A/N: Sorry/notsorry about messing with the previous chapter at the beginning of this one. I posted that last chapter WAY too soon after finishing it. I usually let them sit because I almost always change my mind (this chapter, for example, has four different drafts), but on that one I was like "Yay! Update!" Ugh. Rereading it, it seems so. . . forced. Sorry y'all had to read that. Oh, well. Can't take it back now!

On with the story!

I couldn't help Fang back then, but I can help Nick right now. Hesitantly, I reach out and grasp his hand. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.

He slowly returns the pressure. "To survival."

We stand together, sharing hands and air and silence and grief and what little hope we have for tomorrow.

Yeah, I wish. The grace and social skills required for that are not something I possess. (Homeschooled, remember?)*

While I traipse through memory lane (not a pleasant experience), Nick continues to stand over the counter, all hunched shoulders and kicked-puppy face. I hover behind him, trying not to be awkward and failing miserably. Finally, after weighing the consequences, I say something.

"You okay?" I grimace. Alright, that sounded indifferent even by my standards. Like, the tone of voice I use when a whitecoat accidentally jabs himself with a needle. I should lighten up a little.

So the next obvious step is the Mom voice. It works on the kids most of the time. I try for soft, caring, comforting. "Are you okay?" Ah, that's better.

I wait a bit to give Nick a chance to respond. Nothing. Humph. And I thought I was stubborn. Okay, the only thing left is my Leader voice. It's not what I would normally use in this kind of situation, but I wouldn't normally be in the house of a complete stranger, either. (At least, not while they're present.)

"Report." Not a peep. I repeat myself, louder and with a deeper tone of voice. That's leaderly, right?

His shoulders start to shake. Oh heck, is he crying? Is it Angel-skinned-her-knee or Nudge's-favorite-celebrity-couple-broke-up level? Does Nick own enough ice cream and chocolate for me to fix this?

He looks up from the counter, and I brace myself for ugly-crying-face. But, no, he's laughing. "What. . ." He has to take a deep breath to compose himself. "What was that?"

I cross my arms. "What was what?" I think I liked him better when he wasn't talking.

Nick barely gets "'you okay?'" out in bad falsetto between gasps for breath. Immediately following is a strain of 'you okay' and 'reports' in various accents and tones of voice. I wrinkle my nose. Gosh, if I actually sounded like that the Flock would have clipped my wings and pushed me out a window a long time ago. I roll my eyes and mumble, "well it worked, didn't it?" But I can't help the smile creeping onto my face.

When he's caught his breath I notice the corners of his mouth pulling up a teensy tiny bit.

Our eyes meet.

He looks just like Fang.

Suddenly it feels like I've swallowed a rock. My smile falters, and Nick notices, but his phone starts buzzing before he can say anything. He hesitates before answering.

"You should get that," I say, the rock in my throat warbling my words a little. Without waiting to see if he follows my simple directions, I head down the hallway. My eyes are burning, and I have have a dim recognition that it's because extra fluids are gathering there. No. I will not cry. I have gone ten years without so much as a tear, (not counting the nightmares), and I'm not about to let Fang beat my record. I straighten my spine into a more dignified, not-about-to-cry posture and slip inside the first room I pass.

With my back to the closed door, not bothering to turn the lights on, I prepare to defend myself against an onslaught of emotion. But the moment has passed, and I breathe until the lump in my throat dissolves. I'm just stressed. That's all. I just need enough rest to plan and execute a rescue mission for the Flock. Yeah, that's only, like, one or two hours of sleep. I run a hand down the wall of the room blindly until I hit a light switch.

Or that.

Yes. That could help, too.

A couple times while on the run, the Flock would "acquire" some money and spend the night in a cheap hotel. It was nice: sleeping in a bed (or on the shag carpet), air conditioning, complimentary breakfast. But the best part had to be the shower. It was always disgusting by the time I got to it; the little bottles of soap would always be empty, the drain full of hair, and the water cold. But it felt so good to not have mud caked under my fingernails or sweat itching the back of my neck.

Stepping out of Nick's shower takes that feeling to a whole new level. It's probably the closest I'll ever get to a spa. Or therapy.

I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and wring out my hair, my heavy emotions steamed out of me. The shower, I decide, is the best place to plan. Heck, it's the best place to do anything. (Don't read too much into that.)

A couple swipes clear up the foggy mirror over the sink. For the first time in a few months, I take a really good look at myself.

Geesh. I thought that was a tan. And my hair! Has it really been that long since I cut it? I wonder if Nick would mind letting me borrow some scissors? I pull my hair back with one hand to examine my face more closely and pause.

No, that's not possible.

I raise my arms out in front of me. They are covered in crusty red lines. Scabs, left over from the crash landing a few days ago. But they should be healed by now. They should have been healed yesterday.

It's nothing to freak out about. Just a few scratches. But I can't help the unsettled feeling in my stomach as I change into my clothes. Dang, and I was thisclose to being relaxed.

I leave the bathroom, a towel still encasing my hair the way Nudge taught me. ("It dries faster," she said. But I'm pretty sure she just hopes my hair doesn't return to its natural state). Nick is in the living room, watching television and having a very animated conversation with Reno over the phone.

He snaps his flip-phone shut and breaths audibly. (It's not a sigh. Only love-sick teenagers sigh. This is manly, more like a "huh" than an "ah".) I perch on the arm of the couch and cross my arms. "What's up?"

Nick flops onto the floor and leans back onto the couch. "Nothing."

"Uh huh. And that means?"

"Nothing."

I throw my hands up. "Okay, if you don't want to tell me what's going on, that's fine by me. Not like I saved your sorry little butt from imminent doom or anything."

"It's. . . complicated."

I pointedly ruffle my wings. "Try me."

A huff from Nick. "So the Boss is missing. It's been long enough now that the second-in-command, Eric, is supposed to take over. . ."

"And nobody can find Eric, either?" Maybe I was eavesdropping a tiny bit.

Nick doesn't notice my vast knowledge of his social circle. "Yeah. Last night was the last anyone saw him. Two days, two leaders."

"So who's in charge?"

Nick mumbles. "Me."

I had been picking at the fabric on the arm of the couch, but at this I swivel to gape at Nick. "What? You're, like, fourteen!"

"Fifteen. And you can't be that much older than me." I mentally correct him. I'm older than him, sure, but there's no way I'm fifteen yet. I've only had, like, three birthdays since escaping. Anyways, Nick continues. "I'm a blood relative of the Boss, so I was bumped up in the rankings of the gang. It's automatic." Nick shrugs.

There's a pause. I return my attention to the stained arm of the couch. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Declare war on the Red Creeks, obviously." I tense up. Nick laughs. "Relax. I'm kidding. I'm planning a meeting to choose the next in line." I only partially relax my shoulders. Good luck falling asleep tonight, Max!

"So when's the meeting going to be?"

"As soon as possible. Hopefully to-" Nick's phone buzzes. He answers, nodding a few times during his mostly one-sided conversation. When it's over, he clicks his phone shut and checks his watch. "Looks like I have to be on the other side of town in twenty minutes. You okay here?"

I nod. Food? Shower? Cushioned furniture to sleep on? "I'll be fine."

Nick heads for the door. "Okay, I'll be back soon. Lock the door behind me. Don't eat all of the food." Shucks. Nick makes direct eye contact with me before he shuts the door. "And whatever you do, don't leave."

"Okay, mom." Nick shuts the door, and I watch discreetly through the window as Nick boards the same van from earlier and rides away into the darkness.

Ah, too bad I'll never see him again.

I slide from my perch on the couch. There's a backpack in Nick's room that looks like it'll be the perfect fit between my wings. I kind of feel bad for taking it, but he knows it's for a good cause. In the kitchen, I sort through the cupboards until I find enough non-canned food for a few days. (Cans are too heavy for flying.) It all goes in the backpack. Lastly, I check my pockets for the knife I had picked up earlier. The metal is warm from my body heat.

I'm ready to roll. Er, fly. Whatever.

I decided while in the shower to take the back door. There's enough vegetation to keep curious gazes from seeing the back yard, perfect for taking off. I don't really know where I'm headed, but better to be on the move than a sitting duck. The Erasers haven't found me yet, but they are bound to be on my trail. I just hope they don't give Nick too much trouble for helping me.

My hand closes around the doorknob. I'm coming, guys.

CRASH!

I duck just in time. A very solid bundle skims my cheek as it flies by my head. The rock lands in the middle of the kitchen in a pile of broken glass. Immediately, I drop to a crouch and duck behind the counter. There's a patch of light coming through the mangled window. I pull my feet in until only the toes of my boots are barely visible in it. Thus seated, I wait.

There's a crunch on the back porch. A step on a dead leaf. So whoever it is, they're coming this way. I carefully scoot to a more defensive position, watching the patch of light from the broken window.

Slowly, the silhouette of a head rises. It turns left. Then right. Whoever it is, they're looking for something. Or someone. My heart beats in my ears, my breaths come out as quietly as I can make them. I can't get caught now. I haven't even started looking yet.

Every one of my muscles is tensed for what feels like eternity. The silhouette of the head finally recedes, but I wait ten more minutes before moving from my hiding place. When the coast seems clear, I carefully crawl over to the rock on the floor. Numbly I register the sting of glass cutting into my knees and the palms of my hands, but I'm too petrified by what I see to care.

On the small rock is a message, written hastily in black marker.

RUN

-Bess

*I don't believe that all home-schooled children aren't adept socially. In fact, the home-schoolers I've met are some of the coolest, most driven, and most arttistic people I've met.

A/N: MWAHAHAHA! Finally, some plot development! Guys, all of this "emotional" stuff is hard for me to write. I hope it doesn't read as choppily to you as it does to me.

In other news, this next chapter's gonna be a doozy. . . ACTION! My comfort zone! YAY!

Review?