I have more scenes featuring Adult Aaron planned, but for now, I'm taking another dive into the past for this scene that may have been the most exciting to write. I'd love to know what you think!

Note: I am not striving for 100% realism in this chapter. In particular, I acknowledge that I gave Sean a mentality that would be far too mature for his age. It just worked better this way.

-LTLS

—-

Waiting for dinner was a tentative activity. Aaron never knew how long he could safely wait before any chance of eating was gone for good. It all depended on Mother's mood, and, occasionally, on what food was actually available.

If he waited in hiding, he could expect to starve. If he waited in the open, he was an easy target. At least that way he might not be forgotten, and he might, just maybe, get a bite or two. So he sat on the edge of the couch, folded his hands, and tried not to react to the arguing voices from the next room. He waited.

On the living room floor, Sean—dressed only in a diaper and a blue T-shirt—lifted his head and chest off the ground and tried to figure out how to move on his hands and knees. He swayed from side to side, feeling his weight, testing his balance. Then his chest dropped to the floor again. He wiggled his arms at his sides like a baby bird struggling to catch a breeze.

Aaron sighed and reached down to pick the baby up under the arms. Setting his brother on his lap, Aaron looked into his round, bright face. "Are you hungry too?"

Of course not. Sean finished a bottle of milk just over an hour ago. He would probably get another one soon. Decent helpings of milk were always available for Mommy's favorite baby. Aaron would have settled for just one sip.

This wasn't Sean's fault. He was just a helpless, confused baby being used, like everything else, against his brother. Well, Aaron wouldn't let that get to him.

"I don't know how long I'll have to wait," he said, glancing at the clock.

Sean wouldn't sit still. He seemed eager for action.

Aaron turned to the squat lamp table at the couch's right. The shelf beneath the drawer held a colorful collection of books that languished beneath lumps of dust. Aaron pinched a thin hardback spine and pulled the old, brownish book from the shelf. He blew on it, raising puffs of dust.

The spine groaned as Aaron opened the book. Sean slapped the yellowed pages, excited.

"This is a fun story," said Aaron. "Will you sit still for me?"

He found the first page. A detailed pen drawing of a majestic ship at sea graced the page opposite the text. Sean leaned close to see better while blowing bubbles with saliva.

Staying alert to nearby sounds and voices, Aaron began to read aloud. Sean sat still and listened as his brother's voice painted a whole world of adventure around them.

—-

Dusk. Sean looked out over the bulwark and scanned the sunset in the cloudy horizon. He felt the salty lash of ocean mist on his face and smelled wet wood and mildew. The deck teetered under his feet. His feet—so he was really standing! What a curious feeling that was. He had never been able to stand on his own before. He really felt like a big boy now!

Did this mean he no longer had to wear diapers? Excited, he looked down. Aww, darn. He needed more imagination.

Returning his attention to the sea, Sean watched the greenish blue folds wrinkle and spread for miles and miles around. A couple of gulls cried and soared up into the thick foam of pinkish gray clouds. Sean opened his mouth and stared, amazed by every detail. When he looked up, he could see the rim of his black hat, which was really too big for him, but too wonderful to remove.

"Captain!"

Sean turned to see his first mate (or was that his big brother?) walking toward him in brown trousers and a baggy white shirt. He had a red bandana on his head, an eye patch over his left eye, and a sword on his belt. Sean reached to his own side and found that he too had a sword. He smiled.

"Look at this map," said Aaron as he unrolled a tattered, yellowish piece of paper. He spread the paper over the drum of the capstan.

Sean stood on his toes and reached up for the bottom corner of the paper. Aaron lowered the map for him to see.

"We're a hundred miles east of this island and two hundred miles west of the departing dock," said Aaron, pointing out specks on the map. "Should we change course to reach the bay sooner?"

Sean nodded. The present course did not seem direct enough. He ran his tiny finger over the map to chart a new path going above the island.

"Aye, Captain," said Aaron, and he called out, "We're heading northwest! Turn the ship!"

Through a wavering fog or a boundary in imagination, Sean could not see the crew. But he knew they were there, scurrying over wood and up ropes, hollering to each other, steering the ship. The billowing sails ruffled and swayed, catching large gusts. Cold, dark water splattered over the deck as the ship turned against a broken wave.

It was an impressive warship, a frigate, Aaron called it. He boasted about its forty guns and powerful speed carried by sails on three towering masts. "Almost no greater warship at sea," Aaron had said proudly. "Only the ships-of-the-line are bigger."

Sean took it all in, delighted to be captain of such magnificence. He walked beside Aaron toward the starboard side of the ship, staying steady even as the bow raised and dipped on every wave.

Aaron leaned against the edge and held up a spyglass. He peered through while Sean nervously watched the churning skies.

"Captain, have a look." Aaron handed the spyglass down.

Sean took the cold tube and saw a circular section of horizon magnified. White froth crashed along the further edges of the sea, rising higher with the wind, blending with the dark clouds that blotted out the setting sun. Electric flashes threw the depths of the clouds into brighter relief.

Sean pointed upward. The sails.

Aaron nodded. "I'll have the sails reefed." That meant rolled up, he quickly explained.

But when they turned away from the sea, they saw the burly figure of the boatswain, the sailor in charge of cables and rigging, standing mere yards away with arms crossed. His hat was crooked, his muscles massive, his beard angry with tangles. He smelled strongly of rum, and his eyes looked red. Sean noticed the handle of a primed flintlock pistol jutting out of the man's belt.

Sean glared. Aaron's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

"We're taking the ship," said the sailor, and he raised his sword. Through the fog, a cluster of human shapes were barely discernible. They were closing in on the two boys.

"Mutiny!" Aaron whispered to his brother, but Sean didn't understand.

A sharp, metallic ring announced the drawing of the first mate's sword. Aaron brandished the blade in front of him and muttered, "Take cover, Captain! I won't let them take the ship."

That part Sean did understand. He ran and dove between the boatswain's legs, picked himself up, and ran some more. It was an amazing feeling, running, more like flying really. He moved so swiftly, so independently. What freedom! What adventure!

He heard the clang of clashing swords and glanced back. Aaron was directing the fight, drawing the crew away from the edge of the sea and toward the masts. His sword glimmered for an instant as it caught a ray of runaway sunlight, then it turned cold and gray as it swooped around to meet another curved blade. Each clang rang out so loudly, so fiercely, that Sean feared resistance was in vain. He touched his own sword. Was he ready to use it?

Not yet. He couldn't charge the enemy without a plan. Aaron had assured him he wouldn't let the ship be taken, and Aaron meant what he said. Sean decided to trust him.

He reached the port side of the ship and leaned over the edge. A life boat covered in canvas hung by thick cables, dangling just over the growing waves. Sean climbed over the edge of the ship and let himself drop onto the canvas. The fabric was tougher than he expected. He crawled to one end and slipped through a narrow opening. Finally he settled in the hull of the boat, where only shadows filtered through and the darkness was dense. The small boat rocked when he moved, and even if he sat motionless, the movement of the ship made the rowboat sway. For the first time on this voyage, Sean felt a little sick.

Mostly he felt afraid. He didn't know what would happen with the storm coming and the mutiny rising. Situations like these made him want to just curl up and retreat from the world. This time, he forced himself to pay attention.

—-

Aaron looked up from the book. A shout had risen in the next room, and his arm curled reflexively tighter around Sean's middle. He had managed to block the sounds of his parents arguing for a while, but now they were becoming more pronounced. They were shouting over each other, which was never a good sign.

"I didn't sign up to be a father!" yelled Charles. "I'm not paying to feed them!"

"Well, someone has to!" Mother shot back. "That paycheck is half mine."

"Don't come near my money! You can all starve for all I care!"

"Forget the boys! I need a life, for crying out loud. Now give me my money!"

Aaron closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and got to his feet. Sean pressed his ear into his brother's chest while gazing wide-eyed at the kitchen doorway. One little hand held a fistfull of Aaron's sleeve. The other settled inside the baby's mouth.

Food was out of the question. Aaron knew where the conversation was heading. He knew how these days always went. So instead of standing there in the open, he carried Sean to the closet under the stairs, let himself in, and quietly closed the door, shutting them both into darkness.

He sunk to a seated position beneath hanging coats, then reached around in the dark. Behind a folded umbrella and a set of never-used tennis rackets, he had hidden a small metal flashlight. It came in handy when the closet became the only safe place to get homework done.

Aaron clicked on the light, and Sean reached in awe for the beam. Objects suddenly appeared out of the dark, dimly lit and colored by a single tiny bulb. The shadow of Sean's curious hand fell over a stack of magazines and a tape player that hadn't seen daylight ever since Billy Joel first crooned "The Piano Man." A bicycle pump leaned into the far corner, right beside an embroidered Vietnamese painting of a man sowing a basketful of seeds.

Aaron sat back against a tattered leather suitcase with stickers from several states on it. Though tight and musty, the closet was comfortable and familiar to him. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and deeply breathed a sleeve of the coat above his head, he could still smell his father's cologne.

Aaron got Sean comfortably settled in his lap and opened the book again. He helped support the baby with the side of the flashlight, which he aimed downward and away from the door. He searched the small print for his place.

A ceramic crash interrupted his thoughts. Mother's yell was muffled by the closed door and at least a room-length distance. But it was clear all the same: "And then what do you expect me to do, just bury him in the backyard? Someone would find out. We have to give him something to eat now and then!"

Aaron lost his place again. He angled the book up toward the light and resumed his search, though his eyes only grazed over the text. He might never get used to the horrible shouts and discussions that stripped away whatever self-worth he tried to cling to. It wasn't the first time his parents had openly considered doing away with him for good, and each time he wondered how many more days he had.

He cleared his throat and began to whisper. "...The storm drew nearer as the wind buffeted the ship right toward it. Reefing the sails usually took an hour, time that did not exist in the growing vortex. Every wave sent the ship lurching in another direction, and tying the cables became an impossible task..."

He paused. Charles was cutting Mother off, and loudly. His voice seemed to move out of the kitchen and into the living area.

"He can't eat if he's sick," the man argued. "If his stomach aches from bruises, or if he swallows all his teeth. Can't waste food on an invalid who can't even chew, right?"

"I'm sure he'd rather die," said Mother dismissively.

Aaron pulled Sean closer. The book trembled in his hand. "Shh," he whispered.

A brief interlude of quiet, angry growls replaced the argument. Aaron held his breath.

"Where is he?" demanded Charles.

"Look upstairs." Mother sounded annoyed.

"I'll teach him to waste our money. And for him to think he can hide...!"

The voice receded up the stairs. Aaron turned a page in the book.

He heard the basement door open. "Aaron!" Mother called. "If you don't come out, you'll get nothing to eat."

Aaron took a deep breath. Mother was tempting him to fall right into their trap, but he refused to listen anymore. This fight wasn't worth fighting today.

"Sean, here's what you can do to help me," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."

Then he continued reading softly in the baby's ear.

—-

Nothing to do but listen. Clangs, crashes, thumps, and shouts. Sean crouched beneath the thwarts, the wooden boards crossing the lifeboat's width for seating. He buried four fingers of one hand in his mouth and sucked on them nervously. He wanted his pacifier. He wanted his blanket and his soft, squishy bear. He was scared and wished the storm would go away, the sailors would stop fighting, and the skies would clear up for the rest of his life.

An explosive wave rocked the whole ship, and the lifeboat thumped against the port side. Sean rolled about in the hull, flailing for a handhold. This was nothing like getting rocked to sleep. More like getting shaken awake. The hilt of his sword jabbed his side, and his hat fell over his eyes. He gurgled and tried to sit up, but his hideout was too unsteady.

The sounds of war blasted above the sounds of the storm. Guttural yells and salty taunts made Sean flinch. Metal blades clanked against each other or thunked into wood. He heard a loud pop, crackle, and boom, almost simultaneous. Was it one of those primed pistols firing? Or was it a clap of thunder?

Heavy fingers of rain danced on the canvas above Sean's head. Each drop hit with a dull thwop and began soaking into a dark circle. He wondered how long until the rain pooled so thickly it would begin to leak inside.

Sean felt dizzy from all the dips and jolts. What use was hiding? He would die anyway when the storm pummeled the ship to the bottom of the sea. Wasn't he the captain? Shouldn't he be up there fighting?

Aaron said there was a way Sean could help: by not making a sound. So that was the trick, that was his mission. He would help, just as Aaron had suggested. It was his duty.

Sean pulled himself to the stern of the rowboat. He climbed out from under the canvas and into the direct sweep of the cold, rainy wind. He adjusted his hat, which blocked some rain from his face. Gathering his resolve, taking a deep breath, Sean reached for the cables holding the lifeboat aloft and climbed up to the bulwark. Now he had a full view of the fight.

Several unclear figures swarmed around the center mast. Sailors scrambled up tackle and nets with knives between their teeth and shiny swords waving in their free hands. The coxswain fought to control the wheel at the back of the vessel, and near him a few seamen had set up a row of upward-aiming cannons.

Sean searched frantically for Aaron. He looked to where the boatswain was climbing, the middle mast. Out on a teetering yardarm, just above a half-furled sail, Aaron straddled the beam with one leg hooked around a thick reefing tie. His right hand supported him on the mainyard, and his left held out a sword toward the sailors climbing the mast below him. Whenever a sailor reached his perch, he engaged him in a fierce sword fight that usually sent his opponent falling a great distance.

The storm kicked the ship viciously from side to side, and Aaron looked like he might fall all the way down to the deck at any moment. The mast dove and swerved, sending the yardarms into a dangerous sweep, and Aaron hugged the beam and braced himself against a hurricane of windswept, twisting rain. The boatswain held on to the web of rope that stretched all the way up the main mast. When the wave had passed, the sailor raised his sword again and continued climbing. Aaron heaved on the rope that pulled up one section of the enormous sail. He was making very slow progress and still had the majority of the sails to close.

Sean toddled across the wet deck, feeling more like a baby now that the ship shook with the wind and his legs shook with fright. Maybe he couldn't walk after all. Maybe his imagination would fail him.

Deep puddles sloshed across the deck like spilled oil, collecting in one corner, then rolling away as the ship moved, then splashing against the bulwark. Icy water lapped around Sean's knees. He slipped, and the current carried him to the middle of the deck. He caught himself on a pile of rope at the feet of a gangly sailor with a clouded-over face. Sean gasped as a flash of lightning tossed the sailor's shadow over his little body.

Don't make a sound, Aaron had instructed. Sean couldn't be sure if he'd been spotted. He grabbed the hilt of his sword in both tiny hands and put all his strength into drawing it from the sheathe. The sword was only the length of his arm, about a dagger size. But it was light, and he could handle it with both hands. The tall sailor was about to climb the main mast. Soundless, Sean raised his blade and then lowered it swiftly onto the man's thick boot.

The man hollered, his cry ringing above the crashing waves and thunder. He whirled around, sword waving, searching for his attacker. Sean crawled around the mast and sat there panting. Another lurch of the ship caught the confused man off-balance, and he went tumbling across the deck and over the edge. The sea gulped him right up like a tasty morsel.

Sean sighed with relief and peered around the massive post to wait for the next attacker. He looked up. The boatswain had reached the mainyard and kept swinging his sword at Aaron's head. Aaron blocked many blows with his own sword. Those he couldn't block, he ducked beneath. His attacker's sword lodged into the wooden beam inches from where Aaron's leg was, and he scooted backward, but he was running out of space. The boatswain swept his sword around in an underhanded blow that knocked Aaron's weapon clean out of his hand. Sean watched the thin, shiny blade plummet end-over-end before clattering onto the deck a few feet away.

Furious, the baby crawled over to the sword and grabbed its handle. The horror and injustice of this situation hit him harder than the rain that beat down on everybody. This was his ship, his and Aaron's! This was where they lived, sailed, and played, their only safe place in the world. What reason did they have to be attacked on their own ship? Where did such betrayal come from? The tragedy of it tore into Sean's heart, and he got to his feet with Aaron's sword dragging from his hands. The sword was probably longer than Sean was tall, and the blade angled down against the deck. He couldn't possibly lift it.

He looked up again. Aaron crawled backwards just ahead of the burly seaman's reach. He slipped on the wet beam, and his legs dropped into midair. Sean gasped. Just in time, his first mate grabbed onto the coils of thick hemp rope that hung just above the sail. He dangled there, unable to let go, unwilling to pull himself back up into the hands of the mutineer.

Sean looked toward the back of the ship and saw two sailors stuffing powder and cloth wadding down the barrel of a cannon. One of them rolled a black cannonball down the dark tube, and he used a ramrod to shove more wadding on top of that. He crouched beside the cannon, trying to hold it steady, angling it upward toward the main mast.

Sean panicked. Surely they couldn't fire the gun in the rain. Surely...

One of the sailors held up a metal plate to shield from the rain as he lit the fuse. From across the deck, the brilliant spark shone in Sean's wide eyes.

—

Aaron felt the baby's fists tighten on his shirt. Sean looked up at him, wide eyes reflecting the flashlight glare. Aaron didn't know how much of the story a baby could understand, but Sean seemed to have some idea of the sense of danger. The baby's look of terror and concern surprised Aaron.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "Let me keep reading."

Sean hugged his arm and did not let go, which made holding the book a little tricky. Sean never usually showed concern, or even affection, for his big brother. Maybe he finally understood to some extent the level of danger Aaron was really in, or the pain he suffered. Maybe, as they hid in the closet out of view of hurtful hands and voices, Sean finally had some idea of how real Aaron's battle for survival was.

Or maybe he was simply engaged in the story, and he didn't want the few good sailors on the ship to get hurt. Little kids could have big imaginations. Maybe Sean was oblivious to real concerns after all. Who knew what Sean thought.

Aaron adjusted his grip on the flashlight, let Sean hug his arm with tourniquet strength, and continued reading in a whisper.

—-

The orange flash and bone-shaking CRACK-OOOOOM! that thundered over the deck were so startling, Sean fell backwards onto the coils of rope. He heard a shrill whistling sound scream overhead. Smoke hissed through the rain, blotting out the droplets, melding with the dark clouds. There was a loud smack and the sound of ripping canvas. Sean gazed up at the smoldering black hole in the sail far above him, where the cannonball had punched right through. Aaron was nowhere to be seen.

Sean sat straight up, mouth hanging open. No! Where's my mate? My first mate? My brother? My friend? My protector? Who hurt him?

Sean scanned the deck. Then he searched the skies. He could practically see the wind as torrents of rain thrashed about in waves and patterns. He squinted against the cold gales and prayed that some miracle had occurred—the gunmen had missed, Aaron was okay. He saw the boatswain leaning over the yardarm, shouting, and stretching out his arm with his sword pointed downward.

Sean lowered his gaze from the mainyard. Lightning flashed, and he saw a boy's shadow holding onto a length of rope beside the sail. Against the backdrop of a stormy night, Aaron was invisible.

Sean breathed again. Thank God.

The coils of rope above the sail slowly unwound, being pulled from below. Sean suspected that Aaron was attempting to lower himself by the rope all the way to the deck, but first he needed enough rope.

The wind threw Aaron against the sail. He maintained his grips on the canvas and the rope, frantically trying to unwind enough line to make the descent. But now he had been spotted. The boatswain on the beam above him drew his flintlock pistol. With a fat finger, he rotated the cock from half to full, releasing the safety lock. He then aimed right for Aaron's head. The boatswain pressed the trigger, and Sean screamed.

—-

"Shhh!" said Aaron, clamping a hand over his brother's babyish shriek.

Sean shook his head away from the hand and jammed his fingers into his mouth again.

Aaron turned the page and cautiously continued.

—

When nothing happened, Sean wondered if the flint had failed to ignite because of the rain. He hoped so, and judging by the boatswain's expression, he assumed so.

Aaron had unwound several large loops of rope. Without looking back, he let go of the sail and wound both hands around the knot he had tied at the end of the rope. Sean watched him fall with the line rippling and straightening above him. His heel kicked off of the lower yardarm, propelling his drop further.

Sean realized moments before Aaron reached the deck that the line was too short. How short, he couldn't be sure. Suddenly the rope jerked into a straight line, having fallen its length. Aaron dangled at the height of two seamen standing on each other's shoulders. He waved his arm, gesturing for Sean to move aside, and then he let go of the rope.

Sean dragged his brother's sword behind him as he backed into the foot of the mast. Aaron fell right through the wind and rain, right past the reach of sailors who clung to the net like bloodthirsty spiders on a web. He wrapped his arms around his head just before he hit the deck on his knees and tumbled into an uncontrolled roll. Finally he lay in a motionless heap against the capstan. His arm dropped to his side and he tried to sit up.

Sean ran to him, still dragging the sword. A sailor also charged in Aaron's direction, so Sean raised one end of the sword at just enough height to trip the man. The sailor fell on his face and rolled across the deck as it pitched again on a high wave.

Sean reached his brother's side and held out the hilt of the sword. Aaron had lost his eyepatch somewhere in the fight, and now Sean could see the thin red cut over his left eye. Was it from this battle, or a previous one?

Blinking against the rain, Aaron grabbed Sean's arm and smiled at him. "We cannot abandon the ship," he said. "Take command of your vessel, Captain."

Sean did not feel like the captain. He felt like a wee scalawag, unprepared and unqualified for any serious battle. He pulled on Aaron's arm, wordlessly insisting his first mate come with him.

Aaron took his sword and slowly got to his feet. Sailors struggled to rush at them, but the deck had become slick and sickening. Swords extended, Aaron and Sean made their way to the elevated stern of the ship and climbed the steps to the captain's wheel. The coxswain fought to control the steering, but he could barely grapple the wheel. The swords of the two boys persuaded the sailor to back away. At Aaron's order, the man clambered down the ladder to the main deck.

Sean gripped the lower spokes of the wheel.

"Got it?" Aaron asked.

I'm just a baby, thought Sean, but he nodded. He would give everything he had into keeping the ship on course.

Aaron stood at his side, ready with his sword to fend off anymore attackers.

"Let's take her home," he yelled over the wind.

Even to the end of the sea, they would fight for this ship. It was all they had left.

—-

Aaron had closed the book and now sat fiddling with the deck of cards from the back of the closet. Sean sat quietly in his lap. Too quietly. He didn't even try to explore his surroundings or complain about their growing familiarity. Could a baby be so pensive?

"Did you like the story?" Aaron whispered. "If you did, we can read more some other time."

Sean leaned on his arm, breathing steadily, gazing into the thick shadows. Seemingly lost in thought.

"It's almost your bedtime," muttered Aaron. "Are you tired?"

What does a baby think about? he wondered. Does he even have rational thoughts? Did he understand one word that I read him?

Pondering the infant brain, Aaron continued silently flipping through cards and listening for sounds from the outside. He hadn't heard a word for at least half an hour.

Maybe by now it was safe to venture outside. His legs were stiff, and his hunger bored into his middle like a power drill.

"Stay quiet," he whispered as he shifted Sean into a better grip and worked his own feet under him. He rose halfway up and turned the doorknob in total silence. He gave it a slight push and peeked through the crack.

No one in sight. The lamp had been left on, but that was normal.

Aaron clicked off the flashlight and stepped out of the closet. He took a deep breath of less stagnant—albeit more smoky—air and stretched his legs. Now he would make sure Sean got his last bottle before bed, and a clean diaper too. Sean rested his head on Aaron's shoulder as he walked over to the kitchen.

He stopped abruptly in the doorway. Mother stood at the sink with her back to him, quietly scrubbing a saucepan with a sudsy green sponge.

She took a few steps to the side, picked up a bread knife from the cutting board at the far end of the counter, and carried it back to the sink. She had left a small heap of bread crumbs and crusts on the board, priceless morsels that she would no doubt throw out with the trash. Not willing to risk suffering another attack today, Aaron took a step backwards, but she must have heard him.

"Is that you, Aaron?" She didn't even turn her head.

His gut twisting, Aaron nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him. "Yes, Mom."

Mother stuck her thumb in the direction of a full bottle of milk on the counter. "Give Sean his bottle."

Aaron slowly approached the counter. He held Sean on his right side, away from his mother, and his left hand picked up the baby bottle. The idea of asking for dinner crossed his mind, but he just knew she would snap at him and maybe give him a mouthful of knuckles in reply. If she avoided looking at him, it meant she was irritable and liable to blow up at the slightest provocation. So Aaron just gripped the bottle and swallowed his plea for food.

Then something surprising happened. From the corner of his eye, he saw the baby's little, pudgy hand reach out toward the cutting board on the end of the counter by the fridge. His fist closed on a crust of bread, and he quickly pulled it back to his chest.

Aaron's heart skipped a beat. Without a word, he carried the bottle and the baby out of the kitchen. Still not willing to believe his luck, he peered around the doorway to see if Mother would notice. She just picked up the cutting board and swept the remaining crusts and crumbs into the trash, clearly ignorant of the change in amount.

Aaron pulled back and broke into an elated grin. He carried Sean down to the basement and took the pilfered crust of bread.

He shook his head and laughed. "Well, aren't you a real little buccaneer!" he chuckled.

Sean smiled too, though Aaron didn't know if he understood the significance of his furtive action.

"Here, you might like to try this on." Aaron opened a cardboard box and removed a black pirate hat with a red feather. Sean sat on the rag heap, watching eagerly. When Aaron placed the oversized hat on his head, Sean gripped the rim and giggled. He looked strangely familiar with the hat, and he didn't look like he would ever give it back. Aaron laughed, marveling at the infant mind, unfathomable thing that it was.

He picked up his baby brother again and fed him the bottle, looking forward to the prospect of devouring his own dinner momentarily. Somehow, today felt like a small victory.

Whatever happens, we cannot abandon the ship!