A/N: You know, it feels like a lot longer than a week since the last time I updated this fic. I guess because I'm working on my other chaptered fic (and feeling guilty about not updating Hands in the Snow) and doing assorted one-shots here and there, it just feels like I'm writing a lot without making much headway on any one piece in particular. Did that make sense? I'm kind of doped up on allergy meds right now so I have to re-read everything two or three times to make sure it's... comprehensible.

Anyway, enough of that. I've been waiting for the right time to write this chapter, and I think this is it. Plus nine is one of my favorite numbers (the other is 24) so this seems like an appropriate place for this chapter. :) I know that didn't make sense, it's okay, don't feel like you have to understand what I'm saying. I'm just babbling. And now I'm done.

Oh, and as a warning, this chapter contains the use of racial slurs (well, one of them twice). I'm not going to censor myself so I'm just making you aware of their presence, in case that kind of thing offends you. But this entire topic, the abuse of children, is kind of an offensive topic by nature. So I guess if you're easily offended, you probably wouldn't be reading this to begin with, huh? (Didn't I say I was done babbling?)

That's all for now. Enjoy!

Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see
Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind...

- Dust in the Wind, Daughter Darling

Time, unlike space, has the incredible ability to pass by you in flashes—pieces of a day or a moment—that are at once fluid and disconnected. You feel them fall from beneath you like the tide pulling sand out from under your feet; if you stand still long enough, the endless pull will take it, and take you too. You cannot snatch them from the air, but watch the wind carry them past you while you are, for a brief moment, a part of them. The moment when you see yourself in the pieces.

You will never remember every moment, every second, but only those flashes—those fragments in which you saw yourself, the ones you touched as they flew by, that grazed you gently and left their mark. In this way, time is a fluid, endless succession of bursts of light, of bright hot moments strung together, of dusty fingerprints. Our memory of time is not a movie, an endless reel of film, but a box of photographs—pieces of time we hold, touch, trace with our fingertips. We have only this. This is all we were, all we are. This is it.

oOoOoOoOo

"Jamal, how much farther?" Brennan asked, several weeks later, holding one arm up to shield her face against the scratchy underbrush as they trekked through the wooded lot behind her apartment building. The afternoon was hot and even under the shade of the trees, she was working up a sweat. Unaffected, the little boy ahead of her continued to blaze the trail.

"Almost there," he said, completely unfazed by the limbs and bushes scratching at his bare arms and shins. Finally they broke clear of the wooded lot, and found themselves on the far edge of a long-ignored city park. The grass was patchy and choked with weeds, and the playground equipment was visibly rusty even from a distance. Jamal took off at a sprint towards a lonely basketball court, which had one tall hoop and no net. In the middle of the court sat an old, faded basketball. Brennan followed the boy at a leisurely pace, and he had already picked up the ball and begun shooting baskets by the time she caught up with him.

"This is the park you've been walking to?" Brennan asked, slightly dismayed. "I thought you meant the one down the street."

"I don't like that one," Jamal said, sticking his lower lip out as the basketball sailed through the air, rolled along the rim, and fell out. He ran to collect it and try again. "All the rich kids is there."

"They've got much better equipment," Brennan pointed out, using the inside of her t-shirt to wipe the sweat that was collecting on her sternum. "And it's safer." It had taken Jamal nearly two weeks of persistent badgering before she finally broke down and let him walk down to the park on his own for half-hour intervals. He disliked having her sit on the bench and read while he shot baskets, and to be honest she relished the alone time she got while he was out. It didn't stop her from worrying about him, but at least she could worry in peace and quiet.

"They talk ugly to me," Jamal finally said, snatching the ball out of the air and holding it under his arm. He stared at Brennan from several feet away, and she crossed her arms.

"They 'talk ugly' to you?" she asked. He nodded. "What does that mean?"

"It mean, I dunno, they talk ugly," he said, giving the ball a hard bounce and watching it sail straight up into the air, catching it in his arms. "You know, be mean to me. Call me names, won't let me play on teams or nothin'."

"Why do they do that?" Brennan asked, not understanding the intricacies of children's social behaviors but wanting very much to. Jamal shrugged, taking another shot at the basket and making this one. With his back to her, he sighed.

"Because," he articulated carefully, "I'm a foster kid." Brennan felt something inside of her deflate; she knew she couldn't protect him from the stigma that came with being a foster kid, no matter how much she wanted to. Private school, new clothes, tutors, none of it made a difference—he was still a foster kid, and it was all over him.

"They think I'm dirty or somethin'," he continued, dribbling the ball and lining up for another shot, still facing away from Brennan. "Like, when I wanna play on teams, they say I can't, that if I touch the ball they're gonna get somethin' from me, like diseases or somethin', I dunno. And I'm black."

"Are you the only African American at the park?" Brennan asked, clinging to the aspect of the conversation that wasn't related to his foster child status. He shook his head.

"No," he said, bouncing the ball up into the air again and moving to catch it. "But the other black kids act different—they don't talk like me, they talk white. They said…" He trailed off, not finishing his sentence. Brennan didn't want to ask, didn't want to know what the kids said. Everything else was bad enough; she didn't want to know the rest. She asked anyway.

"What did they say?" There was a long pause, and finally, out of anger or frustration or injustice, Jamal took the ball in one hand and pelted it at the ground, causing it to ricochet at an angle off of the court, across the grass, and towards the swings.

"They said they was black and I was a nigger!" he finally shouted, storming off of the court and towards the swings. He sat down on one of them, facing away from Brennan, and hung his head. She looked up to the sky and blinked hard, taking a deep breath and searching for some reservoir of inner strength. When she felt like she might have found it, or something close, she began walking in Jamal's direction, thumbs looped into her jeans pockets.

She took a seat in the swing next to his, looking down at the grass beneath her feet and gripping the chains tightly with her fingers. Next to her, she heard the boy sniff loudly, drilling the toe of his shoe into the ground. They were quiet for a minute, Brennan trying to find the right words to say.

"I know how you feel," she finally said, breaking the tense silence between them. Jamal scoffed loudly.

"Bet," he said bitterly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

"I do," she said. "I don't mean that I understand how it feels to be subject to racial prejudice… to have people not like me because of the color of my skin," she said, trying to translate into words comprehensible to a ten year old. "But to have people treat me badly because of something I couldn't help, that wasn't true." Jamal didn't say anything, but by the way he had stopped twisting the chains of his swing and was sitting quietly, she could tell he was listening.

"When I was fifteen, my parents left me and my brother on our own," she explained. "Then my brother left, and it was just me. I was scared, so I called the police. When they found out my parents had left, and that I didn't have any other family, they put me into foster care." She saw Jamal look up at her out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't return his gaze—instead she stared out at the stretch of green in front of them, that eventually ended at a chain link fence before it turned into road, and beyond that, more apartment buildings.

"When you're a foster kid, all the other kids know. You show up at school in the middle of the year, and all your clothes smell like trash bags. You can't go to people's houses without their parents getting a background check first, you can't go on field trips at school. You get free lunch at the cafeteria, and everyone knows why.

"They call you names, like Trashcan or Orphan Annie. They think you're on drugs or that you're mentally challenged, that you're defective and your parents didn't want you anymore. They think you were thrown away, and that's why you're in the system. They act like there's something wrong with you—like if they touch you or stand too close, it will rub off on them, so they stay away. They never let you sit with them at lunch. They never ask you to be on their team. They don't want you to be friends with them… nobody wants to be friends with a foster kid. I know, Jamal. I know."

"It's not fair," Jamal said, and now he was really crying. He wiped the tears off of his face with his palms, shaking his head. "I ain't do nothin' to them, why they gotta be like that? Huh? Why?" Brennan pressed her thumb and index finger into the corners of her eyes, wishing more than anything that she had an answer.

"I don't know," she finally said, knowing she would never have a sufficient reason. Nothing would ever be sufficient to make up for their abuses. "But they're wrong. You're not a nigger, Jamal, and you're not trash. You weren't thrown away, because there is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with you."

Jamal rose from the swing, and threw himself at Brennan, wrapping his arms around her neck and burying his face into her shoulder. She inhaled sharply, taken aback by his action. Slowly she patted his back with one hand, then allowed herself to gently wrap her arms around the little boy, hugging him back.

"It's… it's okay," she said, partially to him and partially to herself. "It's okay."

oOoOoOoOo

Two weeks later, Brennan was busy stacking plates, forks, and cups on a picnic table at the 'rich kids park' while Jamal, Parker, Emma, Hayley, Hodgins, and Sweets played basketball on the nearby court. Booth wrestled a heavily iced sheet cake out of its box, and her father amused himself with a torch lighter, adjusting the level of butane and watching the flame go from a small flicker to a robust burst of light. Russ and Amy sat on side by side swings, watching the kids play and chatting amongst themselves, and Angela sat at the top of the slide and surveyed the picturesque scene from a distance, occasionally letting out a burst of laughter to let everyone know she hadn't sprouted fairy wings and flown away.

"This is really nice, Bones," Booth said to Brennan as she stuck candles into the cake, which said Happy 11th Birthday Jamal! in bright block letters. Balloons were weighed down to the four corners of the table, and a modest stack of presents sat on one of the benches. She shrugged.

"He deserves it," she said, looking out at the game that was progressing on the court. It appeared to be a team of Jamal, Hayley, and Sweets versus Parker, Emma, and Hodgins. Hodgins was, despite his height, a deceptively good basketball player. Well, against a group of children and Sweets, anyway.

"Sorry!" Cam said, approaching the table with a five-gallon bucket of Neapolitan ice cream. "I got caught in traffic on the way over, you know how that can be…"

"It's fine, thanks for stopping for me," Brennan said, taking the ice cream and settling it next to the cake. "How much do I owe you?" Cam waved her off.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "I love birthday parties. I haven't been to one of these in years, probably."

"Me either," Brennan said, sounding frazzled. "I hope I got everything right."

"You did fine," Booth said, hugging her good-naturedly around the shoulder. "Cake, presents, entertainment—" He gestured to the basketball court, where Jamal was dribbling circles around a very uncoordinated Sweets while the others laughed. "Everything you need for a great party. Why don't you go relax, talk to your brother or something? Everything's done here." She looked hesitantly at the full table, and then, deciding Booth was right, wandered off to where Russ and Amy sat.

"Is there a bathroom here?" Amy asked Brennan as she approached. Brennan motioned towards a small cinder-block structure at the far end of the park, with two openings marked on either side. "Great, thanks. I'll be back." Brennan took her seat on the swing as she left.

"Nice party," Russ said, smiling. "You did a good job."

"Thanks," she said, leaning against one of the chains and watching the kids play a new game, where they imitated each other's shots and spelled out barnyard animals. "You think he likes it?"

"Likes it? Look at him," Russ said, gesturing out. "He's having a great time, all of them are. Well, except the shrink. He kind of sucks at basketball." Brennan laughed as Sweets seemed to confirm Russ's statement, sending the ball flying well past the backboard, through the air, off towards the monkey bars.

"Air ball!" Hodgins yelled out. Sweets gave him a distasteful look before jogging off to retrieve the ball. Brennan smiled and shook her head.

"I'm glad you brought the girls," Brennan said. "Jamal hasn't made many friends at school, and he really seems to enjoy their company."

"The girls really like hanging out with him too," Russ said. "He's a great kid." They watched as Emma imitated Jamal's previous shot, nailing it with the precision of an L.A. Laker.

"I got you sucka!" she shouted, jumping up and down as Jamal groaned and ran off to get the ball. Russ snorted.

"And as an added perk," he said. "The girls have been learning all kinds of new vocab words." Brennan shook her head and smiled.

"He's been getting a lot better, but his word choice still leaves something to be desired," she admitted. Russ shrugged.

"All things considered, he's adjusted really well," he said. "Tempe, you've done a really good job. I know how it is to step in and try to parent a kid who's already nine or ten years old, it's hard as hell. And you're doing it alone. I'm really proud."

"I'm not really doing it alone," she said. "Booth has been there almost every day to help me with him. I don't know what I'd do without his help."

"Booth's a great guy," Russ said, giving his sister a peculiar smile. "He's really good for you." Before she could respond to his statement, she heard her father's voice.

"Are we gonna eat cake or what?" he asked. The kids dropped the ball and charged towards the picnic table, and soon everyone was converged around the birthday cake. Max lit the candles one by one, dramatically blowing the end of the lighter afterwards and tucking it into his back pocket. Jamal stood at the end of the table, his face reflecting the glow of the candles.

"I believe you're supposed to wish for something before you blow them out," Brennan suggested, to a chorus of suppressed snorts. She elbowed Booth, who stood next to her, in the ribs sharply.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing the sore spot with his hand. "Make a wish." Jamal chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, looking up into the sky and seeming to consider this wish deeply. Finally he took a deep breath and blew, snuffing out the candles flames in waves. Little tendrils of smoke unfurled, rising up into the sky and slowly dissipating into nothing at all.

oOoOoOoOo

"Well, that's it," the social worker from Children and Family Services said, smiling as he made a final check on the long list before him. He stood with Talia in the living room of the small apartment, light filtering into the dusty room through a white bed sheet hung over the window.

"That's it?" Talia asked, smiling hesitantly.

"Yep," he said. "Your landlord said you're good on your rent, everything in the house is up to snuff, and the paperwork came into my office yesterday from Family Drug Court confirming that you completed the mandatory counseling sessions. Do you remember when your meeting with the judge is?"

"Monday," Talia said, wringing her hands anxiously.

"That's right," he said. "Well, I'm signing off on this—" he said, punctuating the statement with his loopy signature at the bottom of the page, "—and if I'm right, which I think I am, you'll be getting your kids back on Monday morning." Talia beamed, touching her cheek with one hand and shaking her head.

"Eight months," she said quietly. "Eight months ago my kids got took from me an' they sent me to rehab. Now I'm finally getting' 'em back. I can't believe it."

"I'm really proud of you, Talia," the social worker said, patting her on the arm. "You've really cleaned yourself up."

"For my babies," she said, gesturing to a framed picture on the coffee table, which showed two young girls with wide smiles. "I just want my babies back. And my nephew."

"Your nephew?" the social worker asked. She nodded vigorously.

"Uh huh," she said. "My brother got took to jail, it's his boy. Poor baby been in some foster home fo' more'n two months now. Soon's I get my girls back, I'm'a try'n get him too."

"Well, I hope you do," the social worker said. "Foster care is no place for a child to grow up when he has family who can take care of him."

"Amen," Talia said emphatically. "Amen to that."

A/N: Yes, you were right, Talia is Jamal's aunt. Are there storm clouds rumbling in the distance? Absolutely. How will things end up? Well, that's for me to know and you to find out. :) Review and let me know what you think!