After the rather just linking second part, here starts the real core of this short story. Thank you guys for reading & reviewing, and being open to this "very far out premise" (woodelf :) ) that after long hesitation, I risked to publish. WQ

The next time he became aware of his surroundings was when an orange shaded ray of sun found its way through the foliage of the sycamore trees lining the street, and made him squint. In his chest he felt the contentedness of the progress he'd made, and decided to allow himself a little break. He gathered his notes, shoved them into the textbook as bookmark, and stretched his legs with a satisfied grunt. He looked up and jumped a little in his seat at the greenish orbs staring right into his eyes from the far corner of the room. Honestly, he actually forgot about her.

He gave her a glare.

"You're creepy."

"That's a rude thing to say to somebody!" – protested the little girl.

"You still are." – He pushed himself up from the armchair, cracking his knees in the process. He let his gaze waver on the child. It's only now that he felt his stomach rumble, and a flash of guilt ran through him as he thought of how hungry she could be. But he shrugged it off and put his superior posture back right away.

"So… I'm grabbing a bite. You can come if you want." – He hesitated. – "What do you usually have for dinner?"

The girl's eyes shone up, and the flood of words she'd had to keep inside for so long now rushed out at one breath.

"Well when I'm really, really good, I pack my toys and paintings and crayons, and I don't bring Mirka up to my room to play with, Mommy makes me peanut butter sandwiches, but only one slice of bread buttered, the other just on top, and she cuts the crust off, and when she puts it on the Rooster and Hen plate, she…"

"Right!" – he raised his voice to cut the never-ending babbling. – "…Who's Mirka?"

Allie looked back at him in amusement – it was just comic how this awfully smart boy didn't even know who Mirka was; but she did. She suddenly felt him a breath lower from the heights of maturity and knowledge, closer to her.

"Mirka the cat. You should know."

Greg's jaw went slack. When had this kid become so cocky?

"…Head to the kitchen." – he directed her – "We'll see what we can do."

He took a peak at the girl behind his back as he rummaged through the contents of the cabinets and the fridge. After a short struggling, she managed to climb up into the stool at the counter island, and was now silently observing his every movement, swinging her legs.

"I got jam. You'll have that." – he announced.

"Ooo-kee!" – she agreed, and watched as he spread strawberry marmalade on a slice of whole grain bread, folded it in two, cut it in half and pushed it in front of her on a small plate. She immediately grabbed it and started eating.

After some lingering, he settled for leaning against the opposite counter, nibbling on a sandwich himself. The idea of sitting down and eating with her seemed just weird.

"So…" – He didn't know why he had the urge of small talk, what he normally disliked, even with an equal. – "I hope that just because I wasn't breathing down your neck the whole time, you didn't eat any of your crayons or something."

The little girl gave him a reproachful look over the rim of her bread.

"Of course not, I'm not a baby." – She paused. – "How do you do that, breathe down somebody's neck?..."

"It's a figure of speech. Never mind."

The child wrinkled her forehead for a second, but something visibly shifted in her mind – her face lit up, and she hopped down the high stool at once.

"I drew you something!"

"Not until you finished!" – he exclaimed involuntarily. The little girl froze, and this time, he could clearly feel guilt wash all over him. He was shocked and disgusted. He had heard this spiteful sentence way too much, turning the small joy of food into a rigid obligation for him at each family meal. It was one of the hundred things he'd sworn himself he'd never ever say to his own child. And here he was, not even a parent yet, and he already failed, at the very first occasion. He heard his father in the barked order, and he felt him inside his brain, his cells, himself – he felt possessed, guilty, dirty – he wanted nothing more than to exorcise this man's trace from his life forever.

He felt lightheaded and numb, but he saw the alarmed child in front of him. He swallowed.

"Go get it" – he muttered. – "if you're up anyway."

"It can wait until I'm done." – murmured the girl, and slowly climbed back on the chair. But somehow the half-consumed sandwich didn't look so appealing anymore. She poked it with a finger.

"Why aren't you eating?" – called out her overseer, irritated.

"The crust…"

"I'm not cutting the damn crust off, I'm not your mother, understood?" – snapped Greg, the pain and frustration kicking in at full force. – "You've eaten three quarters of it without a word, so don't you go picky on me now! Shut it and eat!"

But Allie didn't feel up to take any more bite. Her throat felt tight and tears were prickling at the back of her eyes. And the bread didn't taste good anymore. It wasn't the crust, of course not – she even kinda liked probing her pearly teeth on it – it was the lack of feeling being cared for. That he indeed wasn't her Mom. Oh how much she missed her now.

She sat with her chin pressed against her collarbone until a long shadow hovered over her, and Greg took the plate from before her.

"You finished here, right?"

She remained silent.

"I have to get back to studying. …You can hear me out if you want."

Her head snapped up and there was a delightful smile on her face.

"Really?"

"Really. Just don't do the pouting." – He ushered her out the kitchen, dropping their plates into the sink on the way.

"And what's this?"

"A shunt. It's driven all the way up to… here, under the skin; there, see?, to drain the pus from the wound."

"Ew. Why do you have to learn so many icky things?"

"Because the human body is icky, basically." – He thought for a second. – "It's like… have you ever seen your father tinker on his car?"

Allie shook her head.

"My Daddy's in the sky with the angels and with Mr. Doozy, and we don't have a car. He was my hamster."

"Who?"

"Mr. Doozy. He was my hamster, but Mirka ate him, and now Mommy says he's in Heaven with my Dad. But I don't know how he can be in Heaven when he's in Mirka's tummy. Did he disappear from Mirka, the moment he went to Heaven? Did Mirka feel it? She must've become hungry again, if so."

Greg stared at her, dumbfounded. She looked back at him with open, innocent eyes. He blinked a few times.

"So… you must've seen a neighbor then, fixing their car. They'll get all dirty, hands covered in gasoline, but when they're done, the car runs smoothly, and is nice to look at. And it is the same with…"

He stopped because he realized that the little girl wasn't paying attention anymore. He couldn't blame her: he himself couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken this much at once. There was something in this child, in her honest interest, curiosity, innate intelligence and empathy that gave him the need to open towards her. He scooted an inch further from her on the sofa.

"..You're right." – he murmured. – "It's just icky."

He turned his attention back to the book. A couple of seconds later, one of his notepapers blocked his sight of the current page. But instead of medical illustrations and definitions in his own scrawl, he saw a cavalcade of red, gold, brown and orange on it. He was surprised himself, but it was pleasing to look at. He picked it up.

"Wow. Did you draw this?"

Allie nodded eagerly.

"Yes! To you!"

"O-okay… And what the heck is this?"

The girl giggled, and turned the paper upside down in his hand.

"Yeah right." – He still had no clue of what he was supposed to see. – "Don't you kiddos normally draw stickmen and stuff like that?"

Allie shook her head.

"But look at it! It's that tree!" – She pointed out the window. – "It's a Japanese autumn maple tree, or by other name, an Acer!" – she recited, the way she'd been taught by her mom.

"Wow." – he said again. This kid sure as hell had the brains.

"I love that tree! Because its leaves are red, like all the other trees' in the autumn time; but they are always red, even if it's not autumn, did you know that? It's as if there was always autumn time! I wish there was, because I love autumn, it's so beautiful! I love, I lo-ove autumn!" – she sing-songed, hopped off the couch, and started a crazy spinning in front of the window, arms and pigtails floating around her.

He watched her, the last rays of light highlighting her gleaming eyes and laughing teeth, embracing her lithe form in a fiery glow, and he felt an unexplainable rage and bitterness grow and quickly emerge in him. He tore his eyes off her, and turned it back on the book in front of him.

"What!" – he spat in a low voice, tasting the bitterness it in his mouth. – "You love it, don't you? Wonder why… Perhaps because you're an ignorant toddler. You think you live in some… rainbows and lollypops pony world, and see everything through your cute pink glasses. Care to hear something funny?" – He roughly tossed the drawing aside. – "Those leaves turn red and yellow because they're dying. The chlorophyll decomposes in them; the tree stops its most basic vital functions, and those useless organs dry and fall off it, to end up as plain, dark dirt, just like your…"

He got to his senses and bit his tongue. He won't tell a four-year-old that her father is decaying in the damp ground instead of watching her from above. Or her hamster. No, even he can't go that low. His eyes flickered up. He hoped that she hadn't listened to him, again, and was still doing that silly baby dance of hers or something; but she stood still, staring at him. Great, now comes the whining for sure.

But there weren't any tears to see; her eyes merely darkened to a deep storm-color (or it's just the sun set entirely, leaving the street, the garden and the living room in a staggering semidarkness), and her tiny hands balled into fists. Then…

"Liar!" – she screamed at him. – "Don't you lie!" – She took a quick but deep breath, and it tore up as if from the bottom of her soul:

"I hate you!"

She threw herself into the furthest of the large armchairs, and curled up in a ball, facing away from him. Suddenly the room went all quite; only her ragged breathing could be heard sometimes. And for him, his own blood drumming in his ears and painting his cheeks to the crimson of shame.

He huffed, and without a word, gathered his book and notes, walked to the armchair he'd spent most of the afternoon in, and slumped down. He reached down to turn the floor lamp on, looked up where he'd left off, arranged the notes around him, and buried himself into the craved distraction.