Spencer hung back at the edges of the field, clinging to the borrowed hockey stick as he squinted at the rest of the kids running in zigzag patterns. He hated gym class. He hated everything about it. But most of all, he hated field hockey day.

Soccer had rules that were easily enforced. Dodgeball was easy for him to get out quickly and spend the rest of class sitting on the sidelines. Kickball made him anxious when he was called up to kick with everyone staring at him, but it was usually simple to offer to let his classmates go in front of him so he could avoid having to do it. Field hockey, though, was awful.

No one really understood the rules. Usually the whole situation devolved into a horde of nine and ten year olds running back and forth, screaming bloody murder while they smacked each other with their hockey sticks. There were always injuries in gym class- at least one crying kid was sent to the sidelines with an ice pack and a paper cup of water- but field hockey days inevitably ended with three or four sobbing fourth graders trailing back to class.

The ball shot across the field and Spencer flinched. He only had to wait out thirteen more minutes until gym was over, and he could be back inside the classroom. Not that he had a very good time in class anyway- his teacher didn't still didn't seem to like him very much, and he wasn't looking forward to listening to her read Bridge to Terabithia out loud in her dull, dry, voice- but at least it would be warmer. The temperature had dropped suddenly once October began, and his shorts and hoodie didn't do much to keep him warm enough.

"Come on, Spencer, focus!" the gym teacher called from the sideline. "You can't just stand there the whole class."

He made a whining little noise in frustration and tightened his grip on the hockey stick before jogging reluctantly towards the horde of bigger kids clustered around the small orange ball. His sneakers slipped on the grass, and he almost tripped over the hockey stick.

All he needed to do was make it look like he was participating just enough for the gym teacher to stop noticing him. And he was good at staying unnoticed. If he could blend in-

The ball whizzed past him and he jumped back, too startled to attempt to stop it. "Move!" one of his biggest classmates shouted. "Why are you so stupid, Spencer?"

He blinked in confusion as the other kids ran past him, and suddenly an errant hockey stick swung up, striking him in the cheekbone. His vision blurred as he fell back hard, and somebody kicked him in their haste as they ran past.

He burst into tears. He was too startled to think straight, and it hurt, and why was the game still going on? Why was this the moment that nobody noticed him?

"Hey, did he hit you?"

Spencer nodded, struggling to swallow down his sobs. Riley squatted down next to him and peered into his face. "Yeah, your cheek's all red," he said. He held out his hand. "C'mon, we'll tell the teacher and you can get some ice or something."

He pushed himself up shakily to his feet, covering his left eye with his hand. "Coach!" Riley bellowed, dragging Spencer behind him by the sleeve of his hoodie. "Spencer got hit in the face! It's real bad!"

He squinted up at the coach. "You did?" she said, surprised. "I didn't even see it happen. Let me take a look." She probed at his cheekbone, her hands cold and pressing down too hard on his soft skin. He tried to wriggle away. "Yeah, that's gonna bruise up. You okay? You want some ice?"

"Yes, please," he said, his shoulders catching in hitching sobs. The teacher got him an ice pack, only half paying attention to him as she kept an eye on the still-continuing game and shouted out instructions. Spencer sat down on the bleachers, slouching forward while he held the ice pack to his face. If he was going to get hurt, why couldn't it have been at the beginning of the class so he could sit out the whole time?

After gym he went back to his desk and spent most of read-aloud time cautiously probing the sore spot on his cheek. He could feel it swelling up under his fingers; he kept pressing his other cheek to feel the difference between them. The ice didn't seem to do much to help, and his mind was a swirl of statistics. It was going to bruise, he just knew it.

He checked in the bathroom mirror at lunchtime, and sure enough, his left eye was swollen, the cheekbone red and purple and puffy. Cautiously he climbed up on the sink to peer at it more closely, continuing to poke at it in morbid fascination. He'd never had a black eye before. And it hurt. It hurt more than he thought it would.

After school it was drizzling a little bit, just enough to be annoying. He pulled his hood up over his head, even though it wouldn't do too much to help. Doubtless by the time he finished his walk home his hoodie would be soaked through.

He trudged down the front steps of the school, his hands clinging to his backpack straps. "Hey, Spencer!" a voice called.

"Hi, Riley," he said.

Riley grinned at him. "How's your face?" he asked.

He pushed his hood back a little so Riley could see. "I have a black eye," he said dully.

"Oh, yeah, that looks bad," Riley said cheerfully. "Wanna come over? I got a new video game."

"I'm not very good at video games," Spencer said.

Riley laughed. "Then I'll win every time," he said. "Come on, don't you want to come over and play?"

Spencer hesitated. He probably couldn't go to the park after school since it was raining, and he didn't really want to go home. "Okay," he said. "Just for a little while."

Riley lived even closer to the school, but not in a rundown apartment like Spencer and his mother. Instead, he lived in a neighborhood of identical new townhouses, all clean slate blue siding with sharp white trim. Riley prattled on the whole way there, and Spencer didn't interrupt. He didn't feel much like talking.

"Okay, stay out here for just a second," Riley said, wiping his feet on the welcome mat in front of the door at number thirty-eight. "I'll tell my mom you're here. But don't worry, she won't mind, I bring friends over all the time."

Spencer waited obediently as Riley ran into the house, leaving the door open. The foyer was painted a clean sage green and the floors were polished hardwood; he could smell a lemon-scented disinfectant and an apple cinnamon candle burning.

"Mom!" Riley shouted.

"I'm in the living room, honey."

He could see a wall of framed pictures of Riley- in front of a lavishly decorated Christmas tree, dressed in a white shirt and khakis on a sandy beach, a whole parade of school photos.

"Mom, my friend Spencer's here, can he play Xbox with me for a while?"

"Which friend?"

"Spencer! The one who lives by the park."

The white carpet on the stairs was freshly vacuumed, recently enough for the track marks to be apparent in the pile. There were a pile of shoes in a basket at the bottom, all different pairs of Riley's sneakers.

"You mean the apartments near the park? Oh, honey, I don't think that's a very good idea."

"What? Why, Mommy?"

Riley's voice verged on a whine. Spencer leaned a little farther forward, straining to listen.

"I'm not sure if Spencer is a very good playmate for you, Riley."

"Why not? He's really nice."

"He's a little...I'm just not sure, honey. He's always...so scruffy, and unkempt, and I haven't had the chance to meet his mother yet, she won't answer my calls. I just don't have a very good feeling about him. Why don't you call Jayden instead and see if he wants to come over and play?"

Spencer backed away from the clean house and the archive of photos. He'd only met Mrs. Jenkins a few times, and he'd thought she was nice. But clearly he was wrong.

He pulled his hood tighter over his head as he started back towards his apartment. It was raining harder now, the drops thick and soft and cold, and he tried to keep his brain from replaying the conversation he'd overheard.

Alex fought back a yawn as she made the turn onto her street. It had been a long case, longer than she'd expected, and she was more than ready to be back in her own house after spending over a week in a hotel, living out of her go bag.

She pulled into the driveway and parked, but she sat there for a moment, staring in confusion at the house. The lights were on inside, a warm glow filtering through the curtains in the front room. And she was so sure she hadn't left the lights on when she left. She never left the lights on. Unless…

She left her things in the car and got out quickly. The front door was locked and she opened it as quietly as she could. She could hear music playing in the kitchen, and the bright clatter of utensils. Her heart skipped a beat.

James was standing at the sink, humming lightly along with the music, his hair damp from a recent shower. Alex snuck up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist.

"Hey, you," he said, pressing his hand over hers as she leaned her forehead against his back. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I didn't know you'd be home already," she said. She closed her eyes, breathing in the comfortable familiar scent of his cologne. "I thought you still had another couple of days in Ghana."

"Just a misdirection," he said. He tugged her out from behind him and bent to kiss her, his lips soft and warm against hers. "I got back yesterday. I figured you wouldn't mind a surprise."

"Not at all," she said. She leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him again. "And you even made dinner."

He grinned. "Garcia might've given me the heads up that you were on your way back," he said. "Go shower, dinner'll be ready by the time you get back."

IHe kissed her on the cheek and she headed up the stairs. But she couldn't help the sudden shadow of anxiety creeping into her fingertips. She'd been planning this conversation for a while, she had just been planning on having it face to face, but she had pictured it happening in a couple of days. But she couldn't keep it to herself any longer.

They ate dinner together for the first time in months, catching up on all the little things they'd missed. It was so different to talk together, in the same room, inches away from each other, rather than over the phone. And she was happy, but the anxiety continued to crawl up her arms, burning into a loose-limbed unsteadiness. Maybe she shouldn't say anything. Maybe she could talk later. Maybe now was a bad time.

They fell back into long-accustomed patterns after dinner- James putting the leftovers away while she washed dishes. It was almost hypnotic- the warm lights of the kitchen, the heat of the water, the clean scent of the soap, the steady rhythm- and the words slipped out of her without preamble, almost without her realizing it.

"I've been thinking," she said. "What if...we had another child?"

The words hung heavy in the air. She stood very still, her hands submerged in the water, and James said nothing. Why wasn't he saying anything?

"Not...I mean, I don't want to get pregnant again," she said quickly. "But...maybe fostering? Eventually adopting?"

He still wasn't saying anything. Why wasn't he saying anything?

James slowly crossed over to her and leaned back against the counter. "What made you think of that?" he asked.

For a moment she thought about bluffing, coming up with some kind of somewhat plausible story that he would believe. But he wouldn't buy it, he knew her too well.

She pulled her gloves off and draped them over the edge of the sink. "Last month, JJ and Hotch's kids came by, and I...I don't know," she said. "It just reminded me of...of how much I miss being a mom." She looked down at the sink, staring at the soap bubbles popping softly on the surface of the water. "I think I could do it again. I think...I think I want to do it again."

She looked up at James, almost afraid, but he was smiling, that soft sort of smile that he only saved for her. "I think I want to try it again too," he said.

Relief flooded her veins. "Yeah?" she said.

"Uh-huh," he said. "And fostering...yeah, I think we could try for that. It might be tricky, but fostering to adopt is probably the most viable option. Traditional adoptions can take years, but if we get approved to foster, we might get a placement within days."

She raked her hair out of her eyes. "We don't even need to get a baby," she said. "We could always ask for an older child. Five to ten years old, maybe? I've looked into it a little bit, that's a tough age range to find placements for."

"Yeah, five to ten years old sounds good," James said.

"We'd have to rearrange some things to get the house ready, but we should be able to manage it," she said. "You might need to leave Doctors Without Borders, though, so I don't know-"

"That's not a problem," he said. "I've got a standing offer with Good Samaritan, whenever I want to come back they have a place for me in the emergency room." He smiled at her again, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "I haven't heard you this excited in a while."

She sighed. "I don't think I've let myself get excited about this yet," she confessed. She took a step closer to him, tangling her fingers in his shirtsleeves. "I couldn't get excited until I knew you wanted to do this too."

He bent to kiss her softly. "I do," he reassured her. "We can do this. I think we can definitely do this."

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and the hot anxiety in her chest melted away into something brighter and lighter and happier, floating to the surface and popping like soap bubbles. It was going to happen now, she knew it. She was going to be somebody's mother again.

He woke up on the morning of his ninth birthday excited. He hadn't felt excited in a long time, and the feeling was almost foreign. But his mother loved birthdays. No matter what happened, no matter how sick she was, she always had some sort of present for him, always had some kind of cake, always made a big fuss over him.

He pushed back his blankets on his makeshift couch bed and got ready for school quickly. Usually his mother woke up before him on his birthday, but her sleeping patterns had been so strange lately, at least when she was home. She was gone more often than not, spending most of her days at the library doing research. He wasn't sure what she was researching, and she rebuffed his offers to help, and he'd long since stopped pressing her for answers when she was in a bad mood.

He waited as long as possible for her to come out of her room before he needed to leave for school. She didn't emerge, and he crept up to her door to crack it open and peek inside. At least she was there, but she was sleeping, the sheets pulled and twisted haphazardly across the bed. He snuck back out and closed the door behind him. She slept so rarely now; he wasn't going to bother her. He could wait until he got home from school.

At school none of his classmates mentioned his birthday, and he didn't bring it up. Not that he expected anyone to know his birthday, but still. In any case everyone was buzzing about Halloween coming, about costumes and trick or treating and candy. He was excited about that too; he was trying to figure out what kind of costume he could put together, and Riley had already asked him to come trick or treating with him in his neighborhood.

Everything began to crumble during the last hour of class.

He was reading ahead in his math textbook, working out some more advanced equations in his head, and the teacher called his name. Quickly he slammed the book shut, pinching his fingers in his haste- she didn't take kindly to him working ahead.

"Spencer, it's your birthday today," she said. "Did your mom bring in anything for you to share with the class?"

His classmates swiveled to stare at him. He shrank back in his seat. "Um...no, ma'am," he said, barely above a whisper.

His teacher raised an eyebrow. "Oh, well, then," she said. "Never mind."

He slunk back farther, shame turning into a red embarrassed flush across his cheeks and rising up to his ears. Everybody's parents sent something into class on their birthday- candy or cupcakes or brownies. Not that his mother would have had money for that, or time, or energy, but he could have at least thought ahead enough to tell the teacher privately that he didn't have anything. He already had a reputation for being the weird kid, the quiet kid, the kid whose clothes didn't fit and his hair was too long and he got free lunch and his school supplies were cheap and falling apart. This wasn't going to help him at all.

He went straight home after school. The front door was left unlocked, but his mother was gone again. He peeked around in her bedroom, looking for something that might possibly be a birthday present, and checked the kitchen for a grocery store cake.

Nothing.

Spencer sat down on the couch and pulled his blankets around his shoulders, even though it did nothing to warm him back up. He switched on the television just to have light and noise and color, and he laid down quietly. It was too early to go to bed, but he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and for once he wasn't hungry. He pressed his fist against his mouth, almost as if he wanted the comfort of sucking his thumb but didn't dare, and he stared ahead blankly.

His mother came back after midnight, carrying an armload of books and notebooks. The TV was still on but she floated past him, not bothering to check on him or turn off the television. She closed the bedroom door, and then he allowed himself to cry.

But the next morning he got up and washed the sticky tear stains from his cheeks and went to school anyway. He was nine now, he was older, he could take care of himself just fine.

Halloween arrived a few days later, but somehow it had lost some of its shine. He didn't bother with a costume after all; he didn't feel like it anymore, and it was too cold for all of his ideas anyway. Riley had a fancy store bought costume, and his friends were all dressed like superheroes and cartoon characters. But no one mentioned his lack of a costume, which didn't surprise him. Riley's friends seemed to just tolerate him because Riley liked him.

Some of his excitement surged back when trick or treating started. Riley's parents had deemed him old enough to go out without them, as long as he stayed in a group with his friends and didn't go off on his own. Spencer hung back on the edge of the group to avoid Riley's mother noticing him, keeping his eyes down. But once they got going it was actually kind of fun. The neighborhood was well lit, filled with parents walking back and forth with their little ones dressed like ballerinas and vampires, and at every house people gave them big handfuls of candy. He'd brought a pillowcase with him, and before long it was full and heavy.

Riley's parents had given him a strict nine o'clock curfew, and the other kids dispersed fast when his phone alarm chimed, running home to their own families and their own houses. Spencer found himself alone when the group dissolved, standing on the sidewalk with a pillowcase full of candy, his bare legs in his shorts prickling with goosebumps from the cold.

He walked home slowly, eating skittles one by one and savoring the sweetness and the waxy texture. For a moment he debated going straight home, but he didn't want to go quite yet. His mother was in one of her bad times again, wearing down paths in the carpet and pulling at her hair and furiously chain smoking while she mumbled passages from her new book aloud. He wasn't ready for that.

He stopped at the entrance of the park, debating. It was dark, and technically the park was closed, but maybe he could hide out there for a little while.

But before he could decide, someone bumped into him, knocking the bag out of his hand and spilling candy on the concrete. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, kiddo," the man said. "Here, let me help you pick that up."

He scrambled to grab everything. "That's okay," he said.

The man dumped the candy into the pillowcase. "Sorry, bud, I think some of it rolled down into the sewer drain," he said.

Spencer swallowed hard. "That's okay," he said again, even though he knew that he was probably going to ration out candy for the next week or two to eat when he wasn't at school.

"No, it's not okay," the man said, shaking his head. "Hey, there's a 7-11 right next to the park. How about I get you some more candy to make up for it?" Spencer hesitated. "Anything you want. Full sizes."

"Okay," he said in a small voice, and he followed the stranger.

The inside of the 7-11 was bright and cheerful, the air thick with the smell of pizza grease and gasoline. Spencer shivered as he stepped into the warmth. "Pick out whatever you like, buddy," the man said. "You hungry? I can get you a hot dog or something."

His stomach growled before he could think it through. "Yes, please," he said gratefully.

True to his word, the man allowed him to get a pack of twizzlers and a full sized chocolate bar, and got him a hot dog and a tray of nachos. "Thank you," he said, almost shyly, his arms laden down.

The man nodded towards a bench. "I'll keep you company while you eat," he said.

Spencer climbed up and popped the lid on the nachos first. They weren't much to speak of, just round yellow chips and plasticky orange cheese sauce, but it was hot and he'd never tasted anything so good. For a moment he forgot his manners and shoveled them into his mouth, smearing cheese on his cheek and dropping crumbs down the front of his shirt.

The man laughed, not unkindly. "Wow, you were hungry, weren't you, little guy?" he said.

He gulped hard, forcing himself to slow down. "Sorry," he said.

"No, no, don't be sorry," he said. "You're a growing kid. I remember eating like that when I was seven too."

Spencer wiped around his mouth. "I'm nine," he said. "I turned nine on Wednesday."

"Really?" the man said. "Thought you were a little younger than that."

He set the empty nacho tray aside and picked up the hot dog, pulling the foil back. Funny, before, in Las Vegas, he hated hot dogs. His father would make them when his mother was too sick to make anything for dinner, boiling them in water on the stove and putting too much ketchup and mustard on top. Now he thought they were delicious.

"I see you in the park sometimes," the man commented. "You like playing chess, don't you?" Spencer nodded, his mouth still full. "You're very talented."

He crumpled up the empty foil wrapper. "I beat most of the people I play with, even the grownups," he said.

The man laughed. "You do, huh?" he said. "I'll have to play with you some time, then."

Spencer slid off the bench and gathered up his trash. "Thank you for the food," he said politely. "I should probably go home, though, it's getting late."

The man glanced at his watch, then up above at the parking lot lights and the security cameras in the gas station. "I suppose so," he said. "It's been a pleasure to meet you-"

"Spencer," he said.

The man smiled, the lights glaring off his thick lensed glasses. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Spencer," he said. "I'm Gary. I hope I see you again soon."