Chapter Nineteen: Foster Family

Sarah Campbell eventually comes back out of the house to usher Jonah and Wendy inside. She looks rung out, though she still manages a smile as Jonah passes her.

The Campbell home is exactly what Jonah imagined it would be, exactly what he'd hoped for. It's warm, and cozy, and cluttered with things—knick knacks of all shapes and sizes, everything from rock memorabilia to religious iconography, little porcelain angels cozied up alongside a statue of some celebrity in a white, diamond-studded, fringed suit and sunglasses. There are lots of cozy places to sit, each with its own pillows, crocheted blankets slung around the backs of chairs and couches. Everywhere are pictures of family, propped up with knick knacks or studding the walls. Matt, Matthew, everywhere. Matt at his high school graduation, and then college, graduating three more times; Matthew at camp, at church, playing soccer, at birthday parties, posing with Sarah, or Peter, often with Wnedy, Billy, and Mary right alongside him. Jonah's favorites though, are all the baby pictures, of all the kids, immortalizing Matthew's sleeping, chubby little baby face, haloed in blonde curls.

It certainly looks like a home. Jonah hasn't been in many of those.

Peter is standing in an open archway, the one separating the living room from the kitchen. He's red in the face, his expression pinched. As Jonah walks further into the house, so Wendy and Sarah can come in behind him, Peter steps forward. Jonah cringes and braces himself for the worst, expecting everything from a yell to a slap. But instead, Peter extends a hand, which Jonah shakes, doing his best to make it a firm handshake despite his shock and apprehension.

"Sarah explained. I'm not happy about it, but…you're here. And there's not much to be done about that. I should thank you, for saving my son. I am thankful, just—"

The man takes a deep breath, still shaking Jonah's hand, too long now, his grip like a vice.

"I'm just shocked, is all, and conflicted, about you and Matt, how this has all played out. What the two of you have been up to. But, as I said, it's too late now. You're welcome here any time. You're family now, you have to be, considering Matt's…choices. He may abandon you, but we won't."

Jonah nods, shaking Peter's hand back vigorously, tears springing in his gaze. After a few moments, Peter finally steps away, releasing him, looking away, unable to hold those creepy eyes for long.

"I meant it, by the way," Peter says abruptly, still unable to look Jonah in the face, "I am sorry, for…what I called you. Especially considering who you are, to Matt, well…that was disrespectful, and I should mind my own business."

"It's fine," Jonah replies quietly, "I'm really not one to speak on close-mindedness. Thank you for your apology."

Peter just nods, grunts, and walks away, turning his back to enter the kitchen.

"We called Matthew's cellphone, and his extension at the university, several times, but he didn't answer," Sarah informs him and Wendy, in a hushed voice, "if we weren't worried before, we sure are now. I'm glad the two of you are going to go see him in person…it seems like we won't be able to reach him otherwise—"

"Isn't it just like him though," Wendy interrupts, her tone a little more than scathing, "to run away and not own up to shit."

Sarah just sighs. She really does look exhausted, her eyes red, her face streaked with tears.

"Hey now, um…let's not, ah…beat a dead horse, pardon the expression. We're all a little unhappy with Matt, for lots of different reasons, but he's still Matthew." Jonah states, doing his best to mediate what was already a tense conversation, even before Wendy decided to give her two cents.

Sara nods, giving him a genuine, if not a little watery, smile, before ushering him into the kitchen.

"Well, we made dinner, if anyone feels like eating! Was your drive alright, did everything go smoothly?"

Jonah seats himself next to Milo, who excitedly shows him the drawing she's been working on, since her grandma set her and her brother down at the table, getting them out of the way of what was a most-likely explosive conversation between herself and Peter. Milo's drawn a bunch of pretty flowers, and little, potato-shaped things Jonah surmises to be cats, once he realizes the tiny sticks are legs and the little squiggle is a tail, little triangular ears perched on a smaller circle.

"Ah, what cute kitties, little bug—"

"Well, the drive went as well as it could, especially considering Jonah's never been on the interstate before. He got sick less than five minutes out of Goatswood, but by the time we got here, he was used to it, and right as rain."

"Oh, goodness," Sarah's fluttering, nervous hands come up to clench the cross around her neck, "that must have been an experience. Had you been in a car before?"

"Yes ma'am," he answers, all upbringing and manners, "my family owned a Ford Model-T, though…I will say, it's top speed was about thirty, and I only experienced that once before. I found that to be unpleasant at the time, as well."

Peter laughs suddenly, a genuine sound of mirth, and it breaks the tension, Sarah and Wendy laughing alongside him. The kids look confused.

"Grampa, what's a model tea?"

Peter begins to explain, describing the chokehold the first mass-produced, publicly-available car had on America, changing life as people knew it. Peter had just started to discuss how the introduction of the Model-T revolutionized factory work, and unions, while regrettably doing away with public transportation, when Otto interrupts him.

"So Jonah is really old, then? If his daddy drove one? He sounds old, like that one black-and-white guy, Fred Astaire—"

"Otto, it's rude to call people old—"

"But Memaw, he is—"

"So?"

"How come he looks so young, then?"

"Otto! Now you're making fun of someone's looks?"

"No, Memaw, gosh, I'm just saying, he doesn't look old enough—"

"I just aged really well, Otto." Jonah interrupts, nodding at the ten-year-old, putting on an air of mystery. "I was born in nineteen-oh-six. How old does that make me?"

Otto, his gaze as wide as saucers, stares hard at Jonah before looking confused, obviously thinking hard as he counts, using his fingers.

"But that makes you ninety-nine!"

"Mhm," Jonah replies with a smirk, "wonderful job!"

"But there's just no way—"

"What if I'm a vampire, hmm? Or a ghost? Ooh, or, maybe I just aged backwards—"

"Which is it then?" Otto bemoans, frustrated. The adults, counting Jonah, all laugh, making Otto even more frustrated.

"Just don't worry about it, sweetheart, and be grateful Jo's here, alright?" Wendy implores, ruffling her kid's hair.

Otto sulks, though, even as Sarah begins plating up food for each member of her newly-extended family. Spaghetti, and it tastes the same as Matthew's. Jonah tells Sarah as much, and the mother smiles, brown eyes crinkling.

"It's just a bit of sugar, is the secret."

He thanks her for the meal, and her hospitality, but she just waves him off. He thanks Peter as well, for his hospital, too, but the man does the same as his wife, gruff and dismissive. For the rest of their dinner, Otto pesters Jonah with questions, a seemingly-endless supply of queries.

"Jonah, what was school like back then?"

"Uh, fun, I think?"

"You think?"

"Well, school was fine while I attended. I was pulled out of school at your age, ten, and never went back."

"What?"

This exclamation is made by everyone at the table, except Milo, who is still drawing, having only taken three disinterested bites of her plain butter spaghetti.

"It's, um, kind of a long wasn't my decision, anyway, it was my father's. So you have to stay in school, Otto, I wish I could've stayed, all the way up to high school."

"Ugh, that's gross. What was your favorite toy when you were my age?"

"Huh, well…I really liked to play with my dogs, back then—"

"Diedrich and, uh, Bruno, right?" Peter supplies, the tone of his voice as hopeful as an olive branch, an genuine expression of interest and investment in someone else. Someone you've wronged.

"Wow, uh, yes, you must have a good memory—"

"What was your momma and daddy like, Jonah?"

"Well, Otto, my mama was the best mother I could ask for, just like yours is to you. And my father, well, he…he was a busy man."

"My daddy's busy too," Otto replies, his sweet voice sad, "he's in the military."

"Oh, your father's a serviceman? Lots of men went off to war, when I was your age. And they came back safe and sound, and we all had a huge party."

The half-lie, half-true makes the adults laugh.

"Jonah, what was the Great Depression like?"

"Sorry, the what?"

"Ohh, but what was World War II like, Jonah? Did you ever see a nazi?"

"Wait, what? A second World War? Like, following the Great War?"

"Do you mean World War I?"

"Okay, Otto!" Wendy interrupts, laughing awkwardly at the shocked and confused expression on Jonah's face, "You've asked Jonah more than enough questions, and it's getting late. You and Milo had a very late night last night, and it's already past eight. You and your sister go upstairs and brush your teeth, I'll be following behind soon to tuck you in, alright?"

Otto complies, but complains loudly, the whole time, all the way up the stairs.

"There was a second World War?"

"I'll tell you all about it during the drive tomorrow, Jo. What year did you say you died in? Nineteen twenty-five?"

"Yeah—"

"Whoa kid, shit, did you dodge a bullet. You would've only been in your thirties when the draft started. You also missed the stock market crash, around 1930 or so—"

"Are you saying that the stock market is going to crash?"

"Alright, now, as the oldest mother here, I'm going to take a note from Wendy's book, and use my ultimate authority to inform you two, that you both should go to bed. Especially you, Wendy, you're going to drive all day tomorrow. And you, Jonah, you've had a rollercoaster of a day. You could probably use the rest. There's plenty of hours Wendy can use to bring you up to speed on the drive."

Sarah catches a glimpse of a pout on Jonah's young, expressive face, before it's gone, well-schooled into a benign, if not resigned expression. He's so well mannered, and something about it sits strangely in her stomach. Wendy sighs and agrees with her adopted mom, saying goodnight to Jonah and Peter, and Sarah, before disappearing upstairs to tuck her children in and go to bed herself.

"Thank you again for dinner, and for letting me stay, ma'am—"

"Oh goodness, you've gotta stop with this ma'am business."

"Sorry, Mrs. Campbell."

"Aw, kid. You can just call me Sarah, or Aunt Sarah, if the lack of an honorific brings you so much anxiety."

Jonah laughs, his shuttered face breaking into a smile. It's charming, how animated the kid can be, when he's not scared, or feeling alienated, or awkward, or scared.

"Yes ma'am, A-Aunt Sarah, sorry."

Close enough, Sarah thinks, already stewing up plans on how to break this kid's shell.

"Hey, Jonah, could I ask you a question?"

"Yes, sir?"

"That, right there. Your father—shit, what was his name? Aickman, I think—was he a 'yes sir, no sir' kind of guy?"

Jonah smiles weakly, chuckling.

"Yes sir. And that was the preferred answer. Yes, sir. Hop to, or else."

Sarah and Peter exchange a quick glance, the same question in mind. But they let it go, resolving to wonder about it on their own. It wouldn't do any good to pry, especially considering how much they already knew about Jonah's father, the necromancing mortician selling his son like a side-show attraction.

"Well, kid, you can just call me Peter, and I won't accept any other answers."

"Yes...Peter."

"Attaboy! Now, if you'll follow me, we're gonna set you up in Matt's old room. We figured you wouldn't mind, and well, we don't exactly have spare bedrooms. We keep Matt's just in case, hoping he might give up that witch shit, one day."

"I wouldn't hold your breath," Jonah replies, as he follows Peter upstairs and down a hallway, to a door plastered in stickers. Jonah recognizes some of them, some of the designs, the easiest one being HEALTH, those big block letters, the same as the patch on Matthew's bag.

"Um, Peter, sir?"

"Just Peter, kid. Yes?"

"Who's this? Are they a band?" Jonah asks, pointing to the big HEALTH sticker.

"Yeah, they are, Matt really likes them. Has he shown you any of their stuff?"

Jonah shakes his head and looks away.

"What about any of these other ones?"

Jonah looks at them consideringly, before pointing a few out. A man with wings; a series of five symbols, one of them being a triquetra; a smiley face, with X's for eyes, its tongue sticking out; a fist, closed around a grenade; a simple sticker, spelling out the letters R.E.M., a patch Matt also has on his bag.

"Shit, kid, you like Nirvana? Green Day?"

"Um, well, I don't know. I just recognize them, is all. Matt has lots of…shirts, and patches." He trails off to a mumble, his voice quiet and deep, looking anywhere but Peter. The music junkie realizes then that Jonah doesn't actually know what the logos mean, just that Matt likes them. His initial question, about HEALTH, is because he wants to know more. Wants to know more about the bands his…partner, likes. The man he shares a lifespan with, apparently.

Peter opens the door and steps inside, turning the light on and crossing immediately over to Matt's old desk, opening the topmost drawer. He roots around for a moment, shuffling things, before finding what he's looking for. A beat up CD player, as well as a pair of headphones, a big bulky pair, black, with massive red cushions on the earphones.

"Ah, here we are!" Peter tosses the player and the headphones on the bed, before going over to Matt's bookshelf. Almost the entire thing is filled with CDs, and hardly any books. Peter studies them, pulling forth CDs for bands the kid said he recognized. He turns to show them to Jonah, but he's still standing awkwardly in the hallway, peering into the room with the hesitant look of a stray cat.

"Well hey, come on in, I got something to show you," Peter coaxes, sitting on the bed and patting the space beside him. Jonah does as he's told, settling in with a leg crossed over one knee.

"Alright, so. This is called a CD player. 'C' as in cat, "D" as in dog, and player like someone who dates multiple women at a time."

Jonah gives a startled laugh, lighting up in mirth. Finally, he's getting somewhere with this kid.

"It's called as such because it plays CDs, which are these discs." Peter opens one of the cases, the R.E.M one, popping the disk free. "Let's see, what are you used to… record players, I'd imagine. A victrola?"

"Yes, sir. We have one," Jonah replies, his voice quiet and reverent as he stares at the shiny disc in Peter's hand. He's never seen anything like it. It's silver, but when the light catches just so, it shifts rainbow.

"Think of it like a victrola and a record. They actually play music using very similar technology. I won't get into the nitty gritty, but if you're ever curious, you just let me know."

Peter shows Jonah how to load the disc in. He pulls and releases a little bitty lever on the side that opens the top of the flat, sphere shaped device, before putting the CD in, design-side up, clicking it in, before snapping the whole thing shut again. Then, he shows the kid how to plug the headphones in, the little metal end into a hole in the side of the player. Peter puts the headphones on himself and presses a triangle shaped button on the side. He looks pleased, before pressing a different button, one like the roman numeral II.

"Alright, kiddo, c'mere. Lean forward for me—yeah, there we go. Get them comfy now, till they feel natural."

Jonah shifts the headpiece over his ears, affixing them like they'd looked on Peter. They're like earmuffs, he realizes, the sound of Peter speaking to him so muffled, he has to lift one of the earphones to listen. Peter explains the buttons, which one does what.

"You ready?"

Jonah nods and replaces the earphone. He feels silly, with this thing on his head, fixing his bangs so they stop getting caught in the headband. He startles when music suddenly begins playing through them, right into his ears, drowning everything else out. Peter lifts one side off his head to tell him—

"Volume, this slider here," showing him the rolling little dial that turns the music up and down.

Peter watches as Jonah experiences music in that format, for the first time. He'd looked almost panicked, before turning it down. Now, he looks like he's in awe, mouth parted, head bobbing along to the beat of the track he's listening to. It's the same innocent, enraptured expression Matty had on his face, the first time Peter plugged headphones into the family's stereo and let him listen.

After a while, Jonah pauses the CD on his own, removes the headphones. Peter feels weirdly proud that the kid remembered which one would 'pause' it, a concept Peter's not even sure the medium knows.

"Which band is this one?"

"This one's R.E.M, the album's name is Out of Time," Peter replies, showing the kid the cover art on the CD case. The kid chuckles, though Peter doesn't know why.

"And who are the rest of them?"

Peter shows him each CD in turn, nodding along. Peter shows him how to take the little booklet out of the front, how it lists tracks in the album, along with their lyrics.

"Peter, this is really, really special. Thank you for taking the time to show me," Jonah states, opening the CD player, popping the disc out and replacing it in its case, before snapping the player shut, handing it back to Peter, along with the headphones.

"Oh, kid, you can keep it. This was Matt's when he was like fifteen, he hasn't used it since his early twenties, I think. It's obsolete tech, now. In fact, Matt's favorite band, the HEALTH one, he doesn't have the CD for. Matt won't realize it's gone. You can take it with you, if you want, along with any and all of the CDs you want."

"Shit, really?" Jonah asks, incredulous at the momentous gift. A completely portable device that will let him pick what music he wants to hear? What a God-damned marvel. He shakes Peter's hand, thanking him profusely.

"I'm just glad you like it, and that someone's using it…I have a question though, kid. I'm glad you're interested in music, but…what other interests do you have? Interests of your own?"

Jonah's expression of elation slips, and he looks away, as if thinking, the CD player still tightly clasped in his hands.

"Well, um…I really like art. To draw, and paint, I mean. I also really enjoy gardening, and cooking, if those count."

"They absolutely do count, kid. What kind of subjects do you draw?"

"Uh…mostly people, and things, I guess. Nature…" Jonah mumbles back.

"Do you have anything I could take a look at?"

Jonah looks away again, expression shuttering as he reaches for his bag, pulling out his sketchbook. It's almost full, now, he's drawn so much. He flips through it quickly. Holding it up in a way ensuring Peter can't see inside. Peter is startled then, as Jonah rips out a page, and then another, flipping through it some more, ripping a page out here and there, laying them face down on the bed. When satisfied, he passes the sketchbook to Peter and gathers up the discarded drawings, shuffling them carefully before holding them to his chest.

"Oh, kid. You could've said no, I don't have to see them. You can deny me, you know, you won't get in trouble, I'm not your dad."

Jonah blushes red, clutching his personal drawings closer, looking cowed.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't—well, I mean—I don't know. Anyway, you can look through the book if you want, I just need it back in the morning. Thank you again, so much, for the player…I'm honestly really excited to add music to my hobbies."

"Hm. Well. Thank you, for trusting me with this," Peter waves the sketchbook at him, "and I hope you sleep well. If you need anything in the night, mine and Sarah's room is just down the hall, the one with the cross on the door."

Peter leaves, shutting the door behind him, and Jonah takes an immensely deep breath, letting it out as slowly as he can, willing his heart to settle. He looks down at the sketches in his hands, the ones he could never let Peter see, and smiles. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. The teen blushes, tracing the first one with his index finger, before turning them face down again, blushing brighter. It feels wrong to look at these now, in Matt's old bed, in his old room.

The room, though, reeks of Matthew's personality, vibrant with youth and undamped by the facade of adulthood. The walls are literally covered with a cacophony of band posters and artwork. All surrealist and impressionist art, the likes of M.C. Escher and Ansel Adams. More little knick knacks, including several skulls and stick-like, humanoid figures. A big, screened object sits on a desk, along with a lamp, and a picture of Matthew in his late teens, just after the haunting, his scars still relatively fresh, but looking a lot happier and healthier. Above the desk is a corkboard, covered with papers and stickers, cutouts from magazines and newspapers, pictures tacked up. Jonah approaches it, curious to look at them.

His blood runs cold as he sees them. They're the photographs, the ones Father took, of Jonah choking around a floating mass of ectoplasm. The news article, from the Goatswood Gazette, has been printed and tacked up, the photograph of it blown-up big. Jonah's initial horror melts into an ironic smirk then, as he notices the devil horns Matthew penciled in on Father's head. It seems the corkboard is more of a shrine, decorated with anything and everything Matthew could salvage about Jonah, and about Hell House, such as articles about the house fire, its destruction, and its subsequent restoration. The name Aickman, printed over and over in newsprint. Matthew had taken the time to highlight every instance of Jonah's first name.

After some consideration, Jonah slowly and carefully takes the corkboard off the wall, turning it around and leaning it against the wall. He changes into his pajamas, Matt's sweatpants and a t-shirt. He turns the lamp by the bed on, turns the main light off. He retrieves the R.E.M CD from its case, loading it up again, putting the headphones on, pressing play.

Jonah pulls out the little booklet, flipping through it, realizing that Matthew has drawn little stars next to his favorite tracks. Jonah carefully skips to the first favorite track, the second one on the album. He pauses it before turning back the bedding, snuggling down in it, turning out the lights. There's Matthew's smell again, that same comforting smell Jonah had begun to revere. He soaks in it as he drifts away, listening intently to one of Matthew's favorite songs, by his favorite band.

Oh, life is bigger. It's bigger than you, and you are not me. The lengths that I will go to, the distance in your eyes. Oh no, I've said too much. I set it up.

Jonah finally cries then, after such a long, hard day of firsts, of first meetings, of having people recognize him, actually know who he is, what he is, for the first time in eighty years. A disappointment, damaged goods. A freak, since his birth. An abnormality. Something to talk about in hushed whispers, to get mad about. At least they're being accepting, or at least pretending to accept him, Matt's family. Jonah muffles his tears in Matthew's old pillow, doing his best to stay quiet, doing his best to focus on the words.

That's me in the corner, that's me in the spotlight, losing my religion, trying to keep up with you. And I don't know if I can do no, I've said too much…I haven't said enough.

And Jonah mourns, and mourns, and mourns. He mourns his lost childhood, and his life, cut short. He mourns Matthew's lost childhood, too, and his subsequent obsession with the dead and demonic. He mourns the situation they're in now, separated, but damned to be connected forever, doomed to be each other's every first thought.

Downstairs, Peter and Sarah Campbell study the drawings in Jonah's sketchbook.

"He's really good, isn't he?" Peter states, studying a beautifully rendered and watercolor rendition Matthew's truck, his old truck.

"He is…I wonder if he got any schooling in art?"

"I doubt it, if Aickman pulled him out of regular school at ten. I doubt he'd be the type to nurture his kid's passions. He seems like the type to hit him, instead, berating him for 'wasting time drawing', instead of working."

Sarah sighs, her face resting in her hand, elbow to table ashe she flips through the book. So many, all beautiful. Birds, flowers, sunrises, sunsets. And so many of Matthew, the only human subject Jonah's had access to, in this lifetime. She traces the drawn lines of her son's face, marveling at the detail, right down to every hair in his mustache, every scar on his face. This one is colored too, the shade of his eyes, painstaking perfection.

"We won't know unless we ask him."

"I don't know Sarah, how do we ask the kid if his dad beat him? He probably thinks it's normal—hell, it kind of was, back then."

"I don't know, Pete. Did you see the scars, on his wrist? They wrap all the way around. They look more like restraint wounds, rather than self harm ones."

"Fuck…I didn't notice, no….fucking hell."

They find the camp sketch, then. Matt on the bank, supported by his friend Kyle, the capsized canoe in the distance.

"Jesus, it's like a photograph. How's it so accurate?"

"I don't know…you don't think he's telepathic, do you? Jonah?" Sarah asks, her voice laced with traces of fear and disbelief.

"Who knows. Maybe we should ask him that, too. 'Hey, kid, can you read thoughts? Are you and Matt telepathically connected?'" Peter scoffs.

"Gosh, I wonder if they are…"

"Well, honestly, it seems like the kid is just as obsessed with Matt as Matt is with him."

Sarah studies another sketch of Matt, one of his profile. He's smiling in this one, an expression of content joy, sweat glistening on his brow, dirt smeared on his face, white Latin stark against tan watercolor, Jonah having carefully etched them just-so in white colored pencil.

"Peter, do you think he loves him? Do you think they love each other?"

"It sure looks like it. And I saw them together, once, too. The way they looked at each other, Sarah…I remember looking at you the same way, when I was around Jo's age."

Sarah slaps his arm playfully, but smiles, studying the highlights in her son's eyes, the glow of life and something else.

"I really hope they are. I really hope it works out, Peter. I can't imagine how horribly things will turn out, if they don't."

As Sarah closes the sketchbook, an errant piece of paper falls free, having been tucked into the back of the book. It's a nonsensical mess of colors in which stilted, looming figures hide. The figure in the center of the page, colored orange and violet, crouches low, covering his ears. It's nothing like the other sketches in the book, a smudgy, emotional depiction of anguish and fear. Of being haunted. Stricken, Sarah quickly tucks it back into the book, before Peter can see the obviously-private artwork.

Later, Sarah is one her way to the bathroom before turning in, passing Matty's old room, when she hears it. The faint sound of someone crying, the hitching rhythm of them indicative of sobbing, of muffled cries and wails. She's familiar with that sound, the same desperate, ashamed tears she shed during Matt's treatment. An ear to the door, she listens to the teenager cry.

"Hey!" A loud whisper, Peter, admonishing her, motioning with his hands to move along. "Give the kid some space…I doubt he'd be comfortable enough to tell us what's wrong, anyway."

And so she moves on, physically. Mentally, though, emotionally, she can't. Laying in bed that night, she turns thoughts of the reincarnation over and over in her mind, considering him intently. His smile, his laugh. His manners, his accent. The carefully blank, closed off expression he wears, polite and distant, careful never to look at someone too long, or meet their eyes, his gaze focused somewhere on their forehead. His resting expression, when no one is looking—tired and melancholic, deep in thought, his striking eyes turbulent and fixed on some far-off point in space.

The child is haunted, and not supernaturally. Sarah Campbell wants to help him, regardless of his connection to her son. And so she prays.

Dear Lord, thank you for bringing Jonah to us, into our lives, please guide my hand, instruct me on how to handle him, how to make him feel comfortable, enough so that he can truly be himself. He's part of my family now, one of my kids, and I swear not to abandon him, regardless of Your plan. Help he and Matty to figure things out, to have a happy life and make the best of things, dear Lord—