

Pulling his hand away, he turned slightly in place, looked at the empty doorway and resigned himself to waiting for his son to adhere to his direction and make a move. A few silent moments passed, neither father nor son's gaze faltering from their respective places.

"Adam," Ben whispered. "It's time to move."

"I heard you."

The words were so quiet, so unexpected that Ben almost believed they had been imagined. Looking at his son with wide eyes, he found Adam staring vacantly at the empty hallway beyond his bedroom door.

"You were calling out for me," Adam added, his words no more than a haunted whisper. "I tried to get to you, but he wouldn't let me go. He told me he'd never let me go. I don't think I really understood what he was saying at the time, but I understand it now."

They were the first words he had said in months. So shocked by their existence, Ben didn't know how to reply. Adam sounded so different than he once had. His voice was soft and resistant, so hesitant yet so sure.

"Do you dream of him, Papa?" Adam asked.

"Who?" Ben asked breathlessly.

"He told me you did."

"Adam, who?"

"Mister Kane."

"Son," Ben said uneasily. "Kane is dead. He couldn't have told you anything."

"Oh, but he does. He talks to me all the time."

"Adam—"

"He said he talks to you too, in your dreams. You shouldn't talk to him. You shouldn't listen to anything he has to say." Face contorting painfully, Adam pulled his gaze away from the doorway and looked nervously at the floor. "He doesn't want me talking to you. He's angry now. I've upset him and now he's going to upset me."

Kneeling, Ben took the Bible from Adam's lap, closed it, and placed it gently on the floor. He reached for his son's hands and holding them tightly in his own, he squeezed, willing for some of his steady strength to transfer into Adam. His hands were ice-cold, limp against his hold. Adam wouldn't look at him; body trembling with fear, he wouldn't lift his tearful gaze from where it had settled and then froze on the floorboards.

There were so many things Ben wanted to ask; so many things he wanted to say and only one which felt vital to confirm. "Peter Kane is who you think you see," he said.

It wasn't a question; it was an answer, one Ben was sure he should have suspected all along.

"I don't think I see anyone," Adam said. "Next time you dream of him you ask him, Papa. Trust me, he'll tell you what you already know. Don't you see?" He was shaking now, his voice becoming more and more panicked with each word. "You have to see; you have to know by now that's what he does. He looks inside of your heart and soul, he sees so clearly what you want to hide, and he uses it against you. He knows everything, and he uses it to tear you apart and hold you together at the same time."

"Adam, son, I don't understand. Can you tell me what happened? What is happening to make you believe such a thing?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Adam hissed. Attention frozen on the doorway, his eyes widened with fear and glistened with unshed tears. "H-he doesn't like it when I talk."

Cupping Adam's jaw, Ben gently moved his head, forcing his attention away from the doorway and back to him. "Why?" he asked softly. "How does a dead man have any say over what you do?"

Bottom lip quivering, Adam cringed painfully. Shifting uncomfortably, he struggled to pull his remaining hand from his father's grasp, and when he couldn't free it, he began to shake his head. With the movement came the labored breaths, shallow and desperate, as the tears spilled from his eyes and trailed down his cheeks.

Ben was unwilling to allow the question to remain unanswered; he would not allow his son to fall silent again, not after he had lost his voice for so long. Not after having him suddenly speak again. Adam could talk or he could be mute; Ben wouldn't tolerate intermittent mixture of the two, the picking and choosing of moments to speak or torture them with silence.

"Adam, I am your father and as such I am telling you—I am ordering you—to speak to me."

"I-I can't," Adam whimpered.

"You can."

Shaking his head, Adam's gaze froze on the doorway once more and he flinched. Body quaking with fear, he began to cry. His breaths came in convulsive gasps, each inhale a thick hiccup, each exhale a wall, the low almost melodic hum of a dreadful scream too inhibited to be properly projected. Pressing his feet against the floorboards, his knees bobbed wildly up and down, shaking his hands in his lap as his father struggled to hold them still. Ever so slowly, he began to shift on his seat, rocking his torso back and forth.

It was a self-soothing motion, something which was more suitable for a young child than a grown man. It was the rocking that prompted Ben to finally let go of his son. Looking between Adam and the empty doorway, he frowned, feeling a fury begin to build in his chest. Fierce and refractory, it prompted him to do the only thing he could think of. He stood, stalked to the doorway, and slammed the door shut with such force that it seemed to shake the room around them, rattling the picture frames which hung on the walls.

Who was Peter Kane? Real or imaginary, dead, or alive, what right did he have to torture his son? What was the hold he had on Adam? And why was Adam allowing such a thing? How could he possibly listen to Kane over his father? How could he follow a dead man's direction and why would he want to?

He returned to his son's side swiftly, grasping the armrests of the chair in which Adam sat, he pulled it away from the window, reorienting it so the back was facing the closed door and the front of the wall. Kneeling in front of his son once more, Adam had nothing else to focus his attention on other than his father.

Grasping Adam's hands, Ben squeezed tightly, forcing himself to take a few deep, calming breaths. Adam's sobs seemed to fill the room, echoing in the silence around them. Never once in his son's life had Ben ever told him not to cry; he didn't intend to start now. He wouldn't dare shame him like that, not after and on top of everything else.

They remained like that for a while before Adam's cries eventually calmed, before Ben let go of his son's hands, finally trusting himself to utilize a reasonable tone of voice.

"It's just you and me, Adam," he said. "Right here, right now. So, you tell me what's happening here. You tell me what's going on."

Sniffling, Adam pulled the edges of his shirt-sleeves over hands, swiping them over his wet cheeks as he shook his head and shrugged.

"No," Ben said. "That's not good enough. Not anymore. You use your words; you use your words now and then you don't stop using them. Don't you dare stop talking now that you've finally begun."

"He doesn't want me to talk," Adam whispered. His voice was dry, left broken and gruff from sobs. "He doesn't like it when I talk."

"I want you to talk."

"He doesn't care about what you want."

"What do you care about?"

"Nothing," Adam whispered, his brows knitting with sadness. "Not anymore."

"I don't believe that."

"He doesn't care about what you believe."

"He meaning Kane?" Ben asked. "Or he meaning you?"

Adam shrugged.

"Ahh," Ben scolded. "Words."

"Him... Me..." Adam shrugged again. "We're so intertwined at this point. Does it really matter anymore?"

"Yes."

Watching Adam's lip quiver once more, Ben wasn't sure if it was his determination or something else which had prompted the resurgence of tears. It didn't matter either way, because his response was the same regardless.

"Talk to me, Adam; I'm right here. Tell me how we got here. What is making you act the way you are?"

"I don't want to be like this," Adam whispered, his tone slightly crazed, cracking with strain. "Do you honestly think this is how I want to be? I-I'm not doing this. Why would I do this? I want to be different. I want to... to be the same... you don't know how much I want to go back to before. But there is no before, not now, not anymore. There's just after, the horrible dreading of what comes next. I know what this looks like. I-I know what you think, what everyone must think, but I am not crazy, Papa. I'm not. You don't see him but he... he's there."

Papa. The repetitive use of the aged byname was not lost on Ben. He suspected the determined emotions and willful corollaries which had led his son to utilize the weaponized word before, but he wondered what its purpose was now. If it even had one. Or if its consistent presence was a testament of his son's terror.

"I'm not crazy," Adam repeated, his face pinching with agony. "I'm not."

"I never said you were," Ben said, his voice deep and soothing. "Nobody in this house has ever said you were."

"I don't want to be like this. I-I want to go back, but he won't let me. He won't let me get better; he won't let me change. He won't let me eat; he won't let me sleep. He won't leave me alone. He just keeps lingering and following and then he gets inside of my head and I-I can't get him out. I c-can't shake him loose no matter what I do. He won't let me go. He's never going to let me go!"

Gaze abruptly snapping to the closed door, Adam's eyes widened with fear. It looked as though he was listening to something only he could hear. It was as though there was someone—something—on the other side of the door that only he could perceive.

"He doesn't want me talking to you," Adam repeated, his voice a low, trembling hiss. He had said the words before but it was as though this was the first time he realized the outcome of what he was doing was something to be truly feared. "He's behind that door right now. He's listening and he's going to remember every word I'm saying. When you finally open the door again, he's going to be there, watching, waiting for me to leave, and when I do, he's going to hurt me. He's going to make me do something I don't want to do."

"I won't let him do that," Ben said. They were words which were quickly thought of and impetuously said but left him immediately wondering how the promise would be achieved. How could he fight something he didn't see? How could he possibly protect Adam from something which potentially only existed in his mind?

"You can't stop him!" Adam said.

"Son—"

"You don't understand! There's nothing you can do. What is done is done; you can't stop him. You can't save me. You can't!"

Ben reached for Adam's arms but he pulled them away, waiving them through the air, punctuating his hysterical statements.

"He's not going to let me go!"

"Let me help you."

"You can't!"

"Adam, please."

"You can't...! You can't...!"

"Son."

"You can't...! You can't...! You can't...!"

"Shhh," Ben was forced to soothe, after struggling and failing to pull his son into a calming embrace.

Breath coming in haggard, tearful gasps, Adam refused to be comforted or placated. All his father's efforts to establish a physical connection were violently shrugged off. He stood abruptly, lifting his hands and placing them on the sides of his head, fingers burrowing into his disheveled hair. He turned in place in an overwhelmed manner, his eyes wide, wild, and full of tears, before hesitating and staring at the closed door, horror etched on his face.

"You can't help me," he whispered. The words were almost too soft to be heard, his shaking voice nearly too thick with tears to be understood. "He's not going to let you; he's never going to let me go."

He stood for the briefest of moments, tears dripping from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks only to be absorbed into his beard. Then, slowly he began to walk backwards, his attention not wavering from the door. He took step after step until his back hit the wall; jumping, he flinched, then emitted a hollow, wet gasp as his legs gave out beneath him and he began to slide to a seated position on the floor.

"Tell me what I can do," Ben pleaded. "If I can't help you then tell me what I can do instead."

It was a helpless statement to which he received no reply. Arms wrapped around his legs, head resting on his knees, Adam's tears had once again rendered him incapable of speech.

Xx

"He can't stay in that room forever."

It was Little Joe who stated the obvious as he stood between Ben and Hoss on the opposite end of the hallway as Adam's closed bedroom door.

"I didn't say he would remain there forever," Ben said. "I said he and I agreed he could remain there for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow depending on how the night goes."

"With the door closed," Hoss added worriedly. "I don't like it, Pa."

"Neither do I," Joe said.

"Oh, and I suppose you both think I do," Ben said.

"You're the one who agreed to it," Joe said.

"I don't like it any more than you do," Ben said.

"Then why agree to it?" Joe asked.

"Because Adam asked him to," Hoss said. He looked at the closed door longingly. "He really spoke to ya, Pa?"

"He did," Ben said.

"How did he sound?" Hoss pressed.

"He sounded..." Ben hesitated, wanting so badly to say Adam had sounded normal, as poised, and valorous as he ever did. He couldn't lie. "Lucid," he said finally. "He sounded... aware, certain about what he was saying but afraid."

"You can't blame him for that," Joe said. "I know how I would feel if I were seeing things, I can't imagine that's the kind of thing older brother would handle well." He cringed. "Well, obviously he hasn't been handling it too well. That's something we all already knew, I guess."

"At least now we know why," Hoss said. He looked at Ben. "He really said it was that dead man that he sees?"

"In so many words," Ben sighed. The seriousness of the conversation was beginning to set in, weighing on his heart and leaving him feeling exhausted and old.

Adam did see things. It was a damning notion that seemed easier to accept when it was still a suspicion. How were any of them supposed to help him with that? How could they begin to contend with something unseen?

"The good news is Adam's talking," Hoss said. "No matter what you think about the things he's said, you have to admit that's a mite better than him stayin' silent. At least this way we know what he's been thinkin' and that's the only thing that's gonna help us help him. Maybe we can talk him out of believing in the stuff he sees. There's gotta be a way to talk him out of it."

Looking between his father, brother, and the closed door, Joe didn't appear quite so convinced. "What do we do now, Pa?" he asked, his eyes pleading for his father to lead them in a positive direction. "How are we going to convince Adam to give up on anything he believes?"

Shaking his head, Ben didn't know, but he was determined to think of something.

Xx

The night succeeding Adam's break in silence was the first in long while Ben didn't dream about Kane.

That wasn't to say he didn't dream. He dreamed a lot. He dreamed of Adam and the way he once was; the nights they had spent sitting together, staring up at the stars, first when he was a young boy during their travels West and then later when Adam was grown and they would quietly sneak away to gaze up at those same stars during cattle drives and the yearly round up. They were peaceful images, welcome gifts in comparison to what his dreams had recently become. And flanked between these dreams, Ben dreamed a new dream. One which was decidedly different than any he had experienced before; it felt real, so much like a memory he should have been allowed to experience in real time. There was no cliff, no dark night sky, no taunting statements, no Peter Kane, and no Adam.

There was only Elizabeth.

Her long dark hair was unpinned, cascading curls which hung loosely, well past her bosom and down the middle of her back. Dressed in what Ben immediately recognized as what had been her favorite summer dress, she wore no shoes or socks upon her feet. With her dimpled smile and kind eyes, she was as beautiful as she had always been and old as she would ever be. She was over a decade younger than their son was now, a painfully odd thing to consider. She hadn't lived long enough to see her twenty-third birthday or Adam's first. She had died too young—as all his wives had— leaving him to grow old without her.

Standing before her, he found he had become old and she had remained young, as luminous, and radiant as she had been on their wedding day.

"My Benjamin," she beamed. Grasping his hands in her own, she stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss upon his cheek.

"My God," Ben said, his voice quiet and full of awe. "You're a child."

"And you are an old man," she quipped warmly. "You're older than my father was when we were married. What is to be thought about such a thing?"

"I'd rather not think of it at all."

She smiled. "The years have served you well, Ben. They may have aged you but you are no less handsome than you were when we were young. You're distinguished, wisened by the weight of all those years."

"I may be distinguished but I don't feel very wise," Ben said. "At least not as of late"

"Ah," she said knowingly. "And what exactly is to be done about our Adam?"

"Our Adam," Ben repeated. He was saddened by the statement. How many times had she fondly said it when she was alive, lovingly caressing her burgeoning stomach with her fingertips? Far too many to count. She had seemed to know their baby then, loving him fiercely and deeply long before the day he was born. "He worries me."

"You're not wrong to be worried," she said. "After all, he is in a state. His behavior is startling, even he is aware of that, but he is not as changed by his time in that desert as you may think. His experiences, his perceptions are genuine even if they do not appear tangible to you. He is neither mad nor confused."

"He's afraid," Ben said. It was a simple explanation he was certain she was already privy to.

"And what is to be done about his fear? How can you help him fight the power of something unseen?"

Ben shook his head. The question weighed too heavily on him for there to be an easily distinguished answer.

"Your voice is like a lighthouse horn, deep and reassuring," she said. "Use it wisely to guide him through this storm."

"What shall I say?"

"Nothing that hasn't already been said at one time or another. Talk to him, with him. Do not allow him to lose his voice now that he's finally summoned the courage to find it again. You always had such powerful instincts as a man, great intuition as a father. Trust yourself. Have faith that this is a fight that can be won."

Attention shifting to the fireplace, she smiled, took his hand, and led him to it.

"Out of all the many things you've built, this is my favorite," she said. "Build me a fire, Ben. Let us sit ourselves in front of it and allow the heat to warm our hearts and souls."

Resting upon the short wooden table, she sat cross-legged, pulling her feet up beneath her, enveloping her legs beneath the hem of her dress. Elbows placed on her knees, hands pressed up against her cheeks, she leaned forward, watching him with great interest as he did what was asked. It was an unseemly pose for a respectable woman, too cavalier, too ingenious to be displayed by most. It only served to remind him of her age and that of his eldest son, a boy who had all-too-quickly become a man but who still mirrored his mother's quiet thoughtfulness and very occasional uninhibited pose.

"I used to visit Adam in his dreams," she said, her tone shifting with regret.

"Used to?"

Ben didn't know Adam had dreamed of Elizabeth. He didn't conceive such a thing was possible as Adam had no memory of his mother. He hadn't been allotted time with her; she had died less than an hour after he had been born.

"Before the desert," she said. "Before that devilish Kane. Our Adam used to call out to me and I'd come and we'd talk and talk about his life; we'd talk about the way things were and how he could go about making them different if he wanted them to be."

"And now?"

"And now," she sighed, "such a thing isn't allowed. That man won't allow it." She gazed upon him, her eyes sparking with seriousness. "Trust your dreams, your instincts and your heart. Trust in what Adam was able to tell you. Kane is a devil, Ben. He has his fingers embedded into our Adam and he isn't going to let go without a fight. You dreamed of cliffs long before Adam left for Eastgate, but what you don't know is that Adam dreamed of Kane long before he met him. He went into that desert knowing what he would find but not how it would affect him."

Though the idea seemed ludicrous, Ben knew it did nothing to affect its truth. He thought about his son's determination to leave on the drive to Eastgate and the hug he had gifted him before he left—an apology, of sorts, for a decision yet to be made.

"He didn't expect to come back," Ben said.

"I tried to convince him not to go," she said regretfully. "I tried to tell him there was nothing of value to find out there. He wouldn't listen." She shook her head. "Our stubborn, stubborn boy."

"A trait he inherited from you."

"And you."

"Mind your grip on our son, Ben. Be careful it isn't too light or loose. If it is too loose you will lose him completely. If it's too tight, you'll hold him in place forever but he'll find other ways of leaving you. He's always found other ways."

"I know."

"Things always get worse before they get better. Adam spoke today which you can take as a good sign. But what's on the horizon? Is Adam finally speaking a sign of something better or worse?"

Ben wasn't sure. He had waited so long for Adam to speak but the things he had to say were worrisome at best. He still wasn't eating as much as he should; he spent the nights in his own bed but he didn't seem to obtain any actual rest. Was Adam finally talking amongst all these other lingering bothersome behaviors a good sign or bad? Ben was hard pressed to come up with satisfying suppositions to support either conjecture.

"I don't know," he said. His uncertainty was the only thing he was certain of. "I don't know how to help him."

"That's okay," Elizabeth said, "when the time is right, you will."

Extending her hand, she invited him to sit next to her, and together they remained, their hands intertwined as they gazed at the roaring fire.

In the middle of the still night, Ben woke, still feeling warmed by the flames of the fire of his dream. Laying lax against his chest, the hand he had used to hold Elizabeth's was still gently clenched. For a moment it felt as though he was still holding her. He could feel the smoothness of her skin, the weight of her delicate hand in his own. Then in an instant it was gone. With nothing to impede them, his fingers moved, shifting his hand into a tight fist. Mild but unconscious, the quick movement was enough to startle him, prompting him to sit up, lift his hand in front of his face and look upon it in awe.

This was a feeling and dream that quickly faded and was forgotten by sunrise.

Xx

Adam was not in his bedroom when morning came. Sometime during the night, he had made the decision to, once again, seek respite in Hoss's bed. It was a disappointing development though not a completely unexpected one after having finally spoken the day before, sharing with his father the truth of who and what he saw. Kane didn't like for him to talk—Adam had made that abundantly clear. It was obvious he had been anticipating repercussions—real or imagined—associated with using his voice. What those were or could be, Ben wasn't sure. But he was not surprised to find his eldest son in the company of his middle one as Hoss's physical size and strength provided a very specific comfort to calm fear and frayed nerves.

Adam rose when Hoss did. Gaze averted to the floor, he retired wordlessly to his bedroom where he remained. He made no indication—with words or otherwise—that being asked to leave the seemingly protective confines was something he would take kindly to. Much to the discontent of his other two sons, Ben didn't try to emancipate Adam from the bedroom. It was a decision made silently which was more accepted by Hoss than Joe.

"I don't understand, Pa," Joe said, his eyes shiningly indignantly as stood on the opposite side of the desk. "Adam ain't going get better if all we do is leave him alone."

"I thought we had decided not to place expectations upon Adam with regards to his behavior and recovery," Ben reminded.

"Ah, that was before," Joe scoffed.

"Before what?"

"Before he talked," Joe said emphatically. "Before we knew what was bothering him. Before we knew nothing, Pa, and now..." he paused, swiping his hands through the air as though he was struggling to grasp the right words.

"We know more than we did then," Hoss quietly provided. Leaning on the wall near the grandfather clock, he looked between his father and little brother. "Which still ain't a lot."

"We know who think he sees," Joe said.

"Yeah, but how do we help him with that?" Hoss asked. "We don't know anything of value about that man Kane. And we still don't know what happened between him and Adam."

"But Adam is talking," Joe said as though the development alone was enough to solve their problems.

"He talkin' to you?" Hoss challenged.

Joe frowned. "Well... no..."

"'Cause he ain't talkin' to me," Hoss said, a mixture of conflict and disappointment etched on his face. Although he had previously voiced concern about Adam spending the night alone and in his own bedroom, something about having his older brother return to his bed in the middle of the night had been deflating, robbing him of any hope the knowledge of Adam speaking had instilled. "Not last night or this morning, he didn't say so much as a word to me and I gave him plenty of chances."

"Give it time, Hoss," Ben said.

Hoss snorted sadly and shook his head. It was clear what he left unsaid. He was growing weary of allotting Adam time—they all were—of waiting for things to change or remain the same. The improvement of his behavior felt circular, encouraging, and productive at first, then detrimental and regressive. For every step Adam took in the right direction, it immediately felt like he took five steps backwards. Yes, he had spoken, but it didn't seem likely he would continue doing such a thing. Yes, he had told Ben what he was afraid of, but it didn't seem probable he would allow himself to be liberated from his fear. It was deep-rooted, connected to something indiscernible.

"He's afraid," Joe said. "I can understand that. If I was haunted by the ghost of some asshole, I'd be scared too."

"Joe," Ben chastised with a frown. "Remain respectful with your words."

"Ghosts ain't real," Hoss snorted, ignoring both Joe's slip of the tongue and his father's reprimand. His discontent was building, stifled frustration over Adam's worrisome behavior that couldn't be discussed with his older brother. Given the current situation, he couldn't hold Adam responsible for anything; he couldn't expect a long conversation to glean answers or even a tense fight to clear the air. He couldn't expect anything from Adam, because he had become unpredictable. But Joe remained as reliable as he had ever been. If it was a fight Hoss wanted, then it would be obliged.

"How do you know?" Joe scoffed, his brows furrowing in annoyance. "They could be."

"They ain't," Hoss maintained.

"What if they are?" Joe countered.

"Come on, Joe," Hoss said. "How old are you, anyhow?"

Old enough not to feel properly scandalized when curse words slipped from his mouth in front of his father, Ben thought. It didn't seem right for any of his boys to ever reach such an age.

"Adam believes it," Joe said stubbornly. "And he's way older than me!"

"That don't mean nothing," Hoss said firmly.

"How can it not mean anything, when it's always meant something before? Adam is the smartest out of the three of us. He's always been the smartest."

"That don't have nothing to do with this!"

"How can it not? He ain't dumb. He's still the same person he always was. If you can't see that then maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do."

Hoss flinched, absorbing the statement like a punch. "Quit Joe," he warned, his voice dangerously low. "I don't want to talk about this no more."

"Why?" Joe spat. "Because you know you're wrong about him?"

"Because I said drop it," Hoss growled.

"Both of you drop it," Ben directed, looking warily between his sons.

"Adam is the hardest person in the world to convince of anything that doesn't make sense," Joe continued angrily, ignoring his father for the second time. "If he says he sees a ghost then I believe him. It has to be real."

"Boy have you not been listening to a word I've been saying?" Hoss demanded. "Do you not have eyes and a brain in your head to understand what's going on here?" Pulling himself off the wall, he stood tall, his face reddened with frustration. "Adam's mind is sick! Don't you dare go using him as an example of anything right now!"

"He's my brother and I'll use him as an example however I want!"

"Be quiet!"

"No!"

"You both be quiet!" Ben growled, the deepness of his voice a clear warning to calm down. "Hoss, Joe, do we not have enough facing us already that we have to make it worse by fighting amongst ourselves about things that can't be solved?"

He wasn't certain if it was the threat of Hoss's tone or his own that caused Joe to abandon the conversation. Either way, it didn't matter, because mouth snapping shut, Joe pressed his lips firmly together.

Oddly, it was Hoss who remained intent on not heeding his father's warning. He looked at Ben, sadness glistening in his blue eyes. "How come I always got to be the one to say the hard things? Why do I have to be the one to convince the two of you about anything havin' to do with Adam? Do you think I like sayin' these things? You think I like knowing that Adam is the way that he is? Do you think I don't want to believe the things he says? Because I do. But I can't because he's sick. Yesterday we all knew that, and now, after one conversation with Pa we're gonna just ignore all the ways in which he's not acting right and declare him fit as a fiddle."

"That's not what Joe is saying," Ben said.

"He ain't not saying it," Hoss said.

"I never said he was fit," Joe said. "I only said I believe in what he says he sees."

"Ghosts ain't real, Joe," Hoss said firmly. "Dead men do not talk and they certainly don't follow the livin' around, hauntin' them and such." He shook his head. "Don't you dare be tellin' Adam you believe in the nonsense neither. Lord only knows what kind of behavior you'll be encouraging if you do."

Though he couldn't have known it, Hoss's direction mirrored the advice Doc Martin had given when Ben confided his suspicions about Adam seeing things. Ben had rejected it at the time, but did it hold any more weight coming from his son rather than a friend? His own flesh and blood, someone whose love for Adam rivaled that of his own?

He had told Adam he would believe whatever he had to say; he was certain, it was one of the statements which had finally implored Adam to speak. How could he possibly go back on that now?

"It's real to Adam," Ben said. "It doesn't necessarily have to be real to us but that doesn't negate the fact that it's very real to him."

It was a truth that couldn't be denied. It existed either as a testament to the truth of a ghost or of Adam's mental decline. Briefly, Ben wasn't ashamed to admit—just to himself— that he was hopeful that the ghost of Peter Kane existed. If that was the case then it meant Adam wasn't truly sick, just impeded, held captive by a spirit that saw fit to torture him. But if that was the case, was it truly better than the alternative? Looking after a son whose mind was ill was one thing but fostering one who was being haunted by a dead man seemed arduous, formidable, and impossible.

Such a thing was impossible, wasn't it? What was the purpose of entertaining the notion? Dead was dead. Ghosts weren't real. The spirits of evil men didn't linger after vacating their bodies, and they surely had no interest in remaining behind after they had passed. Or did they?

Devil of a man, that Kane, the Eastgate Sheriff's statement rang in Ben's ears, awakening a trio of Kane's questions which never seemed to stray far from his thoughts.

What happened in the desert, Mister Cartwright? What did he do to me? What did I do to him?

Ben didn't know the answers to any of these questions. But he knew he had to find out.

Xx

"What happened in the desert, Adam?" Ben asked. "What did Kane do to you? What did you do to him? What are the decisions and events that led us all here?"

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, Adam ignored the questions; his attention remained fixed on the open book laying open in front of him. Elbows placed on his knees, one hand pressed up against his beard-covered cheek, while the fingers of his other idly fiddled with the carved amulet hung around his neck. Hop Sing had repainted the symbols on the backs of his hands that morning; the fresh black ink stood in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin.

For a moment, Ben wondered what they meant—what any of it meant. His dreams, the things he thought he knew and the others he didn't. The unshakable faith Hop Sing had in Adam's startling beliefs, and the comfort Adam took from Hop Sing's efforts to soothe the situation.

"Adam," Ben prompted gently. "I would like you to answer."

Adam neither looked uncomfortable nor at ease, nor did he seem inclined or willing to speak to his father about anything.

"You spoke yesterday," Ben reminded. "So, your extended silence is not likely to be tolerated today."

It was a mild allusion of consequences; a gentle reminder that bad behavior always came with the possibility of unfavorable results. Such a warning would have worked on the Adam of years past—as empty as it had become when he reached adulthood—but it did nothing to convince this Adam to utter a word.

"What happened last night?" Ben asked. "You were insistent to be allowed to remain in this room, alone with the door shut. Then morning came and found you with Hoss. It doesn't make sense, Adam. You alluded that Kane couldn't enter this room and that's why you've come to favor it so much. But you leaving last night suggests that might not be the truth."

It was the first time Adam's nighttime travels had been commented on aloud—to Adam or anyone else. If it didn't invite a rush of embarrassment which would result in a response then Ben didn't know what would. It wasn't becoming of man Adam's age to be seeking respite in his younger brother's bed. It wasn't seemingly for such a thing to be taking place at all.

"It doesn't make sense," Ben said. "Even you must see that."

He was no longer certain if he was talking about Adam sleeping in Hoss's bed or the situation as a whole. It didn't make sense when he thought about it rationally, unsentimentally, as though Adam was not his son rather someone else's, his actions not looked upon in any particular way, not colored by the contrasting memories of the past. When people died, they were gone. Men didn't break without ample reason to.

"What happened in the desert?" he asked again. "What happened between you and Kane, Adam?"

Turning the page in his book, Adam took no notice of the question.

Expelling a sigh, Ben sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, a conscious action meant as a reminder for him to keep his frustration in check. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he lost control of his tone of voice or the questions he meant to ask meticulously. Walking to the bed and sitting carefully on the edge, he couldn't help feeling that Hoss's earlier frustration was now becoming his own. In some ways, it was the same and in others it was different. Hoss was tired of circular conversations, of not having predictability in how Ben would handle Adam, what kinds of things he would and wouldn't allow him to do. Hoss was longing for stability and predictability—both things Ben knew could never be granted under such circumstances. Not without answers. Not without obtaining new information that would allow them to see the situation for what it really was.

Was Adam truly sick? Or was something else going on?

Rubbing his hands idly against his thighs, Ben couldn't help feeling he should know more than he did. That maybe he did know more than he could readily recall, that he had access to some elusive detail he had been gifted to help liberate Adam from whatever had grabbed a hold of him, held him down and remained intent on never letting him go.

He's not going to let me go! Adam had screamed. But Kane was dead, how could he hang on to anyone or anything? How could such a thing be possible or allowed?

Do you dream of him, Papa? Adam had asked. He told me you did.

This was a question Ben had dismissed at the time. He had been so overcome, first by relief as Adam spoke for the first time in months, then by apprehension as he couldn't reconcile the things his son was saying. Sane men didn't talk the way Adam did; they didn't dissolve into hysterical tears, so frightened and intimidated by things no one else could see. Rational men didn't starve themselves or hurt themselves or stop talking. Then again, they didn't seem to have knowledge of other people's bad dreams either.

Adam couldn't have known about his dreams of Kane. There was no rational explanation for his awareness of such a thing. Of course, rationality was something that seemed to have left him a long time ago.

"You asked me if I dreamed of Kane," Ben whispered. "I do."

Adam looked at him then, his eyes seemingly searching his father's face for verification of something Ben couldn't define. Looking into his son's searching eyes, thinking about dreams of Kane and otherwise, Ben's dream of Elizabeth sprung to the forefront of his mind. All at once he recalled what it had felt like to sit next to her and the things she had said.

I don't know how to help him, Ben had admitted.

That's okay, she had said, when the time is right you will.

Looking at Adam, Ben prayed the right time had come. For the first time in a long time, he didn't think about the words as they left his mouth. He let them come, flowing naturally from his heart.

"You dreamed of Kane too," he said softly. "You went into that desert knowing what you would find. You went looking for him. That is why you were intent on being allowed to go on the drive to Eastgate. You didn't plan on returning. That is why you hugged me before you left."

Jaw tightening, Adam swallowed thickly, his eyes filling with tears. The showing of his emotion wasn't prompted by being overwhelmed or afraid. It was sadness mixed with grief and the slightest hint of guilt. It was then, Ben knew for certain he was on the right path, that he had finally found the correct things to say.

"I didn't want you to go on the drive because I had dreams too," Ben continued. "I dreamed of you standing on the edge of a cliff, surrounded by white rock and desert. I dreamed you were preparing to jump. You asked if I could catch you. If I would be able to make it to the bottom in time. I didn't understand what the dreams meant at the time and I'm not sure I really do now. I don't know if they were a gift or curse, something to be heeded or dismissed. At the time, I did my best to dismiss them, now I know that was wrong to do, because I think maybe that trip to Eastgate was you climbing that cliff and now you're standing on its edge, waiting to jump, waiting for me to either hold you back or catch you at the bottom. You asked me a long time ago if I could hold on to you and I'm doing my best. I know Kane is standing right next to you on the edge; he is inching you further and further away from me. I can feel you slipping through my fingers. I don't think you want to jump, but I don't you don't feel like you have a choice anymore."

He extended his hands, palming Adam's cheeks and wiping at his tears with his thumbs. Leaning into the touch, Adam's posture loosened, his legs crumpling the pages of the book in front of him in the bed. Lifting his hands, he grasped Ben's arms, holding them and his father's gaze as though his very life depended upon it.

"And whether the Kane you see now is real or imagined, I don't know if it truly matters," Ben said. "Because ultimately the fight is the same. If he is some figment of your imagination or a ghost, it doesn't change what you must do. You say you don't want to be like this, that you're not the one making yourself act the way you are, but you're the only one with the power to change what you're doing right now. If Kane isn't real then you're going to have to find a way to truly convince yourself of that. And if he is, then you're going to have to find a way to live knowing that he's there. You're going to have to find a way to shake the hold he has on you; you're going to have the courage to ignore the things he says to you. You say he's not willing to let you go, but I want you to know that neither am I. I'm on this edge with you, son. I can only hold you back for so long, but trust me when I say that I will always be there to catch you. I will do anything that is required to make it to the bottom in time."

As soon the words left his mouth, Ben knew they had been right. He could tell by the way Adam was looking at him. Though his son's eyes were full of tears, he could see relief sparkling in their depths. He could practically see Adam mulling over all the things he had said, weighing and considering each in effort to allow himself to believe them. Ben hoped his words had carried enough weight to be believed.

Eventually, Adam let go of his father's arms and shifted his weight, moving to sit beside Ben with his legs hanging over the side of the bed, his sock-covered feet firmly planted on the floor. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat, smoothed his hands over his face and focused his attention on the floorboards between his feet.

"Okay," he whispered.

It was only a single word, but it meant more to Ben than any other he had ever heard in his life.

Xx

"Pa," Hoss said. Standing in the hallway, he grasped Ben's upper arm and held him in place, his expression decidedly conflicted. "I never knew you dreamed about Adam trying to jump off the edge of a cliff."

Casting Hoss an exasperated look, Ben moved his free arm, grasping the knob on Adam's bedroom door and pulling it shut before looking Hoss up and down. "That was a private conversation," he whispered, "between your brother and I. Have you been hiding out here the whole time?"

"I'm sorry," Hoss said. The apology sounded more knee-jerk than genuine; an automatic response that had been cultivated throughout the years meant to placate the first hint of his father's disapproval.

It did what it was intended to.

"It's alright," Ben said. He couldn't blame Hoss for eavesdropping, not after all that had happened, not with the tension he was feeling about Adam's current state. After all, hadn't he been the one to tell Hoss that there were to be no secrets between them where Adam was concerned? That was weeks—months—ago but that didn't make the order any less valid. If he was expecting full-disclosure from his younger sons where his oldest one was concerned, then wasn't it reasonable they expect the same from their father? And besides, if Adam knew about his dreams of Kane and the cliff, what was the point of hiding it?

"No," Hoss said seriously. "It ain't."

"Son, it's—"

"Because that dream you've been having about Adam and the cliff ain't no dream. It really happened."

Ben felt the breath rush from his chest, leaving it empty only to be filled by dread. It wasn't possible for his dream to be real. He had never come upon Adam on the edge of a cliff—not a real cliff. The Adam of before, the man who he had been prior to Peter Kane and the desert, would never have done such a frightful thing. And the Adam of now had never been allotted the chance. He had gone missing that one day, sure, but they had found him at Lake Tahoe; he had been surrounded by water, not jagged rock.

"It's true," Hoss said morosely.

"When? Why on earth did you never say anything?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was important." Cringing, Hoss let go of his father's arm. "Nah, that ain't true," he added, his voice becoming quiet. "I think I always knew it was but I reckon I just never found the right way to tell you. I guess, I always thought Adam would find a way to tell you himself, that is, if he ever remembered doin' it in the first place."

"Lord Almighty, boy, will you make sense?"

Hoss looked at him for a moment, his face contorting sadly. "You really don't know when Adam would have wanted to do that?" The question was stated in even tone but it was his eyes that declared Ben should have already deducted the time period being alluded to.

Shaking his head, Ben was agonizingly uncertain. He couldn't seem to recall. When in his life had Adam ever been in such a state that he would be implored to stand on the edge of a cliff intending to jump? It was such a foreign question; one which seemed so unsuitable to even ask—because the Adam of now would never be allowed to do such a thing, and the Adam of before was too dependable, too commonsensical to ever want to.

Except for when he hadn't been dependable or commonsensical, a small voice whispered in the depths of Ben's mind. That horrible period of time when his regret and anguish seemed intent on tearing him apart. It was the time Kane had alluded to in his dreams, but Ben hadn't been tolerant of discussing it. He hadn't wanted to discuss it. Not with Adam or either of his other two sons, not with anyone else—and especially not with Kane.

"It wasn't long after we buried Ross and Del," Hoss said. "It was after Adam bought their land at auction, after he left home and decided to live on it. After he got in trouble, first in Carson City, and then in town with Sheriff Coffee, and he was forced to come home for a bit. After he became so sick with fever that he didn't have control of himself, he returned to the Silver Dollar and set both the barn and house on fire."

Nearly two years ago, Adam's grief had made him reckless; his anger, resentment, and frustration over how things had always been destined to be had served as a haunting, unsettling rival for how he had wanted them to be. Unbearable pain had led Adam to drink and fight too much; it led him to leave home. Ben had been so afraid of losing him then. He was so consumed by fear that Adam was following in his grandfather's footsteps and becoming a drunkard. When he didn't worry about the amount and frequency in which his son was drinking, he worried Adam would become too drunk to think clearly and get himself killed. And when he didn't worry about either of those things, he worried about something else.

The devil was in Ross Marquette, that was what Joe the Preacher had once said—something which Kane had been quick to remind Ben in his dreams—and shortly after Ross's death, the preacher had said the same about Adam, because the time which followed Ross and Delphine's deaths had had been a living nightmare.

Do you remember what the time that came after was like? Kane had once asked Ben in a dream, his words implying he would be fortunate enough to forget. He would never forget.

"The day Adam burned the Silver Dollar to the ground," Hoss continued, "he stood on the edge of the cliff where he shot Ross dead, fixing to jump. I found him on it, Pa. He was sick out of his mind, talkin' about the devil and such. About how nobody would understand what Ross knew before he died, what Adam thought he was beginning to understand himself. He said sometimes there's no stopping what's meant to be. If a bad thing wants to happen it will. If the devil wants to find you, he can. There's no stopping him. No changing what's meant to be. Standing on the edge of that cliff, Adam said I couldn't catch him. He said I shouldn't even try."

"He was planning on jumping?" Ben asked numbly.

"Yes, sir. I do believe if I wouldn't have come upon him then he would have ended up on the bottom of that cliff. He was so dadburned sick, Pa. Remember? The mightiness of the fever burning through his body wasn't allowin' him to think straight. He was so unsteady on his feet; if I wouldn't grabbed ahold of him, he would have fell."

"But you were there to hold on and pull him back from the edge."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me where you found him, what he said or did?"

Shrugging weakly, Hoss expelled a deep sigh. "Oh, Pa," he said softly. "I don't know why. I guess, it just didn't seem all that important after Adam's sickness passed. He quit drinking and running away, and I guess, I didn't want to make him feel bad about much of anything because I was afraid he'd set his sights on drinkin' and running again. I thought if he truly had recollection of standing on that cliff then he woulda talked to you about it, eventually. He talks to you about everything."

"Not everything," Ben said. Not even close. "He never talked to me about that."

Adam had become incredibly ill. Fever had ravaged his body and held his mind captive and it was what led him home. After his sickness, Adam didn't talk to Ben about much of anything. He recovered; he stayed out of trouble and mostly at home. But he was different than he had been before. He was quiet and distant. He became more careful and reserved. He wasn't the same. There was a distinct difference between who he had been and who he became. It was then his need to leave home truly became apparent. It was as though he couldn't tolerate remaining in place for more than a week. He began favoring business trips over being home, and anytime travel was needed Ben began delegating it to him. He chose him for those trips over his other sons because he knew the truth. That dreaded day was closer than it had ever been; someday was approaching quicker than it ever had. What he could offer him, the life and legacy he had built was ceasing to appease him.

Adam was born a wanderer, but it was his pain over what had happened to Ross that gave birth to his need to run. He couldn't stay where he was, not forever. Not for long. The memories of what happened were consuming him; there was too much pain for him to contend with. Ben could feel the fateful day approaching; it was becoming closer and closer with each minute that passed. That dreaded inescapable day when Adam would leave home for good. But Ben couldn't let him go, not then. Not yet. Not feeling the way that Adam was. Not with a chip on his shoulder and pain in his heart, because that—Ben always knew—promised trouble. It guaranteed bad things on the horizon. But maybe that couldn't have been helped, because maybe bad things were always destined to come no matter what.

What's the point of being gifted dreams if you aren't going to heed their warnings? Kane's voice hissed from the depths of his memory. What is the point of knowing something bad is on the horizon if you don't do anything to stop it?

Ben had tried to stop it, because when a trip to Eastgate became necessary he had tried his best to keep Adam home. He had wanted him to stay home. Away from Eastgate and its foreign saloon full of liquor and trouble, away from the cliff-filled desert which seemed so like the one in his dreams. It hadn't worked; it never worked. He had never been able to change Adam's mind once it was made up. Any kind of agreement or concession on Adam's part was merely ceremonious. He was always going to do what he was going to do.

He went into that desert knowing what he would find, Elizabeth's statement rang in Ben's ears.

If Adam had gone into the desert knowing what he would find, if he knew Kane was out there, and what would happen to him if they met, then why would want to do such a thing? Because he didn't expect to come back, Ben recalled sadly. But even so, what was the purpose of going in the first place? What was the purpose of it all?

You don't know what happened, Pa, Adam had sobbed on the floor of the Eastgate boarding house. You don't know… You don't know... You don't know... You don't know!

Had Adam been talking about the desert? Or something else? Rarely could his son's statements not be interpreted to have numerous contexts. He was careful with his feelings and his words; he always had found ways of talking about things without discussing them.

You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him to distract you from the questions you should be asking, Kane had said. It was a statement that was as infuriating now as it had been in his dream. What were the questions he should be asking?

You're the Great Ben Cartwright, Kane had said, don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future.

What about the past was important? What were the decisions and events that led Adam here?

That's gonna be me! Adam had said as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth on the end of a noose.

It was a statement easily attributed to how Adam felt about Kane's death. What did Ben know for certain Adam actually did? Even if he had killed Peter Kane—something his father still struggled to believe—it was a defensible action. The sheer state of him when he had been found wandering the desert had declared any objectionable theory about Kane's death inadmissible. Adam had had marks on his wrists and ankles; it was obvious he had been tied up. He had marks on his body, evidence of beatings; he had been starved, and dehydrated. If Adam had really killed Kane, then he had done what was necessary to survive. It was just like before, when he had done what was necessary to keep himself alive.

Standing amongst jagged cliffs, Adam shot and killed Ross Marquette because Ross was trying to kill him. And then after his best friend's death, guilt had led Adam to drink and fight. It had led him to buy the Silver Dollar; it had led him away from home, further away from his family and toward the cliff Hoss had found him upon.

But prior to all that Adam had had a bad feeling himself. He had bad dreams too. In the days following his discovery of Ross's violent treatment of Delphine, Adam had been plagued with nightmares and palpable uneasiness. Looking back now, it seemed to follow him like a dark shadow as he worked absently and silently next to his brothers and father as they rounded up cattle to be branded.

"I dream about Ross and Del and the devil too, I think," Adam had admitted to Ben

as they rode side-by-side on their horses a mere day before Del and Ross would both be killed.

"Dreams are just dreams, son," Ben had tried to soothe. "You know that. They aren't real, so they can't come true."

Adam wouldn't be calmed so easily. "But what if they can?" he insisted. "What if Minister Joe is right? What if the devil is inside of Ross and that's what caused him to change? And how do you save someone from the devil, Pa? How do you save somebody from themselves?"

"It is your nightmares that are making you tortured by such a thing?"

"I feel like something bad is going to happen. I don't know what and I don't know when, but something is… building and growing and it's going to continue growing until it becomes too large and then it's going to finally explode."

Ben couldn't have known it then, but Adam had been right. The morning would come, bringing the bad thing Adam had been anticipating; the truth would finally be known about Ross Marquette. And Ben would always look back on that day regretfully wishing for a kinder outcome. If not for Delphine or Ross then for Adam.

"I'm sorry, Pa," Hoss said again. "You've always trusted me to tell you important things and I let you down."

"You didn't let me down," Ben said absently, his mind turning from the memory of Adam's words on the range. "You told me, didn't you?"

Adam had asked how someone could be saved from the devil and how one could save someone from themselves. These were both questions that Kane had posed to him in his dreams. But they weren't Kane's words. They were Adam's; they had always been Adam's first. Glaring and irrefutable, it was such an odd thing not to remember. How hadn't he realized it before? He wondered what other questions Kane and Adam shared. What it meant to know that at least some of their words were the same.

And with all the things Ben still didn't know, he was reminded of one he was certain of. Adam didn't kill Peter Kane, but he had killed someone else. He had killed his best friend.

He had killed Ross Marquette. Then, captive to grief and guilt, he had changed. He began misbehaving, drinking too much, and fighting with any and everyone. His family, strangers, even the law. Buying the Silver Dollar, he had left home. Ben had wanted so badly to make him stay but he couldn't find the right words. He couldn't seem to say much of anything to lessen his son's pain. And so, he had stepped back and let his son go, not with any intention of allowing him to wander too far or to lose his grip on him completely. Just enough for Adam to be alone with his grief, so he could feel it fully and decide he wanted—needed—his father's help to work through it. But Adam never decided upon such a thing. Time and space had done nothing to soothe the storm raging inside of him.

During this time, Hoss had fallen into the habit of accidentally overhearing conversations between Adam and Ben. Some were kinder than others, although they all could be perceived as teetering on the very edge of what could constitute as respectful. Except for one which Ben was relieved to know hadn't been overheard. If not to protect Adam's words from being looked upon in an unfavorable light, then to protect his own actions from being viewed in the same way.

It was the middle of a cold, dark night that brought Ben to the Silver Dollar to look in on his son. Hoss had done his best to linger close to Adam, keeping a careful eye on him as his father requested. The last few days Adam had been missing from the property and when Hoss had voiced his concern, Ben decided he could no longer tolerate being away from Adam. He needed to look upon him with his own eyes, and verify the situation for himself.

Arriving at the Silver Dollar, Ben found the house as dark as the surrounding night sky and Adam sitting on a hay bale in the barn. Clutching a half-empty liquor bottle in his hand, he was drunk. Too drunk to be expected to maintain a civil conversation; too drunk to take kindly to a middle of the night visit from his Pa.

Captive to hard liquor and a black mood, Adam's pain was obvious. His extreme mental anguish and grief coupled with brown liquid he was consuming had left him uninhibited, loosening his tongue and rendering him incapable of reining in his anger, shifting his tone, or carefully choosing his words. Most of the things Adam had said to his father didn't bear repeating. Ben didn't want to repeat them, because they had been terrible enough to hear and endure at the time. There was one statement in particular he tried hard to erase from memory completely, if not for how it had made him feel but for the shame he felt over what it had prompted him to do.

"What are you going to do, Adam?" Ben had demanded ferociously. There was a sharpness to his tone, his anger facilitating the question. He had long reached the limit with his son's belligerence.

"Why don't you tell me?" Adam roared, his fury matching that of his father. "You're the Great Ben Cartwright! You're so omniscient and wise! You know all there is to know about anything. You tell me what I oughta do."

"You keep a respectful tongue in your mouth when you speak to me!"

"I don't want to speak to you all!"

"ADAM!"

"Christ, Pa! Won't you listen? Why are you even here? I want you to leave."

"I will not!"

"You will! Get the fuck off my proper—!"

With the strength of his backhand, Ben finally silenced his son. Even after it was done, he couldn't have explained what exactly had prompted him to do such a thing. If it was his son's unmitigated anger, his spiteful statements, or the blasphemous word he had dared aim at his father. Maybe it was all those things put together, or maybe it was really none of them at all. In the moment, Ben wasn't particularly concerned with why he had done such a thing; he was too horrified over having done it at all.

Never in any of his sons' respective lives had he backhanded any of them. He had yelled at and lectured them, tanned them, perhaps grasped them a little too firmly by their upper arms and led them to a private place to deal with their insolence and bad behavior. But he had never once lifted a hand to their faces; he had never struck them out white-hot fury, reacting to the moment rather than allowing himself time to think.

The red mark on Adam's cheek was immediate; obvious and accusing beneath the darkness of his short beard growth. His haggard breaths were the only noise to be heard. Thick and shaking, they seemed to fill space between them as Adam stood, suddenly seeming so close and far away, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. Adam wanted to hit him back, Ben was certain of that. In Adam's raging eyes, he could see his son's indigitation so clearly. There was anger there, a familiar type; it demanded immediate, impulsive action no matter the consequence. It was anger Ben recognized, because he had experienced it before. He had displayed himself when he and Adam had been so much younger than they were. It was behavior learned from his father's example, his own father learning it from his father and so on. It was hereditary. And it was dangerous. It promised trouble, unfavorable complications and consequences always accompanying impulsive mistakes.

For a moment, Ben was certain that Adam was going to hit him. Then, overcome by shame and remorse, he was certain his son wouldn't dare. Even if Adam couldn't control the angry words slipping from his mouth, he could at least remain the master of his physical actions. His eldest son always seemed so capable of doing the things his father failed to do. It was a simple fact that smarted, but it was what Ben saw in Adam's eyes that stung the most.

Standing before him, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, Adam's expression changed. His anger melted away in an instant, only to be replaced by something more bothersome and haunting. Ben wasn't sure if it was the amount of liquor his son had drunk, the stinging of his cheek or pride, his fear or his shock that prompted Adam's unmasked, regressive reaction. He wasn't sure if it ultimately mattered in the end.

Wide and brimming with tears, Adam's hazel eyes were sparking with pain as he looked upon his father in a way he hadn't since he was a small boy. There was an accusation in those tearful eyes, a heart-wrenching confliction that so clearly screamed: you are my father; you are supposed to keep me safe and love me no matter what. But you hurt me and now I don't know what to think.

It was a look more fitting of a youngster than a man of Adam's age who had a firm understanding that bad behavior always came with consequences; he had knowledge about context that allowed him to interpret actions and behavior. He knew his father was a fierce, formidable man, who could hurt someone who threatened their safety but would never dare raise a hand to him to do the same. Except, in that moment, Ben realized quickly that he had.

"Adam," he whispered dreadfully as he extended a peaceful hand toward his son who was quick to back away. "Son."

The damage was already done, a fact that was only emphasized when Adam turned around, hiding his face from view as he gave into the sobs he could no longer keep at bay. He had always been like this. Even when he was a little boy, he never allowed the person who hurt him to immediately comfort him after. There had always been a waiting period allotted for him to contemplate what had been done, how it demanded things change or remain the same. He never accepted immediate condolences. He had always required time.

Ben couldn't tolerate listening to his son's distress without doing something to ease and soothe it. He had never been good at watching his sons cry. And Adam was due for a good long cry, of this Ben was certain. Whether it was prompted by his anger or his son's cavernous sadness over the death of his friends, those tears would have come eventually. They just happened to come then, after their tense angry words, after the furious motion Ben longed to take back.

"Adam," he tried gently. Moving in front of him, he pulled his son into his arms. Adam was noncompliant at first, moving his limbs to weakly push him away. Ben stood rooted in place, holding his son close until he gave up his meek fight.

"I'm sorry for striking you," he whispered, his own emotions feeling too close to the surface. "But not for being disappointed by what you said."

He was never certain if it was his apology or something else that prompted Adam to finally hug him back. It was a moment—a mistake—that seemed to change everything and nothing at the same time. He wondered if this was the moment that prevented Adam from talking to him about the cliff or his real reasons for demanding to be allowed to go to Eastgate. He wondered if this was the conversation that shifted things for Adam or if that was something that happened before, a complication of another conversation when Adam had been so worried about Ross and Del.

I dream of Ross and Del and the devil too, I think, Adam had said. It was a difficult admission for his son to make, but Ben had dismissed it immediately. He hadn't taken the time to figure out what Adam was really saying. What it all really meant.

But what did it all really mean? Was it all somehow connected? Did one decision lead to another and then another? Or were they all singular? Each existing independently of one another. A string of bad things just happening with no discernable reason why.

The moment in the Silver Dollar's barn would become the last time, prior to his departure to Eastgate, Adam would hug his father. It was also the last time, before being found aimlessly wandering the desert, Adam would allow Ben to see him cry. And finding him in that desert after searching for so long, becoming so overwhelmed by relief and then fear, Ben would be forced to yell at his son to rescue him from his crazed ramblings. It would work, but for one horrible second, before Adam began to cry, Ben was certain he had seen fear etched on his son's face and it reminded him of that night in the barn. It was a memory he didn't want to think about but he knew it would never leave him.

It was undeniable that Adam was different after Ross and Del's deaths, after buying the Silver Dollar, after his drinking and fighting, after that fateful night in the barn. After his sickness had finally forced him to come home. He awoke from his fever with a strange look in his eyes; he looked upon his father at his bedside speaking of ships and storms. At the time, Ben had taken it as a good sign. A sign that Adam had finally resolved himself to come to terms with all that had taken place.

But what if it hadn't been a good sign? What if it had been a warning of something else?

Ben and Adam didn't talk much after. Eventually, there came to be a distinct difference in how his son acted towards him and everyone else. He was quiet and reserved, inpatient to a point. Looking back, he seemed bored; irrefutably troubled by the perceived stagnancy of his life. But what if it hadn't been boredom or stagnancy that changed Adam's view on his surroundings?

What if it was something else?

What if it was that indecipherable bad thing Ben had felt approaching all along?

"I hit your brother," Ben admitted softly. Hoss's indignation over such an occurrence was immediate. "Not today," he qualified. "Not recently. But if we're talking about things that happened after Adam bought the Silver Dollar, then there you are."

"When?" Hoss pressed.

"The night I went to see him for myself. He was drinking heavily; we exchanged words; he said something I took offense to."

"That was his habit back then. He didn't seem to be much for talkin' but there wasn't anything that came out of his mouth someone couldn't take offense to. He was always lookin' for trouble, rearing for fight."

"That doesn't make what I did right," Ben said.

"No, sir."

"He was belligerent and I reacted to him in anger. Neither one of us were acting as we should."

"I understand, Pa," Hoss said earnestly. "It was difficult back then. Adam was so in need of help and he wasn't interested in takin' none. We all did our best to do right by him, and he sorted himself out in the end."

"Did he?"

Hoss shrugged. "I thought he did. He quit drinking and fightin'. He stayed out of trouble and at home."

"He became quiet."

"Adam always gets quiet when he's thinkin' things through. He's independent. He likes to stand on his own two feet and handle things on his own." Hoss frowned, his brows knitting. "Or at least he used to," he added softly.

Maybe he still does, Ben thought.

"Pa?" Hoss asked. "Memories and thoughts of Adam standing on the edge of cliffs and bad dreams, what does any of that have to do with right now?"

Shaking his head, Ben didn't know for sure, but given more thought, he suspected he would.

Xx

Upon further consideration, knowledge of Adam and the cliff, Ben's and his son's respective bad feelings and dreams didn't make more sense than they previously had.

And so, retiring downstairs to nurse a glass of something strong and dark and sporadically chewing on the end of his pipe, Ben resigned himself to not thinking anymore about it. At least not then. Not that night. He needed at least one peaceful one, he thought. He was at the very least deserving of one night where he could let his worry for his eldest son go. When he could sit leisurely and relax, enjoying his tobacco and a few sips of something strong as he was warmed by the heat of the low-burning fire.

It wasn't to be—at least not that night.

The fire was warm as it ever was, as was the brandy as it slipped down his throat; and the tobacco tasted the way it always did, smooth, earthy, subtle, and comforting. It gave him something to do with his body; grounding and unconscious, the actions were completed idly—almost in the background—as his thoughts strayed further and further away from reason.

There didn't seem to be a logical reason for Adam to end up how he was. Though there were plenty of lunatic notions, ideas of which could be conceived of but never quite believed. Ideas that the devil had been in Ross Marquette and now was inside his son. Ideas that his dreams—and perhaps Adam's too— were premonitory, serving as both a warning and a gift. But if that was the case then he had wasted his opportunity. Nothing had been prevented. Too much had happened for his dreams to be looked upon with any other emotion than pain.

In his dreams he had seen Adam standing on the edge of a cliff. It had been such a bothersome, haunting sight. One which he knew now had actually taken place. Kane had taken such joy in torturing Ben with an image of the empty cliff, the steep jagged remains that somehow managed to stand unaffected after the evil man shoved Adam off the edge. He had asked Ben—once in his dreams and then over and over again in his silent tortured thoughts—what was the point of being gifted dreams if you didn't do anything with the knowledge? But Ben wondered if that was the real question.

What was the point of being gift images of something that had already taken place? How was one supposed to use knowledge of such a particular event to navigate the fall-out of the fragmented series of events that followed? How were his dreams of Adam on the cliff supposed to help him free his son from the intangible Kane?

He heard the approaching footsteps long before he turned around. He knew he would see his youngest son before he laid eyes on him. He knew his boys; he had always been able to identify each of his sons by the weight of their footsteps—no matter how quiet and careful they may try to be. Turning, he found Little Joe settling on the edge of the low-sitting table, warming himself by the flames of flickering fire. His shirt was untucked and he was missing his belt and boots. He looked as though he had been readying himself for bed before abandoning the intention and seeking out his father instead.

Ben's stomach turned, slightly discomforted by why that would be. The only occasions Joe sought him out at such an hour was when he was struggling with something, when had some secret truth weighing on his conscience demanding to be shared. Ben found himself hoping it wasn't either that brought Joe into his company but taking in his son's grave expression, he knew it was both.

"Pa," Little Joe said.

"Yes."

"Hoss and I had a long talk."

"About?"

"Adam, how he is now and how he was before."

Shoulders sinking, Ben heartily exhaled around the stem of his pipe, the darkened expelled breath lingering in front his face in a puff of smoke. He had no desire to repeat conversations; he hardly had any patience left where the topic was concerned. Joe had been a great advocate for his eldest brother and the miniscule possibility he would return to who he had been but it was time to let such thoughts go. Adam was who he was; they would accept him unconditionally—however each dawn presented him to be, however Adam presented himself to be. Ben frowned at the bothersome thought. He was ashamed for thinking it. It wasn't Adam who was doing anything—of that, he had always been certain. If Kane was real or imagined, his son wasn't actively choosing to do anything. His fear was. His fear dictated everything; it prompted every behavior, rendering him unable to make logical choices.

But Adam had finally made a logical choice. He had sat before Ben and weighed one choice against another when he had been told his options: to be brave in the face of his lingering fear of Kane or give into it. In the end, there was only one choice to be made—Ben knew that, but it didn't stop him from being overjoyed, hopeful, and relieved to finally hear Adam acknowledge it.

Okay, that was what Adam had said. He hadn't said anything after; he didn't need to. The singular word was enough—it said everything his father wanted him to. But that had been before. Before Hoss had taken a hold of him in the hallway, before he told the truth about the cliff. Before his son's admission had prompted Ben to remember a few hidden truths of his own. Before he recalled Adam's actions and words and his own.

I think I dream of the devil, that was what Adam had once said—not with those specific words, of course, but something to that effect. Adam had said it and Ben had dismissed it, and then his son never said it again. But he had said other things—things Ben was certain hadn't been said properly or interpreted correctly at the time.

Do you think this is what I want? It was a question Adam had asked long ago, after he had purchased the Silver Dollar, on the day he decided to leave home and live upon the property alone.

You tell me what I oughta do, Adam had bellowed the next time Ben saw him, standing drunkenly under the cover of darkness in the Silver Dollar's barn.

I need to get out while I still can, Adam had eventually said, sitting on the edge of Ben's desk making his plea to be allowed to go to Eastgate. He had to go to Eastgate; it didn't matter how much Ben wanted to keep him home.

"Hoss said that if I know anything more about Adam then I should tell you," Joe said. "He said if I'm keeping any secrets for him then I need to come clean. As of late, Adam hasn't really been in the habit of keepin' secrets. I reckon' there isn't much of anything that goes on with him that the three of us don't know about, well, four of us, I guess, counting Hop Sing. But that's now, and Hoss told me I need to talk to you about before."

"When is before?" Ben asked. The context of what this son was saying was something he was determined to properly understand.

"Before, when Adam was still Adam," Joe said. "When he and I were still in each other's company on the drive, before we delivered those cattle and split up and he lost himself in that desert."

"And what do you want to tell me about that time?"

Breaking eye contact, Joe looked at his hands, his expression changing. "Pa," he said tightly, "I know you and Hoss don't exactly appreciate my determination not to treat Adam differently, but the problem with accepting Adam the way he is now is that you have to assume he was acting right before and he wasn't. He hadn't been for a long time."

"What makes you think that?"

"I don't think it. I know it. I know a lot of things. Like how the desert and man he met in it isn't what gave Adam his nightmares. He was having them before he and I went on that drive. He's been having them for a long time. Of course, he was better at controlling himself after a bad dream back then. He didn't scream after waking up, and he didn't cry, although sometimes I think he wanted to."

"How do you know he had nightmares?"

"I used to hear him cry out in the middle of the night. He wasn't loud, but I heard him. At first, I thought you and Hoss knew about them too and you were just being kind and letting him be. Then later, I knew the two of you didn't know, because I was the one waking Adam up before he really got loud."

Looking at Ben, Joe's eyes shone with regret, his face contorting with the kind of shame that always accompanied sharing a brother's secret with someone it had been carefully hidden from.

"I'm sorry, Pa. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't. Adam didn't want you to know. He didn't want me to know, of course that couldn't be helped. I think he was ashamed at first, then I think he was relieved. If I knew about his nightmares, then I could help him when he found himself trapped inside of one. I could help him keep them secret by making sure no one else ever found out."

"When did these dreams start?"

"I don't for sure," Joe admitted. "It was after Ross and Del, and after that fever almost killed him that I found out. Even then, I suspected he had been having them for a while. When I woke him that first time, he didn't seem particularly surprised he had been having a nightmare; he only seemed surprised that I was the one leaning over him when he woke up. I think he was expecting you." He shook his head sadly. "I think he wanted me to be you. But it was me and because it was me, he wouldn't talk about what he was dreaming of. I tried to get him to talk about it. Lord, he got so furious whenever I tried to bring it up. I wanted to do for him what he always did for me; I wanted to be able to listen and help him move past whatever was bothering him so much. He wouldn't allow it. I am the youngest brother and he is the oldest. The nature of our relationship is defined by those roles, that was what he said to me. It wasn't right for him to need me to ease his worries the way I sometimes needed him to ease mine."

"But you could keep his secret?" Ben challenged simply.

Joe frowned. "Pa, you have to understand what it felt like to overhear him. Those dreams were so bad, I could tell by the way he acted when he woke up. He didn't want me knowing he was havin' nightmares, and he sure wasn't gonna let me help him. Keeping the secret about his nightmares was how I could help him. And I wanted to help him. I wanted to do that more than anything I had ever wanted before."

"You should have said something; you should have told me."

"Why? So, you could ask him about his dreams and he could deny having them? It wouldn't have mattered, Pa. If Adam doesn't ask for help himself, he isn't one to take it. Although..." Joe paused thoughtfully. "It's different with you. He's more inclined to admit he needs you than me or even Hoss. You know, it's funny, a lot of people think that because I'm the youngest and Adam's the oldest that I need you more than he does. But that's not true, because he doesn't have an older brother to go to when he needs to talk something out, or when he feels like things are getting too tough to handle on his own. I'm the youngest," he said emphatically. "I have two older brothers and father to go when things are particularly rough. Sometimes Adam feels like he only has you."

Ben couldn't disagree.

"The nature of our relationship is bound by our roles, even now," Joe continued. "I'm not the one whose bed he's crawling into when he can't stand being alone, and I'm not the person who he lets hug him when everything gets to be too much. It's you and sometimes it's Hoss, but it's never me, and that's why I can't see him the way you and Hoss do. Seeing him how I always have is what he expects from me. It's what he's comfortable with."

"You help him by not bringing attention to how he's changed," Ben said, finally understanding Joe's determination not to accept Adam's change in demeanor. "You help him by not helping him."

"And I help him by telling you the truth about his nightmares." Joe cast Ben's serious look. "I help him by finally telling you the truth of what happened on the way to Eastgate."

"What happened?"

"Nothing that bothered me enough to take note of at the time, but now…" Joe paused, his brows knitting with concern. "Well, now I can see so clearly what I missed then. Like I said, he had been having nightmares for a while; he continued to have them on the way to Eastgate. At the time, I thought they were the same dreams he was having at home, but now I think they were different. They affected him differently."

"How so?"

"Adam was so quiet on that drive, Pa. Looking back, it seems like he didn't talk at all; he kept his attention focused on the horizon. When the land began to change, when the mountains and pine trees began to become sparse and the ground became dry and dust-covered as it transformed into desert, Adam changed too. He became agitated, nervous; he kept looking in the distance, like he expected to see something he was dreading to find. I don't know if I ever saw anything when he and I were still together." Joe shrugged. "I never saw anything, but I guess that doesn't really make much of a difference, because we all know Adam sees things we don't."

"We know he sees things we can't see now," Ben corrected. "We don't know when that began."

"Like I said, I never saw anything out there," Joe repeated seriously. "I don't know what Adam did or didn't see. He was quiet during the day but at night he screamed."

"Screamed?"

"I never heard anything like it, at least not then. After we found him, maybe but even the nightmares he had in Eastgate or on the way home seemed different. On the way to Eastgate Adam's nightmares seemed... more intense. He didn't sleep much and when he did, his slumber didn't stay peaceful for long before he woke both of us up with his screams." Expelling a deep breath, Joe shuttered, seemingly bothered by the haunting nature of the memory. "I have never heard a man yell like that. He wasn't saying words, Pa; he was screaming from the pit of his belly. Just screaming, like he was being tortured, like someone was hurting him. When I heard him that first night, I thought for sure something was going wrong for us. I sprung up from my bedroll with my gun drawn, so convinced I was gonna find an intruder in our camp. I was convinced somebody had to be there, doing something horrible to get Adam to sound like he did."

"He screamed on the way back from Eastgate too," Ben reminded softly, reminded of those nights, how Adam had screamed, rousing them all from their slumber, and how Joe hadn't seemed to sleep much at all. He had taken to watching the dying embers of the campfire with haunted eyes. At the time, Ben hadn't placed much weight on Joe's actions or words. He had been too preoccupied with Adam's. But now he knew he should have listened better. He should have paid more heed to both the things Joe had said and how he had looked when saying them.

Joe had told his father what happened to Adam was his fault because he had allowed Adam to head into the desert alone. He had told Ben he should have known better than to allow his brother to venture off alone.

"That was different," Joe said, emancipating his father from his thoughts. "It was a different kind of scream. Adam was different after we found him; he was haunted and afraid. Before, when it was me and him surrounded by cattle and desert, he wasn't afraid. He was angry. He didn't want to talk about anything when he woke up from his nightmares. He dismissed any question I asked. He told me to go back to sleep; he told me he was okay; and I told myself I believed him because he was my older brother and that was what I was used to. He had never given me reason not to trust and believe what he had to say."

"And now?"

"I still trust and believe him," Joe said. "If says he sees things, then the things he sees are real. I think they were real before Adam met that man in the desert and I think they're real now. I think Adam knew that desert held bad things for him; after we delivered that stock, I don't think he wanted to go into that land alone, but I don't think he had a choice. If I would have had my choice, then he never would have gone." His face contorted with a mixture of pain and regret. "I told him I didn't want him to go, Pa," he whispered, his quiet voice cracking with emotion. Bottom lip trembling, he looked at the flames of the fire, unable or unwilling to continue.

Sitting next to him, Ben placed a comforting hand on Joe's shoulder and squeezed. "Tell me more, Joe," he prompted when it seemed as though his youngest son may never speak again. This was an opportunity he was certain would not come again. "Don't stop telling this story now that you've finally begun."

Clearing his throat and wiping his hands over his face, Joe was silent for a few moments more. "When arrived at Eastgate with the stock," he finally began, his voice low and haunted, "Adam stayed back to observe the count and get payment. I went to the saloon and he joined me later and that was when he told me what he intended to do. We're gonna take a couple of days off, that's what he said. I told him that you weren't going to be happy about that and he said he didn't care. I was hot and tired and dirty from the trail. I was not looking forward to sleeping on the ground again; I wanted to take a bath, eat a good meal, and have a good night's rest, so I agreed with him. Of course, I didn't know exactly what I was agreeing to. I shouldn't have done that, Pa. I'm sorry. You gave us orders to come back as quickly as we arrived and I ignored them."

"It's okay," Ben soothed. There were enough things to feel bad about, Joe didn't need to harbor guilt over this one.

"It isn't, and now it never will be, because I agreed. I wish I never would have agreed to split up. I didn't want to. Adam said he intended to venture East for some peace and quiet, do some hunting and then fishing at Pyramid Lake. I told him I wanted to go with him, but there was no getting Adam to agree with that. He said he didn't want me to go. He said I wasn't invited. He wanted to be alone; he needed some time alone. All I could think about was him being alone with his nightmares with nobody to wake him up when he started to scream. I didn't like the idea of him being alone with whatever was haunting him in his dreams at night, but then I thought maybe that was the point. Maybe he had had enough of me hearing him. Maybe he needed some time alone to protect his pride. He's the oldest and I'm the youngest, there's always going to be a limit to how much he's willing to allow me to see or do when he's hurting."

"Adam sets a limit for all of us," Ben said. "Or at least he used to."

"I agreed to let Adam go," Joe continued. "He joined me at the bathhouse before he left. It's so damn odd to think about now. While we were cleaning up, I kept trying to talk to him about Obadiah Johnson's trial and Adam kept saying Obadiah would hang because he was guilty. A man is responsible for what he does, he said. If he loses control of himself then he has to be punished for it. I keep thinking about those words now, Pa; I hear Adam saying them over and over again in my mind. I can't help but wonder if there's something Adam thinks he did, something he's determined to punish himself for. If that's why he doesn't seem interested in allowing anyone to help him now. I should have been strong enough to help him back then. I shouldn't have agreed to let him go. I should have insisted on coming back home, like you told us to."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Ben said sadly. "It isn't easy to change Adam's mind when it's made up."

"That's what scares me the most now. If he has his mind made up about what he's doing now, supposedly listening to the ghost he sees, how are we going to help him? How do you protect somebody from themselves? How do you win against an enemy you can't see?"

Ben thought on the question, considering all the things he was now privy to as he carefully crafted his reply. Hoss had said Adam had stood on the edge of a cliff preparing himself to jump; he had confirmed Ben's worst fear. Joe had said Adam was suffering from nightmares long before they rescued him from the desert; something had been disturbing him before he came across Peter Kane. Adam had said he didn't want to be how he was; he had agreed to finally fight, to try to change—meekly, of course, but when Ben had told Adam he needed to either break Kane's hold or learn to live with it, Adam had agreed.

Okay, Adam had said, his voice carrying the slightest edge of stubborn determination that had been absent for so long. They both knew Adam couldn't fight alone, but he wasn't alone. He had never really been alone.

"We are winning," Ben said.

Joe cast him a confused look. "How?"

"Because we are talking to each other about things that should have been disclosed a long time ago. We're keeping close watch on Adam, ensuring he is safe. Adam spoke again today, Joe. He's ready to change; he wants to overcome the fear that has been consuming and holding him down. And we're all ready to help him with that."

"How do we do that?"

"We don't have to know how," Ben said. "We take each day as it comes. We take each moment for what it is; when the opportunity presents itself to help him, we will know what to do, Joseph. We've all always known that giving up on him was the wrong thing to do. It was wrong to give up on him when he was lost in the desert, and it's wrong to abandon this fight. We have gone back and forth on this subject so many times, debating, discussing, and even arguing about what Adam's future holds and what he needs us to do for him. What he needs us to do is agree; he needs us to stop being consumed by guilt over our own actions, the things we think we should or could have done to change what happened, so that we can begin to help him contend with his own. There's a reason Adam is acting like the way he is. There is always a belief that propels every decision he makes. Right now, it's his belief in and fear of Kane's ghost."

"It can't just be that," Joe disagreed. "Adam was having nightmares long before he met that man. He hadn't been acting right for a long time before he went into that desert."

"That's because Adam went into that desert looking for Kane. He knew what he was going to find."

Joe was appalled. "How do you know that?"

"You said yourself, there was no preventing him from leaving you behind in Eastgate. I was unable to stop him from going on that drive. He was going to go into that desert, Joe. He went looking for that man, I'm sure of it."

"How can you be?"

"Because Adam's nightmares were about Kane. He once told me he thought he dreamed of the devil, I'm certain now he was talking about Kane."

"Adam talked about the devil," a voice said from across the room.

Ben and Joe looked at the staircase in unison and found Hoss lingering on the bottom stair. Ben wondered how long his middle son had been there, how much of the conversation with Joe had been overheard. He hoped Hoss had heard all of it. They were no longer in the business of keeping secrets from one another.

"Adam said if the devil wants to find you can," Hoss finished. "He said that to me when he was standing on the edge of a cliff, fixin' to jump."

"I dreamed of Adam standing on the edge of a cliff," Ben explained to Joe. "That's why I didn't want him to go on the drive to Eastgate. I've dreamed of Kane sporadically since. I am inclined to agree with what Adam previously said."

"You think Kane is the devil?" Joe asked, his eyes widening with fear as glanced between his father and brother.

"Kane was evil, Joe," Hoss said. "Don't you remember what the Eastgate townsfolk said about him?"

"I'll never forget," Joe said. "They said he was a devil of a man, exiled to the desert not because of what he did to anyone himself but because of what he was able to convince others to do to each other."

"Adam dreamed of him," Hoss said. "Pa too. Even though the man's dead that don't stop him from torturing Adam."

"The only question which remains is why," Ben said. What did Kane want with Adam? What was the purpose of luring him into the desert and haunting him?"

As Joe shook his head and Hoss shrugged, Ben quickly realized he had posed the question to the wrong son. The only one who could answer the question was Adam. And it was a question Adam would finally answer. Ben would make sure of it.

"It's late, you boys get on up to bed," Ben said. "We've thought enough of this tonight. It's time to get some rest and look at it with clear eyes and minds tomorrow."

"What about you?" Hoss challenged softly.

"What about me?" Ben asked.

"Are you going to stay down here alone, thinkin' on all of this for the rest of the night?" Joe asked.

Ben smiled, comforted by the knowledge it was possible for sons to know their father so well. "No," he said. "I am going to retire upstairs too."

And, following Joe and Hoss up the staircase, he did. First to his own bedroom as his two younger sons entered their own, then to Adam's room to watch over him as he slept.

Xx

Ben's dream began before he realized he had fallen asleep.

Sitting on the edge of the cliff, legs hung over the side, he clenched his hands together and considered the desolate, desert landscape below. The ground was rugged and dry; difficult to travel upon during the day and impossible to negotiate as it presented itself now, surrounded by the darkness of night. There was a chill in the air; a peace to his surroundings that seemed inappropriate given the intensity of his past dreams of this place and the man standing behind him.

"I thought you were determined not to dream of me anymore," Kane said.

"I thought so too," Ben said. He was no longer afraid of this dream, of whomever—or whatever—it was he was speaking to. Deep and gravely, Kane's voice was downright grinding. It was a voice Ben now knew with unyielding certainty was not of the world. Kane wasn't of the world; he wasn't neither man nor a demon. He was a devil—although if he was the devil, Ben had yet to decide. "I guess we were both wrong."

"I am never wrong," Kane said. "But I wonder what else you're wrong about."

Shaking his head, Ben refused to consider the statement. He hadn't come here to be taunted and teased. He hadn't imagined this place in his slumber and sought out Kane to be asked anything. He would ask the questions this time around. He would ask Kane the same things he planned to ask Adam when the time was right.

"So, your younger sons finally told you the truth they were hiding about your eldest," Kane said. "It's not much information when you really think about it, but I suppose you think you understand everything now."

"No," Ben said. Not everything. Not yet.

He set his attention on the bleak, night sky disguising the horizon and was reminded that at the very edge of darkness, there was always light. Dawn was coming; he could see hints of the morning sky breaking through the black clouds.

"I see," Kane said knowingly. "You aren't dreaming of me because you understand. You're dreaming of me because you want to."

"You told me you could tell me things if I was willing to listen. I wasn't before, but I'm willing now."

"And what kind of things do you wish to hear?"

"The truth."

"Ah," Kane said. "Well, you haven't been very fond of certain truths I brought up in the past, what makes you think you're deserving of hearing such a thing now?"

Turning, Ben looked at Kane and considered the question. What answer would entitle him to the information he was seeking? He wasn't sure but he suspected volunteering an honest answer would entitle him one in return.

"When you said I treated my sons differently you were right," he said. "I do. I expect different things from them because they're different people, with different weaknesses and strengths."

This admission didn't seem to surprise Kane, who crossed his arms and nodded his head, a silent prompt for Ben to continue until he voiced a satisfactory answer. Ben wondered what this answer was and how many truths he would have to tell before being allotted the one he was seeking.

"When you said I allowed Adam to manipulate me into allowing him to travel to Eastgate you were right," Ben said. "Although, you were wrong about the reason I allowed such a thing. You said I allowed it because he called me Papa."

Kane's eyes were black orbs, shining with a hint of bright red. Nodding at Ben, he said nothing, the action an obvious demand for Ben to continue.

"It was manipulative of Adam to do that, but not because of the reason you said," Ben said simply, a hint of a sad smile on his lips. "That word isn't—wasn't—inane and juvenile, and hearing it voiced by my oldest son does not make me feel needed, or less obsolete in his life, at least it didn't that day. It made me feel guilty. It reminded me of a past I wish could take back and a future that seems so destined and unavoidable that I dreaded it a little more each day."

"You don't dread the future anymore?"

"I do," Ben admitted. It was something he was certain they both knew. "It's a different kind of dread I feel now. Before I worried about Adam leaving me for a more adventurous life, and now I fear he will never be able to."

Turning back around, he stared at his feet as they hung suspended in the air, then took a deep breath and resigned himself to finally acknowledging his own truth.

"Adam called me Papa when making his argument to be allowed to go to Eastgate. It was such a simple word that, at the time, I both longed and hated to hear it. He used to call me by that name quite frequently, even after he came of age. He thinks Hoss and Joe don't know he does it, but they do. It isn't a secret, rather a detail which goes ignored by both his brothers out of kindness, because even though they don't do it themselves, they can understand the need it's born from. It was Adam's way of voicing his need for things he couldn't or wouldn't articulate with further words."

Ben shook his head sadly.

"He didn't say it a lot, but it always meant something when he did. I used to hear so many things when he used that word. When he used it in an argument, it was a demand I listen to him better than I was. When he used it when he was sick or hurt, it was a request for help, reassurance, or comfort. And when said in quiet moments, peaceful occasions when I couldn't have predicted its use, it was his way of saying how much he loved me. There was never a day that he used that word when it didn't mean something more than what he had said. Sometimes I dreaded hearing it, on the occasions when he was injured or ill. Others it filled me with relief, especially when he was struggling with difficulties that were too large to shoulder on his own."

"And other times when he used the work filled you with joy and love," Kane said. "When Adam said it seemingly for no reason at all."

"He didn't say it a lot," Ben repeated. "And then, suddenly, he wouldn't say it at all. That word was a gift. As quickly as it had been graciously given, it was taken away.

Pursing his lips, Ben hung his head, his heart throbbing with regret and pain. He didn't want to think about this but he knew he had to. In hope that in exchange for this bit of truth he would become privy to another.

"You were right when you said what happened with Ross and Delphine Marquette changed everything," he said. "It changed Adam in a way I wish could have been avoided. I wish that whole situation could have been avoided. He was different after their deaths; the pain of those events hurt him in a way nothing ever had before. Ross and Adam were very close. They were like brothers; they shared everything, even the same birthday. Ross was very much like another son to me; Delphine felt like a daughter-in-law I don't yet have. It hurt to lose them. It hurt to know what Ross did—all the things he did—stealing the cattle we had tried to give him a year earlier, stage robbing, murdering those men and… Del. It hurt so much to know what he did to Del, and what Adam, in turn, was forced to do to him. It hurt to think about what could have or should have been. I felt like I failed them, all of them. Ross and Del as my surrogate children and Adam as my real one."

"You think you should have been the one to take Ross's life."

"I know I should have been the one to take his life. Not Adam. Never Adam. I never wanted it to be him."

"It was always going to be him," Kane said matter-of-factly. "That couldn't have been changed."

Scoffing, Ben shook his head in disgust. What was the meaning of such statements? Was this devil trying to assuage his guilt? "It should have been me," he said firmly. "I should have listened to my son better than I did. He came to me for help; he reached out to me so that I could comfort his worries and I dismissed them instead."

"Listening to him that day when the two of you rode side-by-side on the range wouldn't have changed anything either."

"I don't believe that; I don't believe Adam believes it either. He came to me," Ben repeated emphatically. "He came to me for help that day, before Ross and Del died, and after he never came to me with his worries again."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because I didn't listen to him correctly. I didn't take the time to hear what he was really saying. He was worried and afraid. He asked me if I believed in God; he told me he thought Ross didn't. He told me he thought he dreamed of the devil, and that if a man believes in God, he has no choice but to believe in the devil too. It was such an odd thing for him to become preoccupied with. It bothered me to know he was consumed by these kinds of thoughts. Still, I dismissed his worry. I told him to get some rest. I told him that discovering Ross had raised a violent hand to Del had caused him strain. I told him that it would all be okay. Everything would work out. But I was wrong. It didn't. In the end, Ross killed Del and Adam killed Ross, and, wracked with guilt, I was unprepared to help my son through his grief."

"Guilt makes men stupid," Kane said simply. "It makes them act in ways unbecoming of their personalities and past."

"When Adam bought the Silver Dollar at auction, I wanted to grab that deed from him and tear it in half. When he told me he intended to live upon that land and work it, I wanted to drag him upstairs to his bedroom and lock him inside until he changed his mind. When I found out what he was doing on that property, I wanted to throw him over my knee and remind him what kind of man I raised him to be. But I didn't do any of those things. I did something else instead."

"You gave him space. Berth and time to decide what kind of man he wanted to be."

Ben expelled a sigh. Now Kane really was being kind. "No. I did something that further changed everything." In struggling to pull Adam closer, he had pushed him further away. "I went to that property in the middle of the night. I found my son drinking himself to death. I fought with him. And then I put an end to our fight. He called me Papa that night, when I came upon him in that barn. He said it when he saw me; I remember wondering what it really meant. How I was supposed to interpret it given the circumstances. I took it as a cry for help, but I don't think that's how he intended it. Later, he became angry; he said disrespectful things, and I responded to him in anger. I backhanded him, and never called me Papa again."

"Until the day he wanted to go to Eastgate," Kane reminded.

"Until the day he wanted to go to Eastgate," Ben sighed. "He said it and I heard it. And instead of feeling the dread or relief or joy that I had become accustomed to hearing when he previously said that word, all I felt was guilt. It reminded me of that night, what I had done, how much Adam had changed. How different he really was and how quickly time was passing us by. He wasn't the way he had been before. He wasn't as happy or satisfied or at peace with the life we had built as he had once been. At that moment, I was afraid that if I didn't let him go, then he would leave again, for good. That day was always going to come, I knew that, but I wanted to hang on to him for as long as I could."

"He manipulated you. He knew what hearing that word again would implore you to do."

"I manipulated myself. I allowed my guilt to override my intuition. I allowed my fear of the future to cloud my ability to protect my son in the present. I should have told him the truth. I should have shared with him my dreams, how frightened I was for him. I should have spoken to him about my fears so he could share with me his own."

"Wouldn't have changed anything. If you really wanted to save him, then you should have found him sooner. You should have listened to him while he was still willing to speak. You are a fool. There's no stopping this once it's begun. Don't you understand? Adam chose this. I didn't seek him; he sought me. He dreamed of me and then went looking for me. And when he found me, he chose his future. He knew what was going to happen. What the future would demand of him—what I would demand of him. He chose poorly, but he chose."

"My son wouldn't choose this life."

"He did."

"I don't believe that."

"Why not?" Kane challenged. "Do you really think you are the only man to ever be haunted by the past and hindered by his guilt?"

"No."

"Do you really think your Adam is so rational, intelligent, and meticulous that he is impenetrable by such feelings?"

"No."

"Of course, you don't. After all, isn't that the problem? The one question that haunts you the most? Not necessarily what happened to your son in the desert but what he did. You've seen his anger; you recognize in him what you've struggled with yourself. Adam is a rational man, but if pushed he can lose track of all rational thought. He can become dangerous when threatened or angry or hurt or afraid."

"That's not—"

"It is true. Don't you remember? Of course, you do. How could you ever forget? You saw him lose control of himself as a child when he threatened your wife with the knife. You watched the anger and resentment flicker in his eyes after you hit him. He was furious; he wanted to hit you back."

"But he didn't," Ben said firmly. "He didn't hit me, and he didn't hurt Marie. He realized his actions were impulsive; he was able to think about what he was doing and chose control over knee-jerk anger. He didn't do anything wrong!"

"You're right. He didn't."

Ben looked at Kane, an odd feeling building in his chest. "What?"

"In the desert," Kane said, his eyes gleaming with evil glee, "your son didn't do anything wrong. Of course, now perhaps I should qualify my disclosure by saying before, in the desert, Adam didn't do anything wrong. But after, well, after is a completely different time, isn't it? Full of confusion and fear. Nightmares and ghosts—"

"What did you do?" Ben demanded. "What did you do to my son?"

"Nothing he didn't ask me to do. As you now know, he went into the desert purposely. What happened to him was not accidental."

"Why?"

"Because he was looking for something."

"You," Ben accused.

"No, not me," Kane scoffed. "My God, you are so determined not to figure this out. Even now with all the hints you've been allotted you can't seem to put them together. He knew I would be out there; finding me was never the end goal."

"Then what was? What was Adam looking for?"

"Absolution. He needed to endure enough pain to satisfy his ghosts and put them to rest."

"What are you talking about?"

Kane exhaled heartily, as though Ben's question was the most imbecilic he had ever heard. "Mister Cartwright," he said patronizingly, "I may be the one who has embedded himself into your son's mind and soul, but I am not who he sees. I'm neither the one he's afraid of nor the one he needs to satisfy in order to be set free of his fear."

Ben cast Kane a look of skeptical outrage. The devil was lying. He had to be. After all, wasn't that what he was famous for? His deception and trickery, his ability to shift lies into false truths.

"That's a lie," Ben said.

"That is the truth. Oh, he dreams of me," Kane repeated, his eyes glistening with joy. "He did before and he still does now. He and I have vast conversations in his mind, but outside of it, he sees somebody else."

"He told me you were the one—"

"Lies of omission. Adam never said who it was he saw. He gave you clues and he allowed you to come to your own conclusion, which he chose not to correct."

"Adam said—"

"Adam said he spoke to me; he didn't say how or when. Your son dreams of me the way you dream of me. Our conversations take place on the edge of this very cliff. A place where he feels he cannot be overheard."

"Overheard by whom?"

"Ghosts."

"Ghosts?" Ben snorted skeptically.

"You can believe in God, demons and devils, but not ghosts?" Kane asked. "That's a shame. Ghosts are more real than all those things put together. Sometimes they're angry. Sometimes they're cruel. And sometimes they demand things of the living in exchange for perceived wrongs. If you really wanted to help your son then you should have asked him about ghosts. You should have taken the time to ask him about why he needed to buy the Silver Dollar and why he needed to burn it down. You should have asked him about Frank Mitchel. A man he first fought with then later offered a job. You should have asked your son why he ran away from the timber camp the day he saw Frank. Did he run because he was afraid of Frank or himself?"

"Frank was a hand from Silver Dollar," Ben said.

"Who Adam despised."

"Frank said Adam saved his life."

"And your youngest son said Frank lies. The question you ought to be asking yourself now is what does Frank know about Adam? What does Adam know about Frank? Tell me, what do you think your son will do if you ask him about Frank? Is he going to tell the truth or is he going to favor lies instead?"

"Why wouldn't he tell the truth?" Ben asked, his heart sinking in his chest. What is the purpose of hiding the truth of who he saw?

"Guilt," Kane shrugged. "Shame. All the things we already spoke about. Things that have nothing to do with me, really. I just happened to be where I was. I just happened to come across your son in his nightmares."

"How do those things have nothing to do with you?"

"I didn't start this. I merely interjected myself, offered up my services to be of help."

"Help."

"Yes, help. This may come as a surprise to you, but I am quite altruistic. Now, my help does come at a cost and my assistance is not always what one would want it to be. I do enjoy a good tormenting game now and then but who doesn't? You know who else enjoyed playing games, don't you?"

Ben shook his head.

"Oh, come on," Kane groaned disappointedly. "The answer is so close now, that is if you can actually reason it out. Think of your fear; the one which frightens you the most. You have all the clues, let's think about them. You noticed changes in Adam when?"

"After Ross and Del's deaths."

"And your middle son pulled Adam off of the edge of the cliff when?"

"After he bought the Silver Dollar."

"And your youngest son said he discovered Adam's nightmares when?"

"After he became sick and burned the Silver Dollar down."

"PA!" a voice suddenly shouted; echoing through the sky it sounded muffled and far away. "WAKE UP!"

But Ben couldn't do that. Not yet. Not without gleaning an answer to this new question.

"Who is it?" Ben asked as he sprung to his feet. Moving away from the edge of the cliff, he strode purposely toward Kane. "If it isn't you, then who does my son see?"

Lips curling into a toothy grin, Kane shook his head. "Don't tell me you really don't know? After everything we just talked about, you don't have the slightest idea?"

"PA!" the voice boomed again.

The voice Ben recognized as belonging to Joe. His son's tone was decidedly panicked. Something was happening outside of his dream which required his immediate attention. But looking at Kane, Ben couldn't abandon his dream. This was important too. It might be his only chance to grasp an answer to a question he hadn't been aware of.

"Tell me!"

"It's quite a funny story," Kane chuckled. "You won't find it humorous but I do. You really thought it was me, this whole time, and it wasn't. This belief shaped your opinions and stifled your ability to truly help your son. All this time you wasted, torturing yourself about whether I was real or imagined, if your son was or was not insane. You spent so much time preoccupied with those things that you didn't have any left to consider what was really going on."

"What is really going on?"

Smile widening, Kane dismissed the question with the shake of his head. "Just think," he said delightfully, "just yesterday you asked your son to fight. What you didn't know is he has been fighting this whole time, because the fight was never about doing something; it was about doing nothing. Every day he remained in your home was a brutal fight, because something else, someone else was pushing him, demanding he do something for them."

"Who?"

"You told Adam to change; you told him to try to get better, but there's only one real way to do that. Adam knows it and so do I. Perceptions are funny, aren't they? In that they are quite frequently never the same. You saw Adam doing nothing. Not eating. Not talking. Not leaving his room or the house. From your perception, it appeared as though you were losing the fight, despite what you told your youngest son. But you weren't losing, not then, because Adam knew doing nothing was the point. You told him to fight, and in doing so, you have no idea what you really told him to do."

"What did you do?" Ben demanded fiercely. "Tell me what you did!"

"Me?" Kane laughed. "I didn't do anything. Adam on the other hand..."

"PA!"

"... Let's just say, propelled by a big ol' push from his Pa, he finally gave into the power of that ghost."

Opening his mouth, Ben didn't get a chance to reply. An invisible force grasped his upper arms, shaking his torso forcefully, tearing him abruptly from the dream.

"PA!" Joe shouted again, his voice sounding inches from Ben's face.

Eyes snapping open, Ben found himself still seated in the chair next to Adam's bed. Leaning over him, Joe was grasping his shoulders tightly, his face pinched with terror.

Glancing around the room, Ben saw Adam's empty bed; the covers had been pushed back, abandoned in a haphazard pile at the foot of the bed. The curtains covering the window had been pulled open, revealing the brightness of the morning. Despite the coldness of another snow-packed day, the sun was hanging high, shining in bright contrast to the tone of his dream and the panic on Joe's face.

"What's wrong?" Ben asked. "Where's your brother?"

Joe's appearance was disheveled; his wrinkled shirt hung untucked and half-open, widely exposing his tanned, toned chest. It appeared he had dressed in a hurry, with little time to spare to worry about how he looked. In the moment, he looked as though he was going to burst into tears, then he didn't, resigning himself to speaking instead.

"Pa," he said, his voice shaking. "Sheriff Coffee's downstairs. He needs to talk to you right away."

The idea was ludicrous. Why would the sheriff be visiting their home? At this hour? In this weather? What horrid circumstances would have brought the lawman here?

His gaze snapped to his son's empty bed, his stomach turning with dread. Where was Adam? In the company of his middle brother, once again seeking respite in his crowded bed, he hoped. And even though he desperately wanted this to be somehow he knew it wasn't so. Something had happened. Something bad had come during the night, taking place right beneath his slumbering nose. When he had entered this room just hours ago, Adam had been in this bed, and now he was nowhere to be seen. He had gone missing from the room sometime during the night as his father dreamed of Kane.

Ben was suddenly assaulted with the memory of Kane's glowing evil eyes and the malice lurking behind his toothy grin. Kane's teeth had been impossibly white and improbably sharp, lines of perfect daggers filling a smile that seemed to expand too far, widening his pale cheeks, leaving his face stretched and distorted, looking more monstrous than human. A chill ran up Ben's spine, and he shivered. It was odd the things a man could recall after the fact, haunting details that were ignored at the time. Kane hadn't looked human in the dream—Ben knew that now. Of course, Kane didn't really have business looking human because he wasn't human at all. He was a demon—Ben knew that too.

But what he didn't know was where his oldest son had gone, or why Sheriff Coffee had come calling so suddenly.

"Joseph, why is the sheriff here?" Ben asked, his voice remaining calm despite the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Once so afraid of leaving the safety of his room, it didn't make sense for Adam to be missing from the room. Unless... "Is Adam with Hoss? Tell me your brother is alright."

Joe hesitated, sucking in a deep shuddering breath before answering in a choked whisper, "Adam did something bad... Oh, Pa... He did something really bad."

"Where is Adam?"

"Frank Mitchel was attacked during the night…"

"Where is Adam?"

"…his throat was cut."

"Where is Adam?!"

Bottom lip trembling Joe hesitated. It was a single quiet moment that felt longer to Ben than any he had ever endured. "Jail, Pa," Joe whispered thickly. "He's in jail."

And that was when Ben felt what was left of the steady ground crumble beneath his feet. It was when he knew everything he had suspected and thought about Adam and Kane was wrong.

It was all so incredibly wrong.

Xx

Sheriff Coffee said Frank Mitchel was dead.

Adam was the one who killed him— Coffee said that too. When Ben pressed him for more information, questioning how he could be so certain of such a thing, Coffee looked upon Ben and was slow to reply.

"Adam turned himself in," he said finally. "He owned up to it, Ben. I didn't want to believe it, myself. I know he's been havin' difficulties as of late. Problems with his mind and such. I wanted to believe it was some story he had made up. But judging by the looks of him, I couldn't. He's covered in blood that isn't his own, and when I asked him to lead me to Mitchel's body, he did. Adam knew exactly where to find him, even turned over the knife he used to cut the man's throat."

Even with these words, Ben was hesitant to believe the truth.

Time seemed to slow down during the ride into town. The winter air was frigid and cold, biting, and freezing Ben's sparsely exposed skin; it was the most agonizing trip Ben could ever remember enduring for a multitude of reasons. Their pace and the snow, the prolonged silence of the men riding in his company, Hoss and Joe and Sheriff Coffee, and truth that echoed maddingly in the depths of his mind. Prompted by what Kane told him in his dream, he thought about ghosts and games, the Silver Dollar, and the true identity of who Adam saw. He knew now what he supposed he should have known a long time ago.

When they arrived at the jail, Ben found Doc Martin sitting with Adam, not inside the cell which contained him rather on a chair next to the exterior of the bars. Contrary to the reason which had prompted their visit, it was a comforting sight. Ben was grateful both the sheriff and the doctor had cared enough to ensure Adam wasn't left alone.

"Hello, Ben," Martin greeted quietly, his face set in an indecipherable mask. "Adam and I just had quite the conversation."

"He spoke to you?" Hoss asked. Standing next to his father, his surprise was clear.

"He did," Martin affirmed.

"What did he say?" Little Joe pressed skeptically.

Shaking his head, Martin didn't answer the question as he stood and expelled a hearty sigh.

"I'd like to be alone with my son," Ben said.

Sheriff Coffee looked at Doc Martin whose attention did not waver from Ben.

"Good," Martin said. "I believe the two of you have a lot to discuss." He looked at Adam. "I will return," he promised. "I think this is far from over, despite what you believe."

Ben was taken aback by the assurance; given recent history, he couldn't conceive of Adam speaking to anyone other than himself. Of course, he couldn't conceive of Adam killing anyone either, so maybe his expectations of his son were drastically lower than they should have been.

"Pa," Hoss said. "I think me and Joe should stay."

"I want you both to leave too," Ben instructed, his eyes locked on his eldest son behind the steel bars.

"But, Pa," Joe protested.

"I mean it," Ben said firmly, his tone leaving no room for further disagreement. Looking at Coffee, he nodded at the jail cell. "I want in there. I don't care if you lock us both in, but I want to be next to my son when I speak to him."

"Alright," Coffee said. Unlocking the door, he pulled it open slightly. "I suppose I can trust you to do the right thing," he added, looking Ben up and down before following the others out of the room.

Thudding heavily against the floorboards the soles of Ben's boots seemed to echo around the room as he approached his son.

Sitting on the side of the cot in the very back of the jail cell, Adam was shaking, his skin glistening with sweat and blood. For a moment, Ben thought the action was compulsive and maniacal, driven by the fear he had become so accustomed to seeing his son display. Then he realized it wasn't fear making Adam's body quiver and shake. It was the temperature of the room.

Missing his jacket, Adam's shirt was marred by sporadic bloodstains. Some small and others large, they were all still wet, prevented from drying by the bitter cold seeping in from the bar-covered window. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, pushed back to expose his bloodstained hands. Balls of packed snow still clung to the bottom of his pant-legs; warmed slightly by the heat of the distant fire contained in the fireplace beyond the cell, they melted at a leisurely pace to form a small puddle collecting around the soles of his boots.

His boots, Ben snorted woefully. Adam may have been without a jacket but at least he had put on boots. He kept his clothes on too—which was an odd thing to find reassurance in. It was the first time in a long time such a thing had happened. It was the first time in a long time for a lot of things, the most glaring of which was Adam venturing outside of the safety of their home and property. He had risen, dressed, and left on his own. He had gone to the timber camp and now he was in town; it was a journey he had completed alone.

Well, maybe not completely alone if the Kane in Ben's dreams was to be believed. And he was. Looking at Adam, Ben knew that, because this Adam—despite the blood staining his hands and clothes and the chill consuming his body—he was decidedly different from the one he had been the day before.

Looking directly at his father, Adam's eyes were no longer clouded with apprehension, anxiety, and fear; they glistened with acceptance and resolution and a slight hint of sadness. He looked so much like the son Ben knew and missed that he hesitated in place, mournfully assessing his son from mere paces away. It was overwhelming to look at him now, to see in Adam's face and eyes a version of his son he wanted so badly so see again and be forced to reconcile this want—this need—with the blood on his clothes and hands. Red and accusing, it declared a new truth, one which would not—could not—be ignored.

Frank Marshal was dead. Adam had killed him and for what reason Ben didn't know. What difference did it make? Dead was dead; murder was wrong; and actions always came with consequences. It was almost too much to think about—and see. Heart clenching in his chest, Ben was overwhelmed by a trio of emotions he had become accustomed to, grief, fear, and guilt. If he wouldn't have dreamed of Kane and been so determined to speak with him would he have slept light enough to wake when Adam rose from his bed? Would he have been able to stop him from doing what he had done?

Would anything have stopped their lives from becoming what they had?

When his vision became blurry with tears, he turned around and looked at the floor. Taking a moment to clear his throat and regain control of his emotions.

"It's okay to cry," Adam said. "You don't have to hide your emotions from me." Low and even, his voice sounded stronger than it had in months. He sounded normal; he sounded sane. "Jesus, Pa, how long have I been at your side? You don't have to act like I haven't seen you do such a thing before."

Taken aback by the normalcy of Adam's tone and words, Ben had no choice but to look at him again, and when he did, he found Adam's gaze did not waver from his own. For the first time in months Adam was confident enough to look him in the eye without coaxing or prompt. His expression was set in a mask of calm determination. He was still thin, but save for the blood, everything about Adam suddenly felt so certain, so familiar, despite knowledge of what he had done. This horrifying, brutal, violent unpredictable thing. Adam had killed Mitchel, there was no question about that, but his appearance did beg another. It was almost as though a veil of darkness had been suddenly lifted, the cloud that had been rendering Adam so incapable of functioning properly had dispersed, leaving him inexplicably whole again.

"You sound..." Ben struggled for words. His son took a man's life. How could that possibly leave him better rather than worse? "...You look..."

"Different? Better?" Adam asked. "Yeah, I know."

He sounded so much like he was supposed to that Ben almost sank to his knees, first because of the relief he felt, then because of the weight of knowing what Adam had done to Mitchel. He had killed a man and now he was in jail, patiently awaiting what would come next. There would be a request made for the presence of a circuit judge, a trial and a verdict, and gallows built for all to see. There was no denying it, and there was no way out. Dead was dead; murder was wrong; and Adam's actions were punishable by law, tall gallows, and carefully braided rope.

That's gonna be me out there, Adam had whispered breathlessly as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth. At the time, it had been an outrageous declaration, born from confusion and misplaced guilt. Now, however, the memory of the words seemed to be something else entirely. A prophetic statement; a premonition Adam had experienced months ago.

Ben's stomach violently turned. He was certain he was going to be sick. His knees threatened to give out beneath him, but he forced himself to remain upright. He couldn't fall on the ground now; if he did, he would never be able to summon enough strength to get up.

"It's okay to be disappointed," Adam said, his assurance sounding rehearsed.

Given recent history, it was odd to hear such a levelheaded response. Ben had become accustomed to taking care of him, of reassuring and comforting him, it felt foreign for Adam to be offering condolences or for Ben to accept them.

"It's okay to be upset about what I did," Adam said.

"What you did," Ben repeated numbly, the words feeling so wrong as they rolled off his tongue. "Son, do you understand what you did?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why you did it?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me," Ben implored. "Help me understand."

Pursing his lips firmly, Adam hesitated for a moment, then clasped his hands in front of him and looked at the wet floorboards at his feet. "I killed Frank Mitchel."

"Why?"

Lifting his hands in the air, Adam opened his mouth to voice a reply that seemed destined to never come.

"Did he seek you out?" Ben asked when he grew tired of waiting. "Did he show up at the house looking for you?"

"No."

"Did he threaten you?"

"No."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Then why, Adam?"

Again, Adam hesitated.

"Tell me the truth," Ben said. "Say it now, because, given the circumstances, you may not be allotted another chance."

"I want to," Adam said softly. "But…"

"You're afraid."

Adam shook his head. "No. I was, but I'm not anymore."

"What could possibly be stopping you then?"

Eyes roaming the small jail cell, Adam didn't reply. Ben wondered if he was looking for something—or someone, rather. He wondered if the ghost Kane had alluded to was in the room, carefully watching them and controlling Adam's willingness to speak. It was then, Ben knew it was time to address what he knew—the conclusion Kane had prompted him to reason in his dream. It was time to stand beside his son in a fight they seemed so destined to lose. He should have known the truth long before now. As Kane had said, he had the clues—all along he had—he just couldn't seem to connect one behavior or event to another, putting them together to form a clear understanding of what was going on. He hadn't known before but he knew now, and it was knowledge he would share in effort to finally help and comfort his son.

"Is Ross stopping you?" Ben asked simply. Gaze snapping to his own, the sheer surprise in Adam's eyes declared his father's suspicion as truth. "Ross is who you see," he added. "He's who you've seen all along. His ghost was haunting you long before you went to Eastgate."

"He was," Adam carefully whispered.

"He isn't anymore?"

Again, Adam's gaze roamed the room. "I don't think so..." he said. "Unless... unless he's decided upon a new game."

"Game?"

Adam dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "I don't see him, Pa. I think he's gone."

"You think or you know?" Ben challenged.

"I can't know anything for sure."

Given the dire circumstances, it was not a satisfactory response. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"It's been a while."

"Days? Hours? Minutes?"

"Hours. I haven't seen him since..." Cringing painfully, Adam abandoned his disclosure.

"Since when?" Ben pressed.

"Since after I killed Mitchel."

"He wanted you to kill Mitchel." It wasn't a question, still Adam nodded. "Why?"

"Because…" Adam began, then stopped. He wasn't so much hesitant to speak as overly thoughtful, struggling to properly explain the inexplicable.

"Why, Adam?" Ben demanded. The question was the fiercest he had posed to his son in a while. He wouldn't tolerate it remaining unanswered. There was little point in not speaking the truth now.

"Because," Adam said again, expelling the word with a heavy sigh. "Because… nobody knows the truth of what happened, so nobody could hold Frank responsible for what he did. Pa, this whole-time people have believed that Ross went crazy, that there was no explanation for what he did or why. People think they know what Ross did, but they don't know. Not really."

"And you do."

"Of course, I do. Ross made sure of it. He told me the truth, Pa. He said it over and over again. He made sure I knew, so I would never forget."

"What is this truth?"

"Ross wasn't sane when he died. We all saw examples of that in his behavior toward the end. He changed. The truth changed him, because it wasn't something he could share. It was a secret; it was a heavy burden he was forced to carry. It warped his perception, broke his heart, and crushed his soul. It was too much for him. The pain he felt became too much and it changed him. It made him spiteful and violent. It made him forget who he was, what he should have been able to do."

"And what is that?"

"He should have been able to protect Del. He should have known better than to place his trust in a man who wasn't who he seemed to be."

"Frank Mitchel wasn't who he seemed to be," Ben said simply. It was an easy enough deduction, Mitchel the most glaring link between Adam and his deceased friends.

"Ross trusted him; he trusted him with the things he held most dear. Frank betrayed that trust, and worse than that, he did it in a way that he knew neither Ross nor Del would ever want to hold him responsible for."

"Will you please say the truth outright—?"

"Frank attacked Del."

"What?"

"He forced himself on her, Pa."

"When?" Ben probed, his stomach turning with renewed force.

Adam shook his head. "Does that really matter now?"

"Considering Mitchel is dead I would say the reason why is quite important given the circumstances."

"It was a month or two before Ross pulled his gun on me, before everything he and Del had begun to really fall apart."

"Did Ross tell you this?"

"No... Del did."

"Before she died."

"No... after."

"Son?"

"I see them both," Adam admitted softly. "They both linger, reaching out to me, making me listen to their secrets and regrets, their fury and resentment toward the living. They're not like they were when they were alive, neither one of them are. They're evil, frightening, and cruel and dangerous. They will do anything to get their way."

"And their way was seeing Frank Mitchel dead."

"No... That was Ross's way. Del's is something else entirely. It's impossible to satisfy them both," Adam said sadly. "It's foolish to even try."

Leaning forward, Adam planted his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together in front of him. He was still shaking from the cold, his gaze frozen on the blood staining his hands.

Ben felt suddenly remiss, neglectful of his son's most obvious needs. Striding to the cot, he grabbed a blanket which lay at the foot, unfolded it, and wrapped it tightly around his son's shoulders. It wasn't enough to chase the chill from Adam's body and warm him but at least it was something. Sitting next to his son, he leaned forward, unconsciously copying Adam's posture while pressing their knees tightly together. He knew the physical contact wasn't enough to soothe either of them, but at least it was something.

"You did try to satisfy them both," Ben asked softly. "Didn't you? Even in death, you tried to help them, because that's who you are. It's what you do. Is that why Frank is dead?"

Adam inhaled a deep, hissing breath. "I didn't want to do it, Pa," he whispered, exhaling the words with his breath. "I need you to know that. If I would have had a choice, I wouldn't have done what I did."

"How far back does this go? How long have you been making decisions where you felt like you had no other choice?"

"A while. It seems like forever since I've done anything by my own volition."

Ben wouldn't disagree. How long had it been since Adam made a decision solely based on his own needs and desires? He was hard-pressed to recall an example. But he recalled other things, things he had heard from others and not the son who sat before him. "Hoss told me about the cliff; Joe told me about your nightmares; and Kane told me it wasn't him you see."

"He told you about Ross?"

"You should have told me."

"I tried," Adam admitted. "That's why I came back into the house before I left for Eastgate. I wanted to tell you then, but I just couldn't. I knew you were nervous about that trip. What you didn't know was that I was too. I didn't want to go. I had to."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't my choice anymore. I had to go into that desert. I had to find Kane."

"For what reason?" Ben demanded deeply. Though the question sounded harsher than he intended, he felt no remorse; he made no apology for his firmness. He was both baffled and disgusted his son would ever seek out the demon of his dreams.

"Help," Adam said. "I wanted—needed—his help."

"You should have come to me for help."

"I couldn't."

"You could have, you didn't. You were having trouble after Ross and Del's deaths, that much was obvious to anyone around you. You were struggling; you were fighting something. All this time I thought it was pain, regret, and guilt because of how things ended. But now I think—in fact, I'm sure I know—it wasn't just those things. It was something else too. I thought you were angry at me; first because I failed to protect you from having to take the life of your best friend, then later because I didn't know how to help you with your grief. I was too soft on you and then I was too hard; you needed me to be somewhere in the middle, firmly holding you close and in place when all you wanted was to push me away and run."

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

Ben didn't agree. "It would have changed everything. When did this begin? When was the first time you saw Ross and Del after they died?"

Taking deep breath, Adam held it, his pregnant pause only serving to reawaken Ben's worry.

"When Adam?" he prompted, his voice low.

Adam exhaled, expelling the breath in a low groan. "It wasn't long after we buried them," he admitted, his voice hauntingly quiet.

It was dark and quiet; I woke up in the middle of one night so convinced that I was still stuck in a dream. I saw Ross. He looked like he did the last time I saw him but different too. I didn't…

Del was in my bedroom, standing over my bed. She looked so much like she did when she was alive but different too. I didn't… I thought it was a dream—a nightmare, really. He said things to me I wish I never would have heard. He told me the truth about Del and Mitchel and a lot of other things. With these words he told me what made him change so drastically before he died."

"And what was that?"

"Frank laid with Del."

"So, you said."

"He left her with child."

Ben was repulsed. "What?"

"Del was frightened and ashamed; it took everything for her to tell Ross what happened, and then it took a little more to convince him not to go to the sheriff. She didn't want anyone to know what happened; she wanted to forget it instead. When she realized she was with child, she knew immediately it wasn't Ross's. When she told him, Ross went mad over it, Pa. Without a baby, he may have been able to move on; but he couldn't do that if he was forced to raise a child that was proof of the shameful interaction. It weighed on him, until he couldn't think straight. He couldn't accept the truth."

"Ross began to blame Del for her condition," Ben said. "That's why he was cruel to her toward the end. But why did she involve you?"

"She needed somebody to protect her. She thought I could help them both." Adam snorted forlornly. "Even in death, she still thinks that, though she has different ways of asking now."

"What kind of ways?"

Adam shook his head. "I wanted to tell you," he repeated. "Believe me, Pa. When I started seeing them, when they began haunting me, I wanted to tell you. I just…" he shrugged helplessly. "... couldn't seem to get the words to come out of my mouth. Ross didn't want me to talk. He had ways of keeping me quiet, and so did Del."

"And now?" Ben asked. "What's changed to allow you to speak so freely?"

"Mitchel is dead. Ross finally got his way."

"What about Del? Or Kane?"

"Del can't have what she wants," Adam said cryptically. "And Kane'll have what I promised him soon enough."

"What about you? What do you want?"

"Me? There's no room for what I want in any of this, not anymore. I murdered a man. I committed a crime and I owned up to it. I'm guilty, so I'll hang. No man is above the law, no matter the circumstances that led him to commit his crimes."

It was the most Adam-like statement Ben had heard in a while, still it prompted no joy or relief. Despite everything, Adam's moral compass hadn't shifted, and his beliefs hadn't changed. Things were right or they were wrong; actions were acceptable or punishable. He had done wrong and he was accepting the consequences.

"This is what you want," Ben whispered sadly. "You may not have wanted to kill Mitchel but you turned yourself in."

"I'm tired. I want this to be over. I don't think I care what it takes to end it, not anymore."

"I care," Ben whispered. It was a quiet statement of resolve that went ignored by his son.

Extending his arm, Ben cupped the back of Adam's neck, then pulled him close to his side. Holding his son in a tight half-hug, Ben tried to ignore how Adam didn't reciprocate the action. How different he felt in comparison to how he had been in recent weeks. He couldn't help likening this moment to the interpretations of before and after only to find his definition of before and after had changed.

Before Mitchel's death Adam was fearful and hesitant. After he was somber and resolute in what he had decided would happen next. He had done wrong and he was determined to take responsibility for it. It was an admirable decision though Ben struggled to see it as such.

There had to be a way out of this; there had to be some silver lining of hope, some defense that could acquit Adam of his crime. He wasn't justifying what his son had done but Adam wasn't the only guilty party. Frank Mitchel had done wrong too. There had to be some way to prove it. There had to be some fight they could wage. There had to be something he could do; there had to be some way he could hold on to Adam. He had to hold on to him; he had promised he would never let go.

Eventually, though, he had to let go, when Sheriff Coffee entered the room and approached the jail cell once more. "Ben," he said with a nod. "Doc and me have been talkin' and now we need to talk to you."

Glancing between Adam and Sheriff Coffee, Ben hesitated, unwilling to leave his son's side. "Can't we speak in here?"

"Best not," Coffee said. "Given the circumstances, I think we ought to speak in private."

"It's okay, Pa," Adam said. "I'll be fine by myself."

"Except you ain't gonna be by yourself," Hoss said as he and Joe emerged from behind Sheriff Coffee. "It's alright, Pa. Joe and me are gonna sit with our older brother here, while you and Roy and Doc do your talkin'."

Ushering Ben up and off the cot, Hoss took his father's place and Joe sat on the opposite side of his oldest brother.

"It's okay, Pa," Joe said. "We're not going to leave him. Adam isn't going to be alone ever again."

"You do your talkin'," Hoss said. "We'll all be waiting here when you get done."

Despite his son's assurances, Ben still hesitated. Standing in place, he looked upon his sons as they sat next to each other, trying hard to memorize the moment, dreadfully wondering if it was the last time he would ever see such a thing.

Xx

"There ain't gonna be no trial," Coffee said dismissively.

Sitting behind his desk, he leaned over, opening a drawer to procure a half-full bottle of whiskey. Pulling the cork, he abandoned it on the desktop, tipping the neck of the bottle over the lip of his coffee cup as he poured a generous amount into his stale morning coffee.

"What does that mean?" Ben asked. Coffee raised the bottle in offering and he waved it away; an obvious motion of decline that was ignored by the sheriff as he grabbed an empty coffee mug and completed another generous pour. Sliding the mug across the desk, Coffee picked up his own and leaned back in his seat, sipping the liquid thoughtfully.

"I suggest you drink that," Doctor Martin said. Sitting on the opposite side of the desk as Coffee, he looked between Ben and the mug. "You're going to need it."

"Meaning what?" Ben snapped.

"Meaning our impending conversation is not an easy one," Martin said seriously.

Ben stared warily at the mug, his stomach turning. He looked at the sheriff, then at the doctor, wondering if there was anything that would calm the pain he felt. "What's going to happen now?" he quietly asked. "Adam killed Frank Mitchel; he admitted it to you and he admitted it to me."

Averting his gaze, Sheriff Coffee finished the contents of his mug, then refilled it. He took a series of small sips before placing the mug on the desk, smoothing the tip of his index finger up and down the chipped handle. "Like I said," he sighed finally, "there ain't going to be no trial. That story Adam told about Frank Mitchel doing what he did to Delphine Marquette, that ain't the first time I've heard that sort of tale with regards to Mitchel. It's the first time I heard anything about him and Del, but I don't doubt it. He had a violent way with women, or so I've heard."

"You heard about Mitchel's actions?" Ben asked. "And you didn't do anything about it?"

"I never heard nothin' directly," Coffee corrected. "It ain't like I didn't ask the questions. If'n young ladies don't want to talk then I can't make them. I can't do anything if people don't want me to. All I had was rumor and that ain't fact."

"You knew and you did nothing."

"There wasn't anything to do. Like I said, I never heard no guff about Frank hurting Delphine. With the way Ross loved that gal, I can't say I'm surprised it was a secret he kept. She was a proud woman; Ross woulda done just about anything she asked him to."

"This isn't about Ross and Delphine Marquette."

Coffee blinked, seemingly surprised by the statement. "Ain't it?"

Taking a deep breath, Doctor Martin cleared his throat, stealing Ben's attention from the sheriff. "Ben," he said, leaning slightly forward in his chair. "I don't know the details of what Adam just told you, but he told Roy and I that he killed Frank Mitchel because Ross Marquette asked him to…"

"I know," Ben interjected.

"… yesterday," Martin finished. "Adam said Ross asked him to kill Frank yesterday. He said he asked him to do it the day before that one and the one before that."

"Adam said Ross's been after him for a while to do what he's done," Coffee affirmed.

"Adam has been struggling for quite some time," Martin added, casting Ben a serious look. "You and I have had lengthy conversations about his mental state, the things he is and is not capable of. Something happened to him when he went missing in the desert; it changed him."

Ben wanted to say something had happened to his son long before Adam disappeared into the desert outside of Eastgate but didn't. He was determined to remain silent on topics that could threaten Adam's future, complicating it any more than his actions already would.

"Something happened to Ross Marquette toward the end too," Coffee said. "Wife beatin', stage robbing, murdering. The boy went downright mad, doin' all sorts of stuff we never thought him capable of. Now, according to Adam, the pain of what Frank Mitchel did to his wife was what changed Ross on the inside, drivin' him insane. Adam tried to help Ross and when he couldn't help, he was the one that killed him."

"Is there a point to this conversation?" Ben asked. "You ask to speak with me privately and then two of you talk in riddles, doing everything you can not to tell me what you plan to do. Ross Marquette is dead, what is the point of speaking about his actions now? You tell me what is going to happen to my son? What is going to happen to Adam?"

Leaning back in his chair, Coffee sighed, as though he was summoning the nerve to say the words which were destined to escape his mouth. "Ross and Adam were close," he said. "They shared a lot of things, Ben. People used to call them brothers, hell, people used to call them twins."

"I know all of that."

"Ross Marquette accused Adam of messing around with his wife."

"I know that too."

"Frank Mitchel accused him of the same."

Ben was dumbfounded. "What?"

"Awhile back, when Adam was going through his other bout of difficulties, drinking and womanizing—"

"Womanizing," Ben interrupted. He was aware of the time period being referenced, Adam's disorderly behavior and disruptive habits after Delphine and Ross's deaths. He knew Adam had engaged in illicit activities, frequenting both the lower and upper levels of multiple saloons on multiple occasions, but he took offense to his son's past behavior being summarized so flippantly.

Coffee shook his head dismissively. "The ladies Adam used to keep company with don't really matter," he said. "The guff between him and Frank Marshal does. They fought often back then. Got themselves tossed in jail on more than one occasion. They did not get along; the whole town knew that then and they know it now."

"I don't care what people think they know," Ben huffed.

"You should."

"I don't."

Looking at Ben, Coffee appeared to consider how his next words would be received. "Frank and Adam didn't get along," he said. "They hated each other. Still, that ain't what Adam said motivated him to kill Frank. He said he killed him because Ross Marquette told him to."

"You already said that."

"Yeah," Coffee said. "I know, but I'm not sure you really heard me. Ross has been dead for nearly two years, Ben; he ain't telling nobody to do anything. Adam said Ross talks to him. He said Ross wanted revenge for what had happened to Delphine and that's why he had to kill Frank."

"Did Adam tell you Del was with Frank's child?" Ben asked.

"He did." Coffee nodded. "He said knowledge of that was what drove Ross mad."

"And?"

"And, given Frank's history, I think I believe him. Looking back now, it makes sense. Mitchel attacked Delphine and Ross was forced to ignore how he failed his wife. And when he found out there was going to be a child involved, it drove him crazy; changed him a little at a time, pushed him closer and closer to the edge before he finally ended up jumping, or being pushed, I suppose. After all, Adam was the one who ended up killin' him."

"That was self-defense."

Brows furrowing, Coffee frowned, his face etched with disappointment. "Ain't nobody questioning what happened between Ross and Adam back then. In fact, I ain't questioning what happened between Mitchel and Adam this morning. For what it's worth, I do believe Mitchel attacked Delphine. I know Mitchel was a difficult man, prone to drinking too much and violence. He took what he thought was owed to him with no regard of the cost to others. He was a wanderer; he went wherever, whenever he took a mind to. I'm sure he did a lot of bad things; and I am sure what was done to him was a long time coming. No, sir." Tilting his head thoughtfully, he sighed. "I didn't care much for that man. Of course, that doesn't justify what Adam did, and it don't change why he did it. Adam said a dead man asked him to kill somebody. That ain't normal. In fact, that's damn near the most terrifying motive for murder I've ever heard in my life."

"Hallucinations aren't real," Martin said. "The fact that Adam not only sees but listens to and follows the direction of a figment of his mind is disturbing to say the very least."

"Disturbing," Ben repeated flatly. It wasn't the word he would have chosen. Horrendous, excruciating, insufferable. Not disturbing; there were so many other more poignant words to use than that.

True was the first word that refused to be dismissed. Terrifying was another. He believed Adam wholeheartedly now; he knew without question that what his son had told him was the truth. He was being frequented by ghosts, his behavior impacted—influenced—by their wishes and demands. He knew this was true, just as he knew the men sitting before him never would. It was ludicrous to expect them to. Preposterous to think, even for a moment, the motive for Adam's actions would ever be believed.

"My son," Ben said, his voice low and serious. How could he possibly say the truth in a way which would be believed? He looked at the mug in front of him, wanting so badly to drink it now, swallowing its contents to soothe his nerves. "He has been… impaired as of late."

"We are all well aware of that," Martin said. "Do you realize this is the first time he's been to town for…" he paused, his face contorting sadly. "Well, for a long time. The last time you and I spoke you told me you believed he was seeing things. You asked me if you should believe in the things he sees and I told you no. I'm sorry, Ben; I should have listened to you better, and I should have made you listen to me."

Ben refused to acknowledge the apology, to allow himself to consider how things could—should—have been different than they were. If Martin would have supported Ben in his belief would that have changed anything? If Ben would have followed Martin's advice and not told Adam he believed him, would he be sitting in a jail cell now?

"What is going to happen to him?" Ben asked.

"He's not gonna like it," Coffee said. "Matter-of-fact, neither are you. Recent events aside, I would like to think I know Adam pretty well. I'd like to think I know you pretty well too. I know what kind of men you both are. I know that if'n he wasn't having difficulties of the mind, then Adam never would have done what he did. I know that knowin' what your son did has got to be killing you, and God help me but I don't it's got to kill him too."

"What Roy is saying..." Martin interjected.

"There ain't going to be no trial," Coffee said, holding his hand in front of his chest. "Ross and Del and Frank…" Hand clenched into a tight fist, he lifted a single finger as he said each respective name, keeping tally of the deceased. "I think there's been enough suffering, enough pain and tragedy and death surrounding this situation. I ain't adding to it. I ain't charging Adam with anything. Like I said, I heard things about Frank; Adam's claims don't exactly surprise me. His actions do, but a jury and a noose ain't going to do nothin' to ease that shock. Adam is a good boy; we all know that. He's just… well…he's confused; a mite impaired like you said."

It was somehow the most consolatory and dismaying thing Ben had ever heard; he was certain of Adam's reaction, his emotions regarding such a decision would be more aligned with the latter. He had killed a man and then admitted to his crime knowing what the punishment would be. He didn't anticipate not being held responsible for his actions; he hadn't planned on being allowed to walk free. Adam was such a moral man. Ethical and virtuous. There was no gray area when it came to behavior; actions were right or they were wrong. Men were always required to pay for their sins.

"Can I take him home?" Ben asked, feeling oddly nervous over the prospect. Adam had gone weeks—months—without talking, sleeping, or eating; he had done everything he could to keep his family at a distance and that was when he was struggling with crippling anxiety and fear. What was he going to be capable of now that he had a tangible reason to suffer? To be held responsible for the wrong he had done?

"No," Coffee said. "You can't."

For one shameful moment, Ben felt a rush of relief, then it was quickly overtaken by protective rage. "Why not?" he demanded. "If you aren't going to charge him with anything, then this has become a private family matter."

Sheriff Coffee and Doctor Martin exchanged a sad look.

"It was," Martin said.

"It ain't anymore," Coffee finished softly. "Adam committed a crime. He killed a man in cold blood; I can't just let him go."

"You just said—"

"I just said I ain't involvin' no circuit judge or jury," Coffee said, "that don't mean Adam isn't gonna be held responsible for his actions.

"Ben," Martin implored. "Adam's mind hasn't been right for a while. His behavior has been irrational, erratic. You and I have shared many conversations about him. You were worried before and I know you're worried now. He has become a danger to both others and himself—"

"He is not a danger to anyone," Ben said firmly. It was such an irrational statement at this point. Ludicrous and blatantly false, he wondered why he had said it.

"He killed a man because a figment of his imagination told him to," Martin said. "He did that today. What is he going to do tomorrow?"

"He doesn't see Ross anymore," Ben said. Though he couldn't possibly admit to agreeing with the doctor's apprehension, he was worried too. Yesterday he couldn't have imagined Adam could leave the house alone. What would he do tomorrow? "He told me he doesn't."

"He doesn't see him right now," Martin said gently. "There's no way of predicting if that will remain true."

"I can protect him. I can keep his behavior contained."

"You can't," Martin said.

"You didn't," Coffee added softly.

"Then what are you suggesting?" Ben pressed. "If there isn't going to be a trial, if Adam isn't being charged and I can't take him home, then what option does that leave? Prison?"

Neither Coffee nor Martin were eager to reply. Coffee looked at Martin whose gaze did not waver from Ben's as he finally began to softly speak. "Of course not. Adam's violent behavior notwithstanding, I do not believe he would do well in prison. His mental state is too delicate to be agreeable to such a thing."

"He killed a man this morning," Ben said absently, the statement seeming so wrong and irrefutable at the same time.

"He did," Martin agreed. "And that's why he needs you to understand what needs to happen now. You and I spoke not so long ago about options, the places Adam could go that could help him better than you have been able to."

Closing his eyes, Ben had a nightmarish vision of the place being alluded to. A lugubrious institution meant to contain people rather than help them, hiding them away from society's view. Opening his eyes, he looked between Coffee and Martin, his lips frowning a disapproving frown. "You're asking me to send my son away."

Martin shook his head sadly. "No," he said.

"We ain't asking anything, Ben," Coffee said. "Like I said before, it ain't up to you no more. Your son committed a crime. I can't just let him go. Of course, I can't let him stick around either."

"He is a danger to himself," Martin said. "And others. This is for the best. It really is."

"I may not have cared much for Frank Marshal," Coffee said. "I may believe he finally got what was coming to him but that don't change what Adam did. It don't mean I can ignore what else he might be capable of. I'm sorry. I am. I have a responsibility to the people of this town, your son included. I need to do right by all of them. I need to keep them safe."

Though Coffee and Martin continued their conversation, Ben didn't hear another word they said. He was too preoccupied dreading the future to pay the present further mind. For him, the passing of time seemed to quicken and slow.

Arrangements for Adam were made swiftly—much quicker than Ben could have imagined such things could be planned. Martin sent word to a colleague back East, tickets for the early afternoon stage were purchased, and Ben sent Joe and Hoss to procure Adam new clothes.

In their absence, Ben helped Adam remove his bloodstained shirt and pants, stripping him down to his long-johns, cleaning his hair and exposed skin with soap and water, carefully erasing any hint of Frank Mitchel's blood. Adam accepted the help without comment or question; he gave no indication if he was pleased or disappointed by his father's administrations. Though he remained quiet, pliable, and tolerant beneath Ben's careful motions, Adam's calm demeanor endured. He neither seemed upset nor afraid of what the afternoon would bring.

Sitting on the edge of the cot, holding his back erect, each bone of his spine seemed to painfully protrude, silently declaring his variable health. Adam had spoken, sounding so certain and familiar as he told his father the truth, but both his body and mind were still in the need of mending. He needed to eat better, gain weight and rebuild muscle; he needed his fear and anxiety to remain calm; he needed to rest and sleep. He needed to improve and maintain his progress, so that someday he could be allowed to come home.

"I want you to eat well," Ben instructed softly. "You clean each and every plate you're given, do you understand me?"

Adam didn't reply.

"I want you to follow orders," Ben continued. "You do whatever is asked of you when you are told. You listen, you rest, you get better, and... you come back to me." he hesitated, his palms gripping Adam's shoulders as he looked up at the ceiling with watery eyes. "This... What Doc Martin and Sheriff Coffee are doing for you is a gift. It is an opportunity, a second chance. Roy could have hung you for what you did, Adam, but he isn't. He could have put you on trial, put all of your confusion and mistakes on full display, but he didn't."

Adam didn't say anything; he didn't need to. Clearing his throat, Ben's eyes met those of his son and he saw everything that was being left unspoken. He saw everything Adam was thinking but wouldn't dare say. He should have been killed for he did—for what he allowed the ghost of Ross to implore him to do. He should be held responsible for his actions, not allowed to go away to an institution with the hope that one day he'd come back. Ben prayed Adam would one day come back. With the way he was looking at him, Ben wasn't sure his son would.

This wasn't what Adam had wanted—Ben had known that immediately. He had wanted to be punished—and more than that, he needed to be. Actions were right and they were wrong. Commendable or condemnable. Worthy of praise or punishment.

"Now, I know you're a man of integrity," Ben continued. "I know you're stubborn. I know that when your mind is decided it takes heaven and earth to change it. I know you don't make any serious decisions without first weighing the outcome. And I know you accept responsibility for all your mistakes... you have to accept responsibility for your mistakes. I know you know the seriousness of what you did; you killed Frank Mitchel anticipating what the future would hold."

"I'm supposed to hang," Adam whispered, quietly admitting an opinion his father already knew he held. "I'm not supposed to live. This was supposed to be over; killing Frank was supposed to put an end to it." Leaning forward, he held his head in shaking hands. "A man is responsible for what he does. If he's guilty then he needs to be punished. I'm guilty; I killed Frank. I told the truth about it; I admitted to my crime, so I'm supposed to be held accountable. I'm supposed to be punished. That's the way the law works; it can't be different for me. I shouldn't be special. I shouldn't be allowed a second chance."

Kneeling in front of his son, Ben pulled Adam's hands from his face and held them tightly in his own. "Look at me, Adam," he said.

It took a moment for Adam to comply and when he finally did Ben recognized the fear in his son's eyes as readily as he deciphered what prompted it.

"I killed him, Pa," Adam whispered, his quiet voice pained. "He's dead. He's not coming back. He did wrong too, but he doesn't get a second chance. Why do I get one? What is so different about me? I've done wrong. I've done terrible things. How am I supposed to live with that? How am I supposed to live with any of it? I should be punished. Not rewarded. I shouldn't be allowed to live."

"This is hardly a reward," Ben said gently.

"They're only doing this because of you, you understand that, right? If I were anyone else in the world—anyone else's son—I'd get what was coming to me. I'd be punished properly for all my sins. I need to be punished, Pa. I need to follow through on my promises, keep my word."

"Maybe this is your punishment," Ben said gently. "Dying is too easy. Living with this, that's going to be the difficult part." Especially for you.

"It's all been difficult. Nothing about anything has been easy."

"I know."

"I don't want to do this."

"I know."

"I don't want to go," Adam said, his voice slightly pleading. "This wasn't supposed to happen. This was supposed to be over. I wanted it to be over. I wanted it to be done. This was supposed to be the end, but it isn't the end of anything. It's…" Adam hesitated, his attention shifting toward the opposite side of the jail cell.

Following his son's gaze, Ben couldn't see what his son was looking at, but it didn't matter; he was certain he understood his son's fear. Letting go of Adam's hands, Ben pulled him into his arms.

"How am I supposed to do this alone?" Adam asked.

"You're not alone. You're never alone." As soon as he said the words Ben wondered how comforting they really were. With or without his family, Adam was never really alone; he hadn't truly been alone for quite some time. Holding Adam closer and tighter than seconds before, he wondered who was standing in the corner. Whose ghost was lurking for only Adam to see?

"Adam, is someone in the corner? Do you still see—?"

"Pa."

It was Little Joe's voice which silenced Ben's probing question. It remained on the tip of his tongue where it was eventually forgotten as Hoss and Joe, Adam's new clothes in hand, joined them next to the cot and they sat speaking in hopeful, muted tones while time seemed to pass too quickly around them.

Xx

In the company of both Doctor Martin and his father, Adam's trip to the facility awaiting his arrival was completed first by stage and then by train. Due to complications of the frigid weather, it was a journey that took nearly a week. An agonizing span of time the end of which Ben both longed for and dreaded. Longed for because traveling alongside his painfully silent son in cold was a worrisome endeavor. He was consistently concerned over Adam's wellbeing, questioning whether his son was warm enough, eating enough, and as comfortable as he could be in their varying surroundings. He ensured Adam's coat remained buttoned, ceaselessly offered him a blanket, and at each meal pushed his son to eat more than he intended to. He dreaded their arrival to their final destination because he knew that once they did all these things would no longer be in his control.

Adam spoke only when spoken directly to, answering in the fewest words possible; any bid for polite conversation from their unfamiliar traveling companions and strangers was promptly ignored. Ben, in turn, ignored Adam's blatant rudeness, dismissing any questionable expressions of those surrounding them with a polite apologetic smile. If Adam's lack of social grace wasn't an indication to an outside eye of something awry then his physical proximity to his father surely was.

Despite recent events, Adam was neither comfortable nor confident amongst strangers. Though he tried hard not to think about it, Ben couldn't help wondering what kind of apprehensions and complications would arise when they finally arrived at their destination and he was forced to leave Adam's side for the foreseeable future. It something he had neither planned nor anticipated he would ever do—prior to Frank Mitchel's death of course. It was going to be a struggle for both of them; the uncertainty of the time Adam would spend away from his family and home was a heart wrenching challenge the whole family would endure. Though Hoss and Little Joe would feel the sting of their distance more than Ben intended to. He had resigned himself to entrusting Adam's wellbeing to others, but he had no intention of leaving his son behind. He would remain in the same city as Adam for as long as required. He would visit him as often or as little as was allowed.

Doctor Martin warned Ben of the dangers of lingering, how his extended presence could hinder rather than help Adam's recovery, or at the very least make the transition more difficult to endure. Ben wouldn't entertain such criticisms. He had told Adam he wouldn't let go of him, and he intended to keep his promise for as long as he could.

It was Adam who had trouble letting go when the time finally came. Ben struggled too—though his own trepidation was drastically overshadowed by that of his eldest son. Standing outside of the locked gate of the steel fence surrounding the facility, Adam looked at the foreboding building and then at his father with wide eyes. Ben wanted to soothe him, utter firm words of comfort and encouragement, but he couldn't seem to form any words.

Composed of gray stone, the towering building looked dark and cold, daunting from afar. It looked like something out of a nightmare; a prison one could only imagine in their most horrible of dreams. Someone was screaming, a horrendous noise which echoed up from depths of the building to escape out the bar covered windows. It was a god-awful sound born from confusion, anguish, and pain. Why wasn't someone putting a stop to it? Why wasn't someone helping whoever was so obviously distressed? Wasn't that what this place was supposed to be? Somewhere people could go for help? The agonizing answer was clear as soon as the question presented itself.

This place wasn't intended to help anyone it contained.

Once swallowed inside of its belly would Adam scream like that? Would anyone around him care if he did? Who was going to rescue him from his nightmares? Waking him the way Joe once did and allowing him to seek respite in their presence the way Hoss had?

Ben felt a rush of panic.

Who was going to hold Adam if cried? Who was going to stop him from hurting himself if he tried? Who was going to understand the lure of the Kane who lurked in dreams? And who was going to believe in the ghosts he saw?

No one in that building, Ben was sure.

Can you hold on to me, Pa?

The memory of Adam's words circled his brain in a torturous echo, taunting and torturing him with an irrefutable truth. Desperately trying to hold on to Adam, he failed to maintain proper grip. He had failed to deduce and understand the reality of their fight until it was too late, and from his bewilderment came misinterpretation, the reckless belief that he, himself, could ever truly understand what was going on. He had thought Kane was the enemy; he had believed it was his hold that Adam needed to fight. He had been wrong, because Kane had been nothing more than a clever distraction. Neither man nor human, he had interjected himself to cause further chaos, taunt, trick and distract, to derive pleasure from pain, anguish, and torture. He had been an enemy, the hold of which to fight and be feared, but he wasn't the entity pulling Adam into the wrong direction, pushing him toward what he had done.

What Adam had done, Ben cringed, the thought carrying a particularly painful edge, piercing his heart like a knife. Adam had killed a man; it was his action that had brought them all here.

The dank building, standing tall on the other side of the fence, cast an ominous shadow upon all of them, making their surroundings seem much too cold. There was snow in the air, tiny frozen flakes which fell all around them to collect in minuscule piles on the frosty ground. The weather in this territory was supposed to be tepid, mild in comparison to the winters back home. Though it was significantly less, somehow this snowfall felt colder, more daunting than the immense heaps they were accustomed to.

"How is this better than prison?" Ben asked, casting Doctor Martin an accusing look. "How does this place help anyone?" And what is it going to do to my son? He didn't have strength or courage to voice the latter criticism aloud.

Martin ignored the accusation. "You aren't allowed inside, I'm afraid," he said.

"That's probably for the best." Standing between them, it was Adam who stated the obvious, his soft voice making him the sole focus of both their stares. "It's okay, Pa," Adam added, holding his father's pained gaze.

Ben wanted to say it wasn't okay. That neither of them could or would be as long as they stood in this place, in front of a building that meant to separate them for God only knew how long. It wasn't proper for Adam to express such condolences; it wasn't seemly for him to comfort his father while being presented with such an undetermined fate. The place Adam was headed was meant to help people, but how could it help a man whose beliefs in ghosts and demons were real rather than imagined? Not something to be corrected rather heeded and believed? It could not and it would not; Ben only hoped it would do neither harm nor good.

"Can you give us a moment," Ben asked. Eyes locked on Adam, he tilted his head at Martin, punctuating a request he would not tolerate being refused.

"Of course," Martin agreed before he stepped away.

"I want you to take direction," Ben said quietly. He repeated the tired instructions for what felt like a thousand times as he prayed they would finally be remembered and heeded. "You do what you're told when you're told to do it, no matter what it is."

Lifting his hands, he adjusted the collar of Adam's jacket, lifting it to protect his neck from the cold. It was a pointless action; too little too late, but it gave him something to do with his hands, an excuse to hold on to his son one last time.

I don't like it.

The memory of Adam's words came rushing back, overwhelming him with an image of how they had stood in the Eastgate boarding house, Adam fussing over an unfamiliar shirt he didn't want to put on. It was a memory that was all too haunting and apt, because this—standing in front of his son, dreading to let him go—Ben didn't like either. Taking a deep breath, he gripped Adam's upper arms and held tight. He didn't want to let go; he wasn't sure he would be able to.

"Don't lose track of yourself in there," he said tightly. "Remember who you are, where you come from and belong. Remember who I am, that I love and believe you, and I'm waiting out here to bring you back home."

Adam nodded. Brows knitting with anxiety, his jaw was clenched tight. At first Ben thought his son was struggling to keep his emotions in check, then he realized it was a fight Adam had already lost. Twin tears trailed down his cheeks, trickling down his freshly shaven cheeks. He hadn't wanted to shave his beard or cut his unruly hair; Ben had insisted it was done. He wanted Adam to look as presentable as possible. Sane, lucid, and level-headed, capable, and willing to look after basic needs. He was capable of those things—Ben knew that and he wanted others to know it too.

"Don't be afraid," Ben reassured softly. It was a profound order—difficult if not completely impossible to adhere to.

"I'm not," Adam whispered. "I can't be, not anymore."

Nodding, Ben wiped at Adam's tears, drying his cheeks with his thumbs. Feeling oddly proud of the declaration, he pulled his son into an embrace. It was a hug that was fiercely reciprocated; they held onto each other a long time.

Can you hold on to me, Pa?

The excruciating echo returned, haunting Ben long after their embrace was broken, when Adam was pulled away from him and led into the building beyond the fence. After watching both Martin and Adam disappear into its obscure depths, he stood in place for a long time, unable to move as the inauspicious question rang mercilessly in his mind.

Can you?

END

This storyline continues in the next installment of the series: Predisposition