Lance wavered just outside of his house, peaking over the fence, his eyes scanning the windows as he tried to determine if anyone was. His imagination was already running wild with what every member of his family would do to him individually if he was caught.

For starters the boy could feel the hurt, the betrayal that had curdled into rage within Rachel's heart. So she was definitely going to punch him square in his adorable face next time she saw him. No doubt about that. It wouldn't be the first time and Lance cringed at the memory. He tried not to think about how it might just be her last time doing so.

Then there was Veronica, who'd probably throttle him worse than Rachel, only due to her age and size difference. Marco would be more passive, more devious. Stealing Lance's dessert for a weak at least. Lance probably wouldn't be allowed to see his niece of nephew for a good long while. The boy wondered what Luis had told the kids and his chest suddenly ached with the worry that they might be feeling right now for him.

But all of that paled in comparison to what his parents were going to do to him… especially mama. At the very least he'd be grounded. That was the only for sure thing he could hold onto.

But if he was stopped now he'd never get to save Rachel. So the faster he did this the better it'd be… for everyone. Everything could go back to normal, as if none of this had ever happened. As if this all really had been one prolonged nightmare.

So Lance found himself here, inching cautiously up the driveway and circling the house from safe, hidden vantage points. He eyed the deceptively empty abode, gaze flicking to the road where no cars were in sight. For how long Lance couldn't be sure though and a pang of regret stuttering in his heart. They must still be out looking for him. Maybe thinking him lost and alone, cold and hungry.

He wondered if anyone had been left behind to wait for him, just in case he came back.

He kept a keen eye out, looking for any wayward sigh, a shadow across the window, movement of the curtains. When nothing came Lance released the breath he'd been holding. With body still tensed and ready to run should he need too the boy cautiously approached the back door, flinching with each small sound, mostly made by himself. Like the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes.

He creaked the screen open just far enough to slip through, relieved that the knob was unlocked. Up on his tiptoes he made his way over the tiled floor of the kitchen, stomach grumbling as he caught a whiff of the delectable left overs. He pried his focus away from that though, instead making his way over to the counter, cringing as the junk drawer rattled when he worked it open. He pushed aside the spools of thread, number of spare keys that he wasn't even sure opened what all, and tools that had lost the rest of their sets, finally finding, towards the back, a handful of loose, half burned birthday candles, their colors still vibrant amongst the muted hues found within.

When no one came dashing into the kitchen from the stupid amount of noise searching through the drawer had caused Lance snatched the cordless phone up, fingers dancing a well known path across the buttons. His thumb hovered over 'end call' as it rang, and without meaning to he brought up his free hand, gnawing on his nails.

"Helloooo?" A voice that was definitely not Hunk's (perhaps it was his youngest sibling?) sang across the line and the boy swiftly hung up, heart pounding hard and loud. He knew he wasn't actually caught. But try explaining that to his telltale pulse, still quickened in his veins.

It took him a few moments to gather enough gumption to try again. This time calling Pidge's house.

"Please answer please answer." He whispered like a mantra, like a desperate prayer.

The boy almost jumped up and whooped, and just barely stopped himself from doing so, as his friend's light voice mumbled incoherently for a moment before an annoyed "what" could be made out, followed by; "Lance that better be you or so help me—"

"Pidge—" He wasn't entirely sure why he whispered this, but couldn't quite bring himself to stop. But there was a feeling he couldn't shake. Ever since he'd fled from Shiro's cabin it's felt as if he wasn't really alone. Even as he finally put these words to this… this intuition but he glanced quickly over his shoulder. He was still unaccompanied as he moved stealthily through his home.

"Dude where have you been? There's this huge search going on for you! They're combing through the woods! Omygod I have to tell them that you're okay!"

Lance had balked away from the receiver. Her voice was so loud, not sure how to interrupt her stream of commentary, he already felt culpable enough. At her revelation about the search party though he almost had interjected. There was no way… how had he missed them? Perhaps it was the one lucky break he'd received, to have not run into any of the search party and silently he threw up a prayer of thanks. At her last comment however he quickly sputtered out a "NO! no not yet! Pidge please just give me a bit more time—"

"What?" She squawked. "Why the hell would I do that?"

Lance's breath hitched, and perhaps his friend could hear something in this small sound, his exhaustion, or his sincerity, he wasn't sure, but she waited in the silence that stretched between them, a distance that felt farther away than the two of them each stood, clutching phones to the sides of their cheeks. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you dude."

"Try me."

"I wish, I just don't have time. Look, I called cuz I need you to look up something for me—" he could practically feel her curiosity pique and questions fill her mind. He was eternally grateful when he simply heard her clacking away, lightning fast across her keyboard.

"One moment—" she muttered. Now that Lance knew Pidge was going to help him the boy began to move through his house once more, having paused in the shadow of the fear that she would put an end to his mission to save Rachel. Blue eyes scanned for his beloved shark plush. "Okay shoot."

"Okay okay uh, what does stang mean?" As he waited he made it up the stares to his shared room. But Tiburoncito wasn't where he'd left him, on top of his bed.

"Hmmm, it looks like a stang is just the past tense of sting. But that can't be what you're looking for… here we go. 'A stang, in it's most basic form, is simply a forked stick, set with it's long end into the ground and—'"

"What does that even m—"

"Wait I'm not done! 'When placed it acts as a…. road for other spirits from other… plains?' I'm with you Lance. And why do you need to know this stuff, it's all like… witchcraft nonese—hey wait a minute—"

"-Kay- thanks Pidge bye!"

"Lance wait!"

It was easier to wrack his brain for where he'd left Tiburoncito now that he was off the phone. He glanced behind the door and under the bed, digging through the now mostly unused toy box, feeling around for the familiar plush fabric. Even checking Rachel's bed. But all with no luck. The steps that carried him back into the hallway and towards the stairwell once more shook. He ran a hand back through his hair, sweat sticking it up, eyes shifting restlessly. There were other things he still had to get. But as he grew more and more flustered his thoughts scattered with his growing panic. Every second that passed felt like a noose tightening around his neck.

Or Rachel was having another respiratory attack.

"Is this what you're looking for?" An aged voice sounded from right behind him.

Lance spun, not sure how much more his heart could take as it seemed to jump up into his throat. His mouth went dry as he scrambled after a believable explanation, something, anything that could get him out of trouble.

This couldn't be over yet!

But nothing was coming to mind.

"I don't know what you've gotten yourself into amorcito…"

"A-abuela!" The petite Hispanic woman stood at the very end of the hallway, on the other side of Veronica's door. Her graying, almost white hair fell in small soft curl's from her braid, framing her leathered features. She wore a soft shapeless dress and her simple cotton rebozo draped across her shoulder like a shall, the traditional pattern hugging against her like a blessing from their very ancestors. Around her right wrist her cowry shell rosary shifted and clacked together, and in that ancient had she held Tiburoncito. She tossed it towards him and he fumbled to catch it. Her movement had caught him off guard. As he snatched it from the air a pulse of energy tingled at his fingertips and he stared, wide eyed, at his grandma. Lance wasn't sure how to feel about her crooked, knowing smile, and was halfway convinced that if he stayed even a moment longer to fire the number of questions that now piled up behind his teeth, then the trap would snap closed around him. His gaze flickered from her back down the stairs, where his escape route was both clear and assured. As his dubious gaze returned to her the short, old woman took a shuffling step forward, her hand reaching out to him.

The boy startled like a wild creature and dashed down the stairs, leaping the last few and bursting out of the front door. His timing couldn't have been more perfect. For he heard the low rumble of his family's old van making its labored way up the drive.

Lance dove into the juniper bushes at the boundary of the yard where he'd hidden the book. With heart pounding a mile a minute, sending an ache through out his chest, the boy crawled slowly and carefully away from his home as car doors slammed and the worried voices of his family filled the air around him like chains, making each push farther away from them harder and harder. The boy had to make his plan as clear as a diamond in his mind, as a guiding star, illuminating his next step.