Chapter Four

His jaw twitches, slack, and the cheese falls from between his teeth — he's lost the energy to chew. Eyes like the sea, infinite and blue, stare up at us, brimming with liquid misery, terror, the absence of strength. The grey-black shirt he's wearing sticks to his skin, melds to the flesh on his battered back. It will hurt to peel it off.

How did he get this way, slouched meaninglessly against a blood-brick wall? Tobias, the homeschooled boy, the lucky one… Tears sting the backs of my eyes, hot, poisonous. I kneel beside him, losing breath from the thick, heavy knot in my throat, gravel cutting into my slacks. I shift, and it digs into my skin, but I feel no pain.

Tobias' eyes, which had fluttered shut like hope lost, carefully part, a treasure chest opened, and stare lazily at my nose. Leaning further back so I am sitting on my ankles, I lower myself to his eye-level. The light of the moon, a thin, crescent shape tonight like the letter C, shines against his hair, making him look like a broken angel.

Without thought, my fingers touch his cheek, soft, gentle. It's not something I would ever do, and yet it comes as instinct to me now. He flinches, and I pull away like I've been burned, but the next thing he does makes my tummy flip; his lips part, and he whispers, "Sorry. Come back." I do.

We are two children, each mesmerized by the other. I trace the dark bruise on his cheek, right below his eye, and with the energy he has left, he holds my ice-cold fingers against the wound like a balm. The cold soothes him, and the heat of his skin makes me warm. From that moment, I know we will always help each other.

Mama is speaking to the man. I shift and sit comfortably, cross-legged, beside Tobias and let him hold my hand to his cheek while I listen to them talking. I don't even notice the blood spot where my knees had rested.

"Is he…" Mama begins, gaze flickering between Tobias to Me to The Man again.

The Man nods. "Tobias Eaton." Tobias cowers at the sound of his own name; I can feel it in my palm. I trace a big semi-circle along his cheek with my thumb, and he relaxes. I do this without thinking, which is not normal; Abnegation do not touch.

"Who are you?" Mama continues, talking to The Man. I notice his fingers are still combing through Tobias' hair, but neither one seems to notice. It's second nature. "Do you know him?" I bite my lip — I think that's a dumb question, but I keep it to myself.

"Yes," The Man replies. "My name is Thomas. I am his caretaker."

"What about Marcus?"

His nostrils flare up, and I can feel Tobias trembling again — this time, soothing touches do not calm him down. Panic wells up inside me as I struggle to think of what to do. Suddenly, The Man, Thomas, places a small piece of cheese between Tobias' teeth, and he begins chewing on it, slowly, lethargically.

"No good finds this boy," Thomas mutters, stroking his hair again. It's easy to tell that Thomas has been factionless for long; he seems resigned to it, no glimmer of hope in his eye. It reminds me of the girl my age, the one I gave my coat to. The whole ordeal seems like long ago, anyways, maybe from some other night, but when the wind strikes my bare arms again, it feels like seconds. My fingers are still warm, absorbing heat from Tobias' burning skin. I start to think that he has a fever.

Mama hesitates. "His back—" Battered, beaten, bruised, bloody…

Thomas covers Tobias' ears, and he doesn't fight it. As the sounds of the night disappear to him, Tobias closes his eyes and puts his weight into the palm of my hand. Again, I make patterns on his skin, and a soft hum escapes him as he falls into sleep. I find it strange that sleep comes so easily to him; it takes me hours before I can sleep at night. He must be really exhausted. Thomas keeps his hands over Tobias' ears.

"How do I know I can trust you?" he says.

I shift so Tobias' neck is not strained and I am facing Mama and Thomas. "Mama, what happened to his back?"

She looks so helpless now, so lost. "It was his father, Baby. He hurt him."

No! Poor Tobias. I try not to cry as I say, "We have to help him, Mama."

Her eyes shine. "Yes, Baby, we do."

"He's my best friend," I say, more sure of that than I've ever been of anything. I won't leave him here. I will help him, and he'll get better, and we'll play outside together like the Amity folks.

Thomas looks happy, but he's crying. I can't tell if he's sad or not. Maybe he's both; I know I am. I'm happy I have a friend, but I'm sad that he's in pain. Thomas, I think, is happy that we will help Tobias but sad that he won't be here anymore.

Mama is crying too — so much crying tonight — and she says to Thomas, "Please let us help him." It's unspoken, but we know that he has the control here.

But he nods, eyes watery, and stands up, gathering some things into a box: clothes, a blanket, and a hunk of gross-looking yellow cheese. Mama picks Tobias up in her arms, and I take my hand away from him; it is hard, because he is holding on tightly in his sleep, but I pry myself away and take the box from Thomas. Mama offers him what is left of the bag of food, and he takes it gratefully.

"Don't let anyone know where he is, and don't mention that bastard they call his father around him. If he gets panicky, the cheese calms him down, and… well, now this little one does too." He pats my head, and I smile proudly. "His back is pretty torn up, but you can't take him to the hospital."

"I can patch him up," Mama says, holding the nine-year-old boy with ease. I never noticed the muscles along Mama's arms, but they are prominent now as she flexes them, carrying Tobias like he is a feather. We both know he is just as breakable. "I've fixed my fair share of battle wounds." What?

"Marcus will stop at nothing to find him," Thomas says, face hardening at the goodbye. "Protect him, Natalie."

Mama looks shocked that Thomas knows her name. "How…"

He smiles an inside smile. "I am familiar with your family." Then his smile turns around. "As am I with your husband. Andrew is a bad man, Natalie. Keep Tobias away from him."

"He is not—"

"Do not be blinded by love," Thomas says, not unkindly but firmly, "or you will make the same mistake that my daughter did. Take care of yourself and your daughter, and now Tobias."

Mama swallows loudly and nods. "I will, Thomas." He turns and walks away, food in one hand, and with the other, drags away the blanket that him and Tobias were sitting on just moments before. Why is he leaving?

"Wait!" Mama calls. "Who are you? How do you know him? How can we find you?" He doesn't come back; he doesn't even look, and soon his old, hunched figure disappears into the night. I wonder: if we see him again, will it be alive?

Mama looks at me, lit by the moon and stars, and we make our way back in the direction we came. Only now, the brick walls are bare, not even one factionless slouched against them. Our walk back is quicker; this time, we don't take our time looking at the sky or handing out clothes and food, but we walk, the silence filled only by sleeping Tobias' helpless whimpers.

I break the silence. "Mama… is Papa bad?" The image of him, fists ready, knuckles white, jaw clenched, pierces my mind. It makes my blood run cold, even colder than the air against my bare arms. Mama's arms are bare, too; I didn't notice, but her coat is wrapped around Tobias. It makes her muscles look even bigger. When did those get there? Were they always there? I have never seen Mama's arms bare before.

"I don't know, Tris," she says, the sound of our footsteps growing louder as we reach the cemented pathway that signifies home. "We'll find out soon, if my suspicions are right."

My eyes find Tobias again, his small frame jostling as Mama carries him up the front steps. Gingerly, I touch his forehead as Mama grabs the doorknob. We don't lock doors in Abnegation.

The door opens, and light floods us. Tobias groans and stirs in his sleep. I follow Mama into the living room where Papa sits, awake (even at this ungodly hour of eleven o'clock), waiting for us. Caleb is not here, so he must be asleep. Papa doesn't look at us as we enter, unaware that Tobias is with us; for some reason, I don't want him to look our way.

"Where have you been, Nat," he asks (although it sounds like a statement) without looking, elbows on his knees, holding a small glass by the rim. Tobias' eyes fly open at the harsh sound, and I bring my finger to my lips: shhh. He nods, visibly scared. I am, too, but I smile and hold his hand to comfort him. Somehow, he ends up comforting me, too. We'll always be there for each other.

"Out," Mama replies. "I went on a walk."

"With our daughter," he spits out, seeming angry now, "in the middle of the night." His grip on the glass tightens so the lines in his hand stand out, and there's a swaying motion in the reddish liquid. Woooo.

"You were scaring her."

He stands up, furious at the accusation (which wasn't far from truth), yelling, "How dare you, you little—" The glass falls from his hand and smashes against the wooden coffee table, shattering to pieces, dropping to the carpet. Now, Papa's voice is low, dangerous, and my skin crawls like bugs. Papa never used to be like this. "Who is the boy?"

Mama is steady like a rock. "A friend," she replies curtly. "He's staying with us for a while."

"And why would that be?"

Mama raises her eyebrows. "If I were you, Andrew, I wouldn't question me." I remember Mama's muscles and realize; I know nothing about my parents, and neither of them are who I thought they were. Papa's lip twitches, but he sits back down and puts his feet up on the table, shoving shards of glass down onto the ground.

"Don't antagonize me, Natalie." He pauses. "The boy can stay. Take him upstairs."

Anger rises inside of me; Papa is being disrespectful. But Mama just shakes her head and takes me and Tobias upstairs, whispering, "Pick your battles, Baby." We go to my room, and Mama puts him on the bed. "I'm going to check on Caleb. Stay here with Tobias, okay?" I nod, and she leaves.

Tobias lays on his stomach, eyes open. He is still weak, but he's gotten some sleep now. I sit on the chair beside the bed and watch him for a minute.

"Hi," he croaks. I jump, startled, but settle back down.

"Hello," I answer. Now that he's talking, it seems more real. Nerves float around in my belly.

"My name is Tobias… but you knew that." I giggle, and a small smile plays on his lips. It's full of relief, and his shoulders sag; until now, I never noticed how tense they were, but looking at them now, it's like night and day, black and white. He was so scared. "What's yours? I can't call you Baby."

Heat rises to my cheeks, warming them up from the cold, and I'm embarrassed by Mama's nickname for me. I need to tell him my name. "It's…" I hesitate — why? Somehow, Beatrice doesn't sound right. Not after tonight.

"Is it a hard one?" he asks, curious. "You can change it, you know."

"Yeah, people have been telling me that lately," I mutter. Then, suddenly shy, I add, "Um… can you call me Tris?"

He nods, smiling. "Tris… It suits you." He doesn't ask what my real name is, and we sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Then he says, out of nowhere, "You have really pretty hair."

I blush deeper, and my lips form an 'o'. His cheeks match mine.

A strand finds its way between my fingers. "I don't usually wear it like this."

"You should," he says. "It's so loose and… free."

"My mama cut it yesterday."

He looks sad again. "My mama died when I was little."

"Oh." I don't know what to say; I'm not good at comforting people. "I'm sorry."

"Why do people say that?" he asks.

I shrug. "I think it means, 'I'm sorry for your loss.'"

"It wasn't much of a loss," he replies. "She saw it happen and didn't try to stop him." She saw him get beaten…

"But she was still your mama."

He shrugs this time. "I guess."

I hesitate. "Does he… did he do it a lot?" It's a dangerous subject, but I try to remind him that it's over now. We're going to help him now. But after everything he's been through, I doubt that he'll relax any time soon. He takes my hand again and plays with it; I don't mind.

He nods. "Yeah. Sometimes he would lock me in the closet for days. That's why I can't go to school like everyone else. I guess that means I'm dumb."

"No, it doesn't," I say. "Caleb — my brother — can teach you things. He's super smart, like Erudite smart."

"Do you think he'll transfer?" My eyes widen; I'd never even considered it. But now, it doesn't seem too far-fetched. I think of the books, and how he always seems to know everything, how he always wants to know everything. He's Erudite, at least some part of him.

"Maybe," I finally answer.

He stops for a second, thinking, before continuing. "Do you… do you think you'll transfer?" I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, and I don't respond. He gets it and says, "Sorry."

"It's okay. What about you?"

He smiles cheekily. "Dauntless." It seems comical now — the small, frail, Abnegation boy in front of me wants to be Dauntless. But if I look deeper, I think I can see it. His drained, pale skin becomes healthy and tanned (maybe tattooed); his weak arms become strong and muscular; his back is healed; his deep blue eyes shine with victory. He could be Dauntless if he wanted to.

What about me? Could I be Dauntless?

Do I want to be Dauntless?

I know the last answer: yes. Somewhere under Abnegation grey is the me that watched the black-clad thrill-seekers jump on and off trains, desperately wishing to join them. Even though I'll always be a little bit Abnegation, especially after seeing what Mama did tonight with Tobias and the factionless, somewhere in me is bravery that wants to rise to the surface, be free.

And suddenly, I want to tell Tobias. "Me too," I say, excited by the revelation.

His eyes light up, but as he opens his mouth to say something, Mama walks in. "Okay, my little daredevils. Let's get Tobias' back cleaned up before we talk about jumping onto trains."

The blood drains from Tobias' face — we have to clean up his back. He's small again, not the same boy who just told me he wants to be Dauntless.

"Do we have to?" he whimpers, and my heart breaks a little. But Mama nods, and I can see the fear in his eyes again that only disappeared for the while we were talking — or maybe it never went away, and he just got better at hiding it.

I help him sit up, and he plays with the hem of his shirt. Mama crouches in front of him, whispering words of comfort, and I go to leave the room, but he grabs my hand.

"Stay?"

I nod reluctantly and take my seat again. I close my eyes as he peels off his shirt — I hear a tearing sound and a heartbreaking cry of pain — and open them when he's laying on his stomach. Automatically, my eyes train on the floor; that's where I see his grey t-shirt, blackened with dry blood. I look up at him and Mama and gasp quietly.

His cheeks are now stained with tears, and his eyes are squeezed shut. As I survey the damage on his back, I cannot imagine the pain he must be in. Flesh hangs off his back in flakes, and each gash that stretches along his torso is flecked with dried blood at the sides. There's welts where the belt buckle hit (I assume) and gashes, open, bleeding, and suddenly there's a sharp pain between my eyes, and I plug my nose, breathing deeply.

I look at Mama, and she's the same, but in her eyes, there's something else: anger. It burns like a flame, bright, unyielding. The anger spreads from her to me, and I'm engulfed by it in seconds, raging like a thunder storm over the city. But a small hand, strewn with callouses, touches my arm softly, and suddenly all that's left is sadness.

I lean down and kiss his forehead before unzipping the red bag beside Mama. I promised I would help him, so I will, even if all this blood makes me dizzy.

"You'll be okay, Toby. I promise," I whisper as Mama dabs something at his wounds. He winces.

"Can I have another kiss?" he asks through gritted teeth, and I laugh and comply, pressing my lips to his forehead again.

"It'll be over soon, and when it is, we'll be so happy."