Sarah feels settled, the next morning. At peace, determined to love the teen despite any resistance he may put up. She'll be gentle, of course, and take her time, but she's absolutely determined not to let that closed-off, shuttered expression take over his handsome face again. The conviction she possess is all the energy she needs to provide for this family. She whips up a whole mess of food for breakfast. Eggs, bacon and sausage, biscuits and gravy, pancakes, some muffins, you name it, she's probably got it. She's arranging fruit in a bowl, little sections of oranges and apples, as Wendy comes down the stairs, still in her pajamas.

"Morning," she greets, gratefully accepting the hot cup of coffee Sarah presses into her hands.

"Good morning," Sarah and Peter reply, her husband already seated at the table with his coffee, newspaper in hand, in his favorite Goofy sleep pants.

"Well, should I wake the rest of the crew up?" Sarah asks, untying her apron.

"Jonah, sure, but let the kids sleep till they wake on their own," Wendy implores, "they've had a long last few days."

Sarah agrees before leaving to wake Jonah, doing her best to be quiet on the stairs, so she doesn't wake the little ones. She knocks quietly on the door to Matt's room, wrapping with two knuckles, waiting for any sounds or signs of life. She waits a few moments before easing the door open, calling out Jonah's name, hopeful not to scare him.

"Jonah, honey? Breakfast is ready…"

The teen is still dead to the world, snuggled up Matt's bed, his face slack and sweet in sleep. A child's long, thick lashes on snowy cheeks. The dark bags still linger underneath his eyes, though, and Sarah frowns, sure that the kid hasn't slept long enough yet. He has headphones on his head, his hand still resting on top of Matt's CD player.

"Jonah?" She calls again, louder this time, but the teen doesn't stir.

Leaning over the sleeping medium, Sarah places a gentle hand on his back, rubbing slow circles. It's the same way she'd wake Matty up, when he was little. The last thing she wanted was for the kid to wake up scared.

Sure enough, Jonah's eyes open slowly, the prettiest slivers of clear blue sea. He struggles to sit up, groggy, and Sarah helps him wiggle the headphones off his head, tangled in his shaggy black hair. Music plays faintly from the headset, and Jonah fiddles with it before managing to turn off the player.

"Sarah?" he asks, sounding vaguely confused, his voice thick with sleep.

"Good morning, honey," she responds, delighted at the absence of ma'am or Mrs, "breakfast is ready."

"Mhm, okay." Jonah clears his throat, flushing pink and looking away, "thank you, ma'am, I'll be down momentarily."

Well, Sarah thinks to herself with a sigh, old habits die hard.

Jonah comes downstairs, fully dressed in slacks, suspenders, and a button up, the sleeves rolled up.

"Damn kid, off to a business meeting?" Peter quips, and Sarah takes this opportunity to take his newspaper from him, roll it up, and smack him with it, Wendy laughing into her coffee.

"Jonah, sweetie, don't mind him. You look very nice, very dapper. You wear whatever makes you comfortable, okay?"

Jonah blushes again, eyes once again fixed to the floor, those pretty eyes of his shuttering so quick. Sarah will be, well, danged if she lets that last long.

"I apologize, I haven't any other clothes," he mutters, "all of them are rather…old-fashioned…"

"Well, I do think they suit you," Sarah reassures, walking up to Jonah with a smile, willing his eyes to meet hers, "though, if you would be interested, I have a few of Matt's old things that might fit you."

"Really?" And his gaze finally does raise, his expression hopeful, "I would be interested, if..if that's alright. Though, you've all already given me so much—"

"Nonsense!" Peter chimes in. "Besides, you might roast to death again in this heat, in all that wool."

This makes him laugh, a genuine ringing of rapid fire, bell-tone laughter.

Sarah frets over him, ushering him into a seat before providing him with an absolutely loaded plateful of breakfast, along with a cup of coffee.

"Goodness, Aunt Sarah, thank you," he says, beaming as he butters a pancake, "this is a lovely spread."

"Well, eat up boy," Peter orders, saving his wife the trouble of 'you're welcomes' and 'of courses', "you look like you could use some meat on those bones."

"On it, sir," the boy laughs. It's honestly a little outstanding, how quickly and thoroughly the teen is able to decimate the plate of food, putting it all down in a matter of minutes, stopping here and there to chat with Peter.

"Kid, here's your sketchbook back. You're really very good, Sarah and I thoroughly enjoyed looking through it."

"Ah, thank you—"

Sarah turns away, thinking again to that messy, vibrant, abstract sketch, her heart in her throat. She wishes she could ask him about it, ask him what it's actually like to be a medium, constantly barraged by voices that aren't his own. But she can't, it's not her business…she feels as if she's wronged him somehow, having seen it in the first place.

After breakfast, she extends her offer of clothing again, and has Jonah follow her back up to Matty's old room. She sifts through the closet, pulling things out here and there and tossing them to the bed—made, she observes, by Jonah, before he came down for breakfast.

"Let's see here," she mutters, looking from him to the clothes she's gathered. He really is quite a small boy, a maximum of five feet, five inches tall, and maybe 115 pounds, soaking wet. Not like her Matty, tall and strong like a tree, when healthy.

"Try these," she says, handing him the smallest pair of jeans she can find, from around the time Matty was sick. She looks away as Jonah slips his suspenders from his shoulders. She looks back when Jonah says he's finished. He's awkwardly holding them up by the belt loops, the black jeans sagging from his hips, his feet entirely covered by extra fabric.

"Goodness, you're practically swimming in them. Hmm… they're the smallest I have in the house, unfortunately. Let's see if we can make this work, hm?"

She kneels in front of him, working the hems up into wide cuffs. Jonah stumbles, holding onto the wall and standing like a flamingo as the mother does him up, holding up the pants in one desperate hand. As Sarah finishes the other side, she catches sight of one of his wrists again, looking quite marred. She was right…they look quite obviously like they were caused by the rub of leather, over time.

"How did you get these, sweetheart? Could you tell me?" She asks, brushing the scarring gently with her fingers. Jonah flinches in shock, stepping away from her, his mask slamming into place.

"Nevermind," she supplies quickly, "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's just, I—I'm s-sorry. I d-don't really want to talk about it—"

"And you don't have to, honey, it's fine. Jonah, I need you to remember that you don't owe anyone a thing. You can say no, you know."

"I know," he whispers, "thank you."

"Of course. No, let go of those jeans, let me see just how baggy they are, if they're gonna fall off or not."

Jonah does as she asks, blushing as they fall to settle around his hips, instead of his waist, like he prefers.

"Alright, shimmy for me…alright, I think you'll be fine, at least until you and Wendy can stop and maybe look into getting modern clothes that fit you. I'm afraid I don't have any shirts that are suitable…Matt has them all, except some winter wear. But, with that in mind, I wanted to offer you this. Might be useful, in the future."

It's a Holly Hill University sweatshirt, faded red and black.

"Matty wore it a lot, when he was a student, but now that he's a professor, well…it's just sitting here, collecting dust."

Jonah lifts it to his nose, taking a discreet sniff. It smells like Matthew, still, God bless.

"It's perfect, Aunt Sarah, thank you so much for these."

Jonah changes shirts back to the band shirt from yesterday, since they go with the jeans. He leaves it untucked, to cover how low the jeans ride, but he swims in it. He looks in the mirror on Matt's closet door and frowns.

"Hmm, they're both awful big, huh?" Sarah echos his thoughts, looking him up and down.

"I feel like a clown," he admits, "like a walking circus tent."

Sarah sighs.

"Alright, honey, show me the clothes you brought."

Sifting through his things, she admires each piece.

"These are really nice, Jonah, they are beautiful recreations."

"Thank you. Matthew does have great taste…I don't think he spared any expense."

"He does have great taste," Sarah quips, staring at Jonah pointedly, raising an eyebrow, causing the kid to blush.

"I don't want to look pathetic when he sees me again," he blurts out suddenly, "I want to look like myself, but better."

"Hmm, well…in that case…keep your clothes, then. Keep the outfit you put on this morning, wear the clothes he so painstakingly got for you. But, if you'd like to make an improvement…"

She steps forwards brushing the long black hair back from Jonah's face, considering his profile.

"We could give you a haircut."

Jonah's hand flies up to run through his hair, lifting it up only for it to fall back into his eyes. His hair has grown, since his rebirth, almost to his chin on all sides now, his bangs frequently falling into his eyes. It was already longer than his liking, at the time of his death.

"Could we do that?"

"We can," Sarah states, "and we will! I used to be a hairdresser, back in the day."

Jonah redresses into his normal clothes before following her back downstairs and to the kitchen. Peter has disappeared off somewhere, though Wendy still sits, picking through her breakfast and reading her adopted dad's discarded paper.

"Oh no, no luck with clothes?"

"No, but, Jonah's given me the honor of giving him a haircut."

"Oh shiiiiiiit, a haircut? It's makeover time, Princess Diaries style!"

"Literally nothing you just said made sense to me," Jonah points out, grinning at Wendy's answering guffaw.

Sarah pulls a chair into the middle of the floor, while Wendy runs off to fetch a towel. Sarah produces a kit from the hallway closet. She lines up her tools on the kitchen table— a spray bottle of water and a comb, a pair of shears, and an electric razor. At her insistence, Jonah shucks his dress shirt, so it can't get potentially furred up, clad in his undershirt. She sits him down and wraps a towel around his shoulders.

"Alright, Mr. Jonah Aickman. What would you like me to do with this beautiful head of hair, hmm?"

"I, uh, I don't know. I've never really had it done, before. Father would just put a bowl on me and cut it, when it got too long…why is that so damn funny, Wendy?"

"Sorry, sorry, fuck, oh my God—"

"Wendy, language."

"Sorry, Aunt Sarah."

"So I guess, um, just…do whatever you think looks best?"

"Whatever I think looks best, huh?" Sarah mutters back, turning the medium's head this way and that, studying his facial structure, his hairline.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Full artistic license, then. I really hope you end up liking it, Jonah."

"What does it matter, Aunt Sarah? We could put a paper bag over his head and Matt would still love him—"

Sarah smiles at the way the kid blushes up to his ears, as she wets his head and starts snipping away. A comfortable silence descends then, the only sound the soft snip, snip, as little cuttings of jet-black hair litter the floor. Sarah has a look of intense concentration on her face, pausing frequently to study Jonah's bone structure again. Jonah finds he likes this closeness with her. She's a beautiful woman, especially for her age, her strong features and full cheeks reminiscent of Matt. Her blonde hair is streaked with white now, even more luminescent than before. Paired with her aura, a bright sky blue, ringed with white, she practically glows.

"You're really beautiful," he mumbles to her, careful to look somewhere over her left shoulder, as she beams at him.

"Oh my, thank you, sweetheart. You're beautiful too, you know." she informs him, tilting his chin in a way that forces him to look straight ahead, into her warm eyes.

"You've got such a pretty face, Jonah." She continues. "These cheekbones, my goodness. I'm gonna cut your hair short, kiddo, if that's alright. I want everyone to see them."

"S'fine, thank you," he mumbles, as more and more of his hair is snipped away.

She rids him of his bangs, so long they go to the bottom of his nose, in almost one fell swoop. Jesus, she surely wasn't kidding. She hacks and hacks away, until eventually reaching for her clippers, beginning to shave the side of his head, all the way up to his temples. She certainly wasn't kidding!

Sarah freezes then, heart skipping a beat, the scar on Jonah's temple finally on display. It's surely noticeable, a raised, white circle of scarring the size and shape of a quarter. Taking a deep breath and willing herself to remain calm, not wanting to alert the teen, she walks behind Jonah to check the other side. Sure enough, it has a twin. Wendy sees the shift in Sarah's expression, subtly catching her aunt's eye, a questioning look on her face. Sarah just shakes her head at her, dismissive.

It's not our business.

Sarah finishes shaving him up nice and clean, doing her best to give him a smooth fade. Ironically, the haircut she decided upon—a French high top—was popular in the nineteen twenties. It suits Jonah handsomely. The shaved sides accentuate his jawline and cheekbones, while the long, straight hair on top, trimmed to a subtle point on his forehead, longer in the front than the back, directs the gaze to Jonah's eyes. His best feature for sure, Sarah admires, smiling at him.

"All done!" She informs him, carefully removing the towel from him and dumping it in the sink, to be attended to later. She uses a foundation brush to brush any stray hairs from his neck and chest.

Jonah stretches, sore from sitting so long, and catches sight of Wendy, a feeling of nervousness washing over him.

"What? Why are you staring at me like that, Wendy?"

The woman startles, finally shutting her slack jaw, clearing her throat, her dark eyebrows raised practically to her hairline.

"Jonah, you look stupid handsome with your hair like that."

"Oh."

Jonah turns this way and that before heading off down the hallway, in search of a mirror, Wendy following closely behind.

"Like, really fucking fine, boy—"

"Wendy!" Sarah admonishes, coming up to follow in the rear, worried with the thought that Jonah may not like it.

Jonah suddenly stops short, finally having found a mirror.

"Well, how do you feel about it? Do you like it?" Sarah asks, a hand on his shoulder, she hovers at his side, Wendy hovering behind her, peering over her aunt's head.

Jonah is speechless, his eyes wide as saucers. He rubs the pads of his fingers along the clean-shaven sides of his head, thumbing the fade as he turns his head this way and that.

"I look like a different person," he mumbles, his voice quiet in awe.

"Nah, we can just see your beautiful face, now! You're not hidden behind those silly bangs, or the long sides," Wendy chirps in support.

He blushes, a bright smile blooming across his face as he admires himself in the mirror. The smile falls just a bit, though, as his fingers roam higher on each side, finding each scar. He drops his hands, his expression worried now, studying them in the mirror.

"Are they…how noticeable are they, Aunt Sarah?" He asks quietly, and Sarah's heart sinks.

"Not very, and besides honey, you shouldn't have to hide from anyone. They're just as unique as the rest of you."

Jonah snorts, a laugh escaping him, his grin coming back to his face. He studies the women in the mirror behind him. Sarah looks soft and pleased, reassuring, while Wendy looks a little startled, her wide gaze meeting his in the reflection.

"I'm crazy, you know," he turns to face them, tapping each scar once with his pointer fingers, "I got these in a mental asylum, along with these." he adds, motioning to his wrists. "They are noticeable, Sarah, but that's okay…as you said, they certainly are unique."

"But I think they look cool, Jonah," Wendy supplies. "I know guys who wish they had cool scars to make them look tough. And besides, who fucking cares anyway."

"Well, true…maybe people won't notice them. They'll be too busy avoiding these, anyway." He points to his own eyes, rolling them dramatically.

Sarah swats him on the shoulder, frowning.

"Your eyes are beautiful, Jonah, you shouldn't have been hiding them. You've got a stare you can see across a room. They're just as striking as the rest of you, and you should be proud of them—"

"Shit, kiddo!" Peter's loud exclamation interrupts her, as he comes down the hallway, grinning from ear to ear! "Looking sharp!"

"I'd say you look a right sheik," he continues, waggling his eyebrows, startling a laugh out of Jonah.

"Oh dry up, old man, you're feeding me lines," Jonah snipes back, resulting in a gale of laughter from Peter and Wendy.

"No really, kid, you look really handsome in that cut. Like Rudolph Valentino himself, with that hair, and those eyeballs—"

"You're absolutely full of it," Jonah replies lamely, blushing all the way up to his new hairline.

"Matthew's gonna fall all over himself," Wendy chimes in with a smile, "he's gonna lose his God-damned mind."

"Wendy!"

"You should stay in that undershirt, and those suspenders, Jonah. You might just cause a car accident, looking that distractingly sexy—"

Jonah and Sarah both let loose exclamations of horror, almost entirely lost in the sound of Peter's raucous guffaws.

"Momma? A small voice asks from the stairs, Milo sleepily descending, squinting moodily at them all.

"Shit, we woke the kids—morning, baby—we should get going soon, anyway—"

"You're leaving, soon?" Milo yawns out sadly, pouting as she totters up to them.

"Yes baby, I'm sorry. We're getting a later start than we meant to, already."

Sarah scoops her grandbaby up, carrying her to the kitchen, as Jonah, Wendy, and Peter start packing things up and taking them out to the car. Jonah's careful to pack his CD player, headphones, CDs, his sketchbook, and pencils in his duffle, wrapping them all in Matt's Holly Hill University sweatshirt. Sarah's packed two coolers full of snacks for them, including sodas, oranges and apples, candy, and sandwich-making supplies.

Jonah says his goodbyes as before he leaves. Sarah, her eyes bright with tears, clutches him close, bestowing upon him the strongest hug of his life. He rubs her back comfortingly, his face buried in her sweet-smelling hair.

"We love you, Jonah, I hope to God you remember that—"

"I love you too, Sarah," he replies, his voice rough with barely-contained tears, "thank you again, so much, for everything."

Next is Milo, who openly cries as Jonah gathers her up in his arms, smoothing her pretty head of brown baby curls.

"Don't wan Joan to go!" She wails, kicking her little, and Jonah does his best to shush her, pressing a kiss to her pointy little nose.

"I'll see you soon, little stinker bug, I promise, alright?"

"Nooooo!"

"It's only for a little while, and then your mommy and me'll be back to take you home, okay?"

She sniffles miserably.

"Just don't forget me!"

"How could I forget you, silly baby bug? You're my best girl, I'll have you know."

She giggles, her face brightening. He sits her down with some effort, the toddler nothing but wiggles. He makes her promise to say goodbye to Otto for him.

Last is Peter, who walks them out to the car. He takes Wendy in his arms, kissing her cheek before making her promise to call him and Sarah every time they stop in somewhere for the night, which Wendy agrees to.

"You're always welcome here, kid," Peter says, turning to Jonah, "and if you ever need anything, just call, alright? And when you get to the university, if you get to speak to Matt…please, just give us a call? Let us know how he's doing?"

"I will, I promise. Thank you again, so much, for your hospitality, and for the, uh…CD player?"

Peter laughs, nodding as he shakes Jonah's hand.

"It deserves some love, Joe, and it seems you have that in spades."

With no one left to say goodbye to, and nothing more left to say, Wendy and Jonah get settled into the cousin's white Ford Bronco, buckled up and secure.

"Hey, put in one of the CDs Peter gave you—I don't care which, but this way the radio won't go in and out."

After some fiddling around, and a brief, one-handed demonstration from the already-driving Wendy, Jonah slides a CD home, fascinated as the thin slot seems to suck the holographic disc in.

"Ah, Muse," Wendy sighs as the first track begins to play, nostalgia lacing her tone, "Matt was always such as fucking emo."

"What?" Jonah asks, as he reads the lyrics to the first track in the little booklet the CD came with. He can see why Matthew would like this band—the lyrics are good—melancholic and brooding, quite poetic, with the lead singer's voice a tremulous, brooding tone, almost operatic.

"It's a term for people who like emotional rock music," Wendy sighs again, though her head is bobbing along to the track, obviously familiar with it," I'm almost certain Matt was the poster child, back in his teens and early twenties."

Jonah simply nods in response, unsure of what to say. It certainly does sound emotional, almost moving—the certainly do make Jonah feel sad, and as he listens along, his sadness turns into a sense of foreboding, a sense of extreme nervousness. What if their time is running out? What if, by the time he and Wendy get to the university, it will be too late? What if, somehow, by then, Matthew doesn't love Jonah anymore, or simply doesn't want to see him? What if he's not even there, and has disappeared off somewhere to wallow in his own loneliness and misery?

Listening to the chorus, Jonah sighs long and deep, tamping down tears, his gaze far away as his subconscious swims in memories of Matthew. Matthew, high and laughing in the creek, his long hair wet and tangled as he teaches Jonah to swim. Matthew, the first time Jonah saw him in this life, looking crazed with joy and worry, sitting on the bathroom floor as Jonah rises from a tub of ice water. Matthew, the first time Jonah ever saw him, looking thin and drawn with his short, dirty-blond curls, smiling thinly to the hovering Sarah Campbell as they cross the threshold to Hell House for the first time.

Jonah wonders, not for the first time, if there has ever been a soul as deeply troubled as Matthew Campbell's.