"Is your father still alive?"

Jack shrugs. "He could be, for all I know."

The old lady peers at him from over her glasses. "You know nothing about his disappearance?"

"No."

"Okay. We'll see if we can find him. Tell me his name."

"Sebastian Jackson Napier." Jack tugs his wallet out of his pocket and extracts a photo. "This is what he looks like."

She accepts the photo. "Oh, you look just like him!"

Jack doesn't respond. His eyes are glazed over and he sways a little in his seat. He's exhausted, confused, and miserable. All he wants is to go home.

"You'll be staying with the Engelbright family until we can find you a more permanent residence," the old lady says. "Do you understand, Jack?"

He looks at her blankly. "I want to go home."

"I know, sweetie."

A police officer puts a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Come with me, son. I'll take you back to your place so you can pack your things."

Jack stands automatically and follows the officer out to the car. The drive passes in a blur, and then they're at Jack's old house. It's not much – just a dark grey box, really, with some brickwork and windows and a bronze roof. The garden has fallen into disrepair in the two weeks that his mom was in the hospital.

He swallows and walks up to the front door. Retrieves the spare key from the hollow behind the greeting sign. Opens the house and walks in.

Such normal things.

It's almost like his mom will walk in any second.

The officer stays outside. Jack walks up to the second floor, to his room, grabs a duffle bag from a storage closet behind his door, and begins mindlessly packing things. Shirts. Pants. Underwear. Socks. His pillow and two dozen notebooks filled with his scribbly handwriting.

He flops down on his bed after a few minutes and just lies there, gazing at the ceiling.

He's tired.

So tired.

His eyes close.

He dreams of falling.

Someone is shaking him. "Wake up, son. Come on."

His eyes flutter open and he looks up at the police officer with mild confusion.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Officer Bradley. I'm here to take you to the Engelbright's home. You're going to be staying with them, remember?"

Jack turns over and stares at the closet. "Tomorrow."

"What?"

"Leave me alone. I'm not going to leave this house until tomorrow."

The man hesitates, then walks away. Jack sighs in relief and closes his eyes again. It's good to be left alone for once to deal with the shock and the pain. He doesn't get why people think he wants them around. They just make everything four thousand six hundred and two times worse because he has to pretend to be sort of okay when really, all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and die.

Death would be

so

easy…

His eyes snap open and focus on the closet. He'd completely forgotten about his project after his mother had gotten hurt. But now maybe he could take comfort in the simple art of sewing…

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, walks over to the sliding double mirrors, and slides one side open.

There it is: a button-down blue shirt with a darker blue hexagon pattern, a forest green vest, purple pants pinstriped with white. Ridiculous clothes, he thinks, his mouth twitching up into a smile. Clothes fit for a clown. Or a joker, as his mother had often told him.

He takes the unfinished pieces out of the closet and lays them out. For a while he examines them critically, making mental adjustments. The pieces will come together nicely, but the outfit needs something else. Probably a tie, in paler green and yellow. If he's going to do yellow, though, he'll need to pull it through the rest of the outfit. Maybe socks? Maybe he could stitch up a coat and line it with yellow.

Or maybe the yellow could be that bit of chaos in the entire thing.

It definitely needs a coat, he decides as he picks up the pants. A long trench coat, in purple, with lots of hidden pockets and compartments.

The methodical pattern of sewing takes away his pain, and he works late into the night, cutting and stitching and measuring. It helps to concentrate on something other than the fact that his mother is dead.

Maybe sewing is women's work.

But then again, maybe it's not.

By midnight, he's finished the pants, vest, and shirt. The coat is half-done. And he falls asleep almost peacefully.