It was his fault. Nothing bad would have happened if it wasn't for him.

The first few days of Christmas break stretched out in monotony. His parents had never really been one for holidays; last year his mother had settled with KFC for dinner and reading Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and gave him a couple of hardback books in a gift bag. And that was fine. He wasn't sure if anyone had a lavish Christmas like it was depicted in commercials. Santa Claus's modern incarnation was created to sell Coca Cola products, after all.

But he was so bored cooped up in the apartment, and he was hungry, and his mother's book wasn't going well at all, which put her in a foul mood. He tried to clean, but they'd run out of garbage bags and cleaning supplies, and he tried to read, but he didn't have anything new to hold his interest. It was snowing hard, but the novelty of his first snow had long since worn off into a cynical disgust against the dirty slush that soaked into his only pair of wearable shoes. Now the snow just meant that it was too cold to go outside to the park.

It was late afternoon, on Monday- a week before he went back to school for his second semester of fourth grade. He hadn't seen his mother since the night before. She was locked up in her room still; he could hear her talking to herself in a steady indistinct murmur through the thin walls. He debated about knocking on the door and asking if they could order food, or if she wanted him to go to the grocery store a couple of blocks away to get something. But that could be risky.

He slid down carefully from the couch and picked his way through the cluttered living room to the kitchen. There was a crumpled box of hot chocolate packets on the back of a shelf, he was sure of it, but he wasn't sure if there was anything inside. Diana had a penchant for putting empty containers back on the shelves instead of throwing them away and he'd been disappointed on more than a few occasions. But he was in luck- the box was still half full.

The microwave had stopped working a few weeks ago, so he used an empty wine box to reach the sink and fill up the kettle. It was a little perilous, and it wouldn't be as good with water instead of milk, but hopefully his mother would like it.

He climbed up on the counter to grab a mug and poured the powder in, then took the kettle off the burner before it could start whistling. The thin ceramic of the mug was too hot against his small palms, but he balanced it carefully as he made his way to his mother's closed bedroom door.

"Mom?" he called. "I got you a drink."

No answer.

The mug was almost unbearably hot now. "Mom?" he tried again, bumping his elbow against the door in an attempt at a knock. "Can you open the door please?"

He nudged at the doorknob with his elbow until the flimsy door swung open; he nearly lost his balance but he kept the mug upright. Diana didn't even acknowledge him. She sat on the windowsill with a cigarette in her hand, tapping ashes out the open window even though the cold winter wind was blowing into the room.

"Mommy?" he said tentatively.

She still didn't answer him. Her lips were moving as if she was still speaking to herself, but no sound came out. He shivered.

"I brought you some hot chocolate," he said. "Is your book going okay?"

Diana blinked, as if she'd been asleep and he'd just woken her up. "It's not," she said hoarsely. Ashes crumbled onto her sweater sleeve, but she didn't brush them away. "It's not going well. I might have to start over."

His heart sank. "Do we have to stay here longer, then?" he asked.

She scowled. "What do you mean?"

He shifted his weight. "Will we have to stay here longer? Before we go home to Las Vegas?" he said.

"No," she scoffed. Her face twisted up, sharply shadowed, almost a stranger's face. "We can't go back there. I thought you'd figured that out by now. I thought you were smarter than that, Spencer."

His heart dropped. "We can't go back?" he repeated in a tiny voice. "What about our house?"

Diana sort of laughed, taking another drag on her cigarette, but she didn't answer. This was the version of her that he feared the most- withdrawn, sullen, her words cold and harsh and biting- because she wasn't his mother, she was a stranger with his mother's face, and he had to wait for her to come back and be herself again.

Spencer took a step back, the mug still burning his hands, and looked for a spot to set it down. There were pages stacked everywhere, on every conceivable surface- yellow notebook paper covered in his mother's scribbled handwriting in scratchy blue ballpoint pen. He shifted a stack on the dresser, trying to find enough room to set down the mug.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Diana demanded.

He jumped in surprise, hot chocolate splashing over his hands and the papers. "Ow!" he yelped, and suddenly his mother's thin hand closed around his wrist.

"Don't touch that!" she screamed. Her hand clamped tight like a vise on his wrist. "You ruined it! You know you're not supposed to fucking touch my work! No one can see my work!"

"I'm sorry!" he shrieked. He grabbed at her fingers, trying to pry them loose. "I'm sorry, Mommy, I didn't mean to!"

She swatted him hard across his backside. "You're spying on me!" she shouted. "You're going to tell them, aren't you? How dare you?"

"Please let go!" Spencer begged, scratching desperately at her tight clutch. "Let go, Mommy, let go of me!"

She kept screaming, but she wasn't making sense anymore, her words tumbling out in disorganized confusion. Spencer went limp in her grip as she shook him, trying to stay still and silent, waiting for her tirade to wear itself out, letting his thoughts go quiet and empty. He just needed to wait, and let her anger run its course, and then she'd be herself again.

Suddenly Diana struck him hard across the face. He howled and dropped to his knees, his arm twisting behind his back. "Stop crying!" she shouted. She let go of him and covered her ears; he scrambled back from her, pressing himself small between the wall and the dresser. "Stop, stop, just...stop making noise, stop it, I can't think, I can't think straight."

He covered his mouth with his hands, gasping for breath, trying to silence himself, and he shut his eyes tight. Diana kept talking, but the fire had gone out of her, she sounded sad and faded and small. He heard her footsteps on the carpet, the click of the door closing, and then all was silent.

Spencer burst into tears as soon as he was sure he was alone. His shoulder and elbow ached where she'd pulled too hard, and his cheek smarted. She didn't mean it. She didn't mean any of it, he knew she didn't.

Mommy is sick, his father had told him, over and over again, for as long as he could remember. And when he was old enough he did his own research- found books in the library, looked up the long words printed on her pill bottles, read through the medical files his mother thought she'd hidden away in a drawer.

He just had to be good, and wait for her to come back. She rarely lashed out like this, only when she was at her most distressed. Her symptoms almost never manifested into anything physical. It was his fault. He shouldn't have bothered her.

A few hours passed, and he crawled out from behind the dresser, wincing when he tried to put weight on his sore wrist. His mother was gone, the door left unlocked and slightly ajar in her wake. He closed it up and turned the lock. It wasn't the first time she wandered out of the house, and it wouldn't be the last. He just had to be patient.

A day passed. He laid down on the couch to sleep, but he stayed awake listening for her knock.

Two days passed. He cleaned up the dried hot chocolate puddles and cleaned up the mug and rewrote the ruined papers, copying her disjointed words as best as he could.

Three days. He put more newspaper up over the windows, adding more layers to Diana's tape and paper shield until the light could barely shine through.

Four days. He was starving. He'd rationed out the hot chocolate mix and the ramen packets and the snack cakes as best as he could, but there was nothing left. Diana had left her wallet behind, so he took a couple crumpled dollar bills and bought bread and peanut butter from the 7-11.

Five days. She'd never been gone this long.

Six days. There was something wrong with the heat in the apartment; it kept clanking and chugging and spitting out burned dust. It still worked, but he was afraid it wouldn't keep up much longer.

Seven days. A whole week.

He had to go back to school. He didn't want to go, but he was already sick of bread and peanut butter and the allure of a hot lunch was enough to convince him.

It rained hard on his walk to school, cold enough to turn to slush before it reached the ground, and his hoodie and his sneakers and his only pair of jeans were soaked through by the time he made it to the classroom. The other kids bustled around him as they hung up their coats and backpacks, showing off the Christmas toys they'd smuggled to school and boasting about what they'd done during their two week vacation. Spencer hung up his wet hoodie on his hook and sat down at his desk, his long untidy hair dripping onto the shoulders of his short sleeved shirt. A headache was beginning to pulse at his temples, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

The bell rang; he leaned his chin in his hand as the teacher addressed the class in her dull, dry voice. She picked one of her favorites to pass out multiplication worksheets. Spencer stared at the paper when it was placed in front of him. The numbers blurred in his vision.

He picked up a pen from his desk and started slowly working through the problems. It wasn't difficult, he just didn't feel like doing it. The pen was almost out of ink, leaving a slight indentation but no color in spots.

"Spencer Reid!"

He raised his head as his classmates swiveled to stare at him. His teacher frowned. "No, sir, we do not do our classwork in pen," she said.

He looked down at the page. "But I've got them all right," he said.

The teacher took up the paper and placed a new one down in front of him without looking at his answers. There was a little tear in the top right corner. His mother would be so upset by that. "Do it again, in pencil," she said.

His lower lip wobbled. "But I've got them all right," he repeated.

She tore up his paper and threw it away. "Do it again, please," she said. "Don't argue."

His vision blurred. "I have a headache," he said. "Can I go to the nurse's office, please?"

"Class has barely started, Spencer," she said. "Stop procrastinating and do your work."

His heart thudded against his ribcage. "My head hurts, really bad," he said. "Please let me go."

"Not right now. Do your work."

He pulled at the rip in the paper. It tore easily, making a satisfying little noise. Somehow it made him feel better.

"Spencer, enough."

He pulled too hard and the paper ripped all the way down the middle. "My head hurts!" he said, and he started to cry.

The teacher huffed in irritation. "I've had enough, young man," she said. "Stop crying." She dropped a third copy of the worksheet down on his desk and pried the ripped halves from his hands. Tears dripped off his chin and dropped onto the printed multiplication problems.

"Spencer, I will send you to the principal's office if you don't stop that right now," she snapped. "We've only been back from Christmas break for five minutes, I will not tolerate this kind of behavior. Don't make me have to call your parents."

He cried harder. His classmates were beginning to whisper to each other, watching him with wide eyes.

The teacher pointed to the door. "Fine," she said. "Go to the nurse's office. Don't come back until you're ready to behave."

He stumbled out of his desk and threw himself at the door. The hallway was quiet except for the sound of his shoes on the scuffed floor, and he half ran all the way to the nurse's office.

It was empty when he got there, too early in the morning for the school nurse to arrive, so he sank down to the floor and huddled against the wall. He stuck his thumb in his mouth, his shoulders still shaking. His father used to scold him when he sucked his thumb, but now it was the only thing that gave him any kind of comfort. He leaned his cheek against the wall, the heat of his tears the only warm thing left around him.

Maybe his mother would be home when school was over, and she'd laugh about how she'd let so much time go by on accident, and she'd kiss his cheek and get him something to eat and he'd fall asleep to her reading from Proust or Hugo or Dostoevsky.

His hope wasn't much, but it was all he had left.

Alex turned the key in the lock and let herself inside. It was funny- they'd lived in this house for twelve years, but already it seemed like unfamiliar territory.

The new house was closer to Quantico, and closer to the hospital where James would work when he settled back down stateside; it was a bigger place, with beautiful windows and a big backyard and a space for her office. And there was a perfect bedroom for a child, with a bay window overlooking the yard and flanked with floor to ceiling bookshelves waiting to be filled. They'd already moved most of their things to the new house, painting the walls to their liking and placing the old furniture in new rooms. There were just a few things left in the old place- in the basement, the attic, the first floor bedroom with the door shut tight. James would be back in town next weekend, they'd finish it up then. For now she just needed to grab a few things before she drove across town to the new house.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty foyer. It was strange to see the house so barren. She felt almost homesick for a minute, for the way things used to be. But the house was already sold, and there was no going back now.

She took off her coat and set it down with her keys and her phone on the kitchen counter, brushing away rapidly melting snow from the fabric. The team had spent the past week in Maine, fending off a blizzard while they worked, and they'd returned to snow on the ground in Virginia, dirty slush heaped on the side of the road and cold rain soaking into everything.

She leaned her elbows on the counter and pressed her fingertips to her temples. The case had been hard, and when she wasn't working she was running through the list of things left to do while they waited to see if their application to foster was accepted. They'd applied for a foster-to-adopt dual licensing; so far they'd made it through the training and the interviews. Once the new house was complete they could finish the home study.

But there was a nagging little doubt in the back of her mind. What if they weren't accepted? What if they didn't pass? She and James both worked such hectic jobs, what if that prevented them from fostering or adopting? What if they were denied and had to start all over again with a new agency, a new set of hoops to jump through?

Maybe she just wasn't meant to be a parent. Maybe she just needed to rip the bandaid off and accept it.

Alex straightened up slowly. There was one step she'd been putting off for months- almost two years, at this point. Maybe now she needed to do it. Get it over with.

Without fully realizing her decision she found herself standing in front of the first floor bedroom, her hand on the doorknob. She paused, but before she could stop herself, she opened the door and turned on the lights.

It was almost like stepping into the past. Very little had changed since the day she and James had closed the door. Mostly it was the medical equipment that had been removed, since it wasn't needed any longer. His wheelchair had been donated to a grateful family that she'd refused to meet, and the hospice team had removed everything else.

It looked like any other child's room now. She remembered painting the walls in the middle of her pregnancy, after they'd found out they were expecting a boy. James had teased her because she kept changing her mind- pale blue, then sage green, then a yellow so light it was almost cream. In the end she chose a soft blue tinged with gray, an ocean color, serene and peaceful.

The nursery furniture had arrived while James was at work and they stayed up late that night to put the pieces together. It made it feel more real somehow, to have the crib waiting for its tiny occupant. But the crib had been swapped out for a bed on his third birthday, placed at a height that made it easier for them to move him.

Alex sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand resting on the pillow. She'd heard other grieving mothers in her group say that they would lie down in their child's empty bed, breathing in their scent left behind on pillows and blankets. That had never worked to comfort her. The room smelled soapy and medicinal in those last days, everything scrubbed clean and safe.

She gazed around the room. Everything had been chosen so carefully- the artwork, the furniture, the bedding. There was a bird feeder outside the window too. He loved watching the birds, his little face lighting up like a firecracker when he saw them. There were certain things he loved- the birds outside his window, the sound of her voice when she read to him, being cuddled on James's lap. He could never tell them those things, but she knew.

Her pregnancy had been so normal- textbook, even. There was nothing remarkable about her labor or his birth, either. They'd brought him home and settled into the exhausted joy of parenthood without thinking that anything could be wrong with their perfect child. And even when she wracked her brain, thinking back over her pregnancy and her labor and that first idyllic year of his life, she couldn't find anything that she missed, something she could have caught that would prevent all of this.

She exhaled, the breath too loud in the silence. He would be eleven now, halfway through sixth grade. A tumultuous age for a child on the brink of the teenage years, filled with afterschool activities and science fair projects and growth spurts, old enough to be dropped off at the movies with friends but young enough to still want a goodnight hug and kiss from his parents.

She needed to stop torturing herself. Even if he was still alive, there would be no sports practices or club meetings, no friends to have playdates with, no talking back and tearful apologies afterwards. He never walked, never ran. He never spoke- no mama, no daddy, nothing. He had his own language instead, chirps and cries and laughs interspersed with a couple of clumsy hand signs. She and James could translate, but there was so much he still couldn't communicate, and sometimes he would cry and scream in frustration because he couldn't tell them what he wanted to say, and she would cry too because all she wanted was to understand him.

Alex got up. She left the room long enough to pick up flat boxes and tape and garbage bags and sharp scissors. And she started packing.

The clothes went first. He was tall for nine years old, almost as long as she was when she laid herself down beside him in his bed. She ripped down jackets and pants from the closet, pulled pajamas and shirts from the dresser drawers, took down pairs of shoes that had never touched the floor. All of it could be donated.

The books she kept, stacking them into the bottoms of cardboard boxes. She refused to stop and think about them, keeping the memories at bay as she packed them quickly. Peter Pan with the lovely oil paintings, Alice in Wonderland with the annotations around the original Tenniel illustrations, paperbacks of James and the Giant Peach and The Borrowers and Charlotte's Web, full sets of Narnia and the original Boxcar Children and How to Train Your Dragon. She had always imagined sharing books with her children. And she was never sure if he understood the stories, but she knew he loved the sound of her voice. He couldn't sleep if she didn't read a chapter to him.

It took less time to pack up the room than she thought. And it was easier to be ruthless than she expected. There was so much of it that she didn't want to carry to the new house, that she was ready to leave behind. Someone else would buy these things from a thrift store, take them home to their children, give them a new life, without any idea of the grief behind them.

The bedding she took care of last. She didn't want to take it, but she didn't want to just throw it away, but it didn't seem right to donate. Her baby took his last breaths in this little bed, in her arms. They had tried so hard, for so long- applying for every experimental treatment and study, traveling to other hospitals that promised progress and delivered nothing, arranging their lives with their son at the center. James had been the one to realize when it was time and they needed to call for palliative care, even if neither of them were ready. The last few days of his life they both stayed in his room, never leaving him alone for a second, and she held him as they disconnected the feeding tube and the oxygen cannula and the heart monitors. And then she never stepped into the room again.

In the end, she threw the bedding away.

She tied off the plastic bags and taped the boxes shut. They had already agreed to get rid of the furniture; the donation bags could wait for that day. She carried the boxes out to her car one by one, stacking them in the trunk and the backseat. And then she stepped into the room one last time, looking around at the empty ocean blue walls and the barren furniture.

James had suggested the name Ethan. It had been a relief to find the right name for their child; boy names were so much more difficult than girl names. Ethan meant firm, enduring, strong. Long-lived.

James gave her free rein on a middle name, teasing her gently about picking something that didn't come from a Russian novel or an Old English narrative poem. She'd chosen Fenmore. An old-fashioned name, a "heavily embroidered" name as James liked to say. It meant dear love. She had a couple of names milling around in the back of her mind, just in case, but when they placed her son in her arms she knew. Ethan Fenmore Blake. Her enduring love.

Alex turned off the light and closed the door behind her. She picked up her coat and her car keys from the counter, and she left the house. It was just a house, and it was just things, and her son would always be her son, even if she couldn't hold him. Even if a new child came into her life.

The car was freezing cold, but she didn't wait for it to warm up before she backed out of the driveway and started for home. She brushed a stray tear off her cheek, but strangely she didn't feel sad. Instead, it felt like she turned another page in a book, reaching a new chapter, ready for what might come next.

Maybe she was ready now, really. Maybe there was a child waiting for her and James already, a child who grieved like they did for their own individual sadness. A child who needed them.

Maybe she was ready, and maybe she needed them too.

"You have five minutes, everybody, so hurry quick."

Spencer dragged his feet as his classmates darted past him, shrieking happily with their arms filled with valentine envelopes. Every desk had a shoebox covered in pink and red construction paper and covered in stickers and hearts and glitter. Every desk except his, of course.

He sidled up to the window and leaned on the sill, pressing his forehead against the cool glass as he gazed down onto the street below. Dirty slush piled up on either side of the sidewalks; it hadn't stopped snowing in a week. Already he was dreading the walk home from school.

Suddenly he froze. He could see a thin figure in a gray sweater walking down the street, striding with purpose, her short blonde hair blowing back in the brisk midwinter wind.

"Mom," he whispered. He pressed his palms flat against the window, his heartbeat speeding up. It was her. It had to be her.

"Spencer, take your seat please," his teacher said.

He glanced back at her in desperation, then looked back towards the street. She was walking quickly, disappearing fast. Even if he ran out of school now, he wouldn't be able to catch up.

"Spencer Reid, take your seat. If I have to ask you again, you will sit out during recess tomorrow."

He dragged himself back to his desk and sat down, his toes barely brushing the floor. This was the first time he'd spotted her since she left the apartment two months ago. Maybe he'd be able to find her again.

The other kids were busy shaking their valentine boxes and trying to peek inside. Spencer slunk down further in his chair and put his thumb in his mouth, his other hand beginning to tangle and pull at his hair. It seemed like the habit was swallowing him up and he was unable to stop, but it was the only thing that made him feel like he wasn't going to fall apart.

The teacher directed one of the girls to hand out the reading textbooks, but he zoned out, ignoring the instructions she was giving. He was thinking through the direction he'd seen his mother walking, what streets she might cross, if she might stop somewhere. He had to find her. He had to.

He couldn't keep living on his own. The cash in her abandoned wallet had long since run out, and the credit cards were all maxed. If it wasn't for free lunch at school and scrounging around for loose change, he might not be able to eat at all. Although if he was lucky, he'd run into Gary in the park. Usually he saw him on Saturdays; he would challenge him to a few games of chess, lose everyone, and offer to buy him a snack at the gas station as a winner's prize. That tended to be the only food he got on weekends until he could get back to school on Monday. Sometimes Riley would join him at the park too, although he usually got bored watching them play chess and begged for him to come play instead. Sometimes Riley invited him over to his house, but he never accepted.

His teacher tapped him sharply on the shoulder. "Get your thumb out of your mouth, that's disgusting," she said. He scowled, but he obeyed, wiping his thumb carefully on the hem of his shirt. "Start on page seventy-eight. All the questions. Go on."

He rolled his eyes. It took him just a few minutes to read through the story, but he just didn't feel like doing the questions. Classwork wasn't important. He just wanted to leave and go looking for his mother.

"Ten more minutes, and then I'm taking up your assignments," the teacher warned.

Spencer huffed in frustration. He grabbed his pencil and started scribbling down answers, barely paying attention to what he was writing. His teacher wouldn't care what he wrote, as long as it was completed.

The assignments were collected at the end of the ten minutes and the teacher allowed them to tear into their valentine cards and candy. Spencer stuck his thumb back in his mouth and tugged on his hair again. His stomach was hurting again, a dull steady ache that burned up into his chest, but he didn't dare ask to go to the nurse again. He'd been told that he asked too often to go to the office, that he was just trying to get out of class. And at this point his head or his stomach always hurt, he was just sort of used to it.

The bell rang and he grabbed up his backpack and hoodie from his hook on the back wall, dodging the bigger and older kids in his class. His hoodie was disgusting at this point; he was rationing the remaining laundry detergent and washing his clothes in the sink since the laundromat was out of the question, but he could never seem to get it fully clean.

His class filed into the hallway, catching up to the other fourth graders. Their teacher was smiling and chatting as she walked with them. "Straight lines, please, fourth grade," his teacher called.

He pulled his hood over his head as he walked outside. Snow still fell in heavy wet flakes, dotting his shoulders and soaking immediately into his clothes. He pulled on the straps of his backpack and surveyed the street.

"Hey, Spencer, wait up!" Riley called, running after him. Spencer paused as he caught up, his arms straining to hold onto his valentine box. "Hey, where's your box?"

Spencer bit his chapped lower lip. Riley didn't need to know. "Forgot it in the classroom," he lied. "I'll get it tomorrow."

Riley didn't pick up on the lie. "You want my twizzlers?" he asked. "I hate them, and I have like six packs in here."

"Yeah, I'll take them," Spencer said. His stomach rumbled. Lunch was a long time ago, but he could hold off a little longer before eating the candy for dinner.

Riley tore open a chocolate bar, the wrapper falling to the sidewalk. "You wanna go play in the park for a while?" he asked, talking with his mouth full. "Or you can come over to my house, my mom's at work until five."

"We can go to the park," Spencer said stiffly. He wanted to say no, but he didn't know how.

Riley chatted brightly as they walked, seemingly unbothered by the snow in his shiny blue ski jacket and his striped mittens, his blond curls poking out of a matching beanie. The park was almost empty when they got there and Riley made a beeline for the climbing structure, dropping his backpack and lunchbox and valentine box on a picnic table as he ran. Spencer followed him a little more slowly. Running would take too much energy that he didn't have.

"Hey, Spencer!"

He paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "Hi, Mr. Michaels," he said.

Gary waved at him as he walked closer. "Aw, you can just call me Gary," he said. He smiled, but Spencer couldn't quite see his eyes through the glare on his glasses. "You wanna play? Chess tables are open."

"No, thank you," he said. "My friend wants to play."

"Oh, the little blond boy?" Gary said. "He doesn't seem to like to play chess like we do."

Spencer shrugged. "I know," he said.

There was something strange about Gary Michaels, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was antsy, shifting his weight rapidly with his hands deep in his coat pockets, his eyes darting back and forth as if he was anticipating something that Spencer couldn't see.

"Hey, guess what?" Gary said. "I just got a brand new puppy. He's real cute, eight weeks old. A cocker spaniel mix. You wanna come see him?"

Spencer shook his head. "No, thank you," he said again.

Riley ran towards them, his sneakers spraying slush across the sparse winter grass. "Spencer, whatcha doing?" he asked. "Come on, I'm waiting."

"Mr. Michaels was telling me about his new puppy," Spencer said.

Riley's blue eyes brightened. "I want a puppy!" he said. "My mom said no, but my dad said I could get one next month for my birthday." He looked around. "Where's the puppy, I want to see!"

Gary's mouth curled up in the corners. "Oh, I just wanted to bring Spencer," he said.

"No, I want to see the puppy too!" Riley said, stamping his foot. "Come on, Spencer, let's go!"

"Yeah, Spencer, let's go," Gary echoed. He placed a hand on Spencer's shoulder, his thumb brushing against the side of his neck.

Riley took a step back. "Spencer?" he said. "You know this guy, right? Like he's your uncle or something?"

"No, I just play chess in the park with him sometimes," he shrugged.

Riley's eyes narrowed. "We shouldn't go, then," he said. "He's a stranger."

Gary laughed, thin and hollow. "Oh, I'm not a stranger," he said. "Spencer and I are friends, aren't we?"

"I don't think so," Riley said. "Spencer, didn't your parents ever teach you about stranger danger?" He jutted out his chin. "I'm going to go home, and I'm going to tell my mom."

"Oh, no, you don't have to do that," Gary said. He laughed again, the weight of his hand pressing down on Spencer's narrow shoulder. "Spencer's just my friend."

Spencer wasn't listening. On the opposite side of the street, moving quickly, was the tall blonde woman in the gray sweater again.

"Mommy!" he screamed. He broke free of Gary's startled grip and ran towards her. "Mom, wait! Come back!"

He ran into the street without bothering to check for traffic. A car slammed on the brakes and blared the horn, stopping inches from him, but he didn't stop. He kept running, his breath catching in his lungs and a stitch burning in his side.

"Mom, stop!" he shouted. The worn out soles of his sneakers slipped on a patch of ice. "Mommy, please, please, stop!"

Diana kept walking. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, running and running and running without making any progress, his heart beating so hard in his chest that he thought it might explode.

Diana stopped at an intersection and pressed the silver button for the crosswalk. Spencer stumbled into her, flinging his arms around her waist. "Mommy, Mommy, I missed you," he sobbed. "Please come home."

The woman glanced down at him and pulled her airpods out of her ears. With growing horror he realized her hair was a little too long, and she was wearing mascara and red lipstick, and she was too young. "What the hell?" she said, bemused. "I'm not your mom."

Spencer stumbled back. Bile rose up in the back of his throat. It wasn't his mother. He hadn't seen her from his classroom window. He still had no idea where she was.

The young woman frowned in concern. "Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked. "Are you lost?"

He fled.

He ran all the way back to the empty apartment, trying to keep his tears at bay, his heart cracking and shattering in his chest. All of the hope he'd had earlier was completely gone.

He got the key into the lock and turned it, but when he flipped the light switch nothing happened.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no, no…."

He tried other light switches. He checked the circuit breakers. He unplugged and plugged in the living room lamp.

The power had been cut off. And this time there was nothing he could do. The credit cards were maxed out completely, there was no cash left. Until his mother came back and fixed things, he wouldn't be able to get electricity back.

Spencer sank down on the floor, not bothering to take his backpack off, and burst into tears. He curled himself into a tight little ball, pressing his cheek into the filthy carpet, and he cried until he was exhausted and nauseated, his body drained of energy.

Eventually he forced himself to sit up and wipe at his wet cheeks, his chest catching in hitching sniffles. The apartment was dark and cold now, and he wasn't sure what he could do.

He double checked the front door to make sure it was locked, then went into his mother's room. Carefully he took off his dirty shoes and his wet hoodie and his battered backpack, and then he climbed into Diana's bed, still fully dressed. The sheets and blankets were icy cold and he huddled himself up in an effort to keep warm. The pillows had lost his mother's scent, drugstore shampoo and patchouli and cigarettes, no matter how he tried to conjure it up. He still had the candy in his pocket, and even though he wasn't very hungry anymore, he ate it anyway, just to have something in his system.

Sleep evaded him. He was too cold to sleep, too shell-shocked. And he was afraid of sleeping too late and missing school, so he ended up in a light doze until he could hear the clatter of garbage trucks outside, signalling early morning.

Without electricity it was too cold to shower. He settled for splashing cold water on his face and brushing his teeth and changing into a different shirt. His shoes were still damp and cold and he didn't have any clean socks, but he tied the laces anyway and pulled the hoodie on.

At least it wasn't snowing, but there was a sharp wind that bit at his face and pulled at his hair as he walked to school. He was shivering by the time he made it inside the building; despite the immediate blast of heat when he walked into the doors he was still freezing cold.

He walked into the classroom and stopped dead in his tracks. His classmates sat at their desks in subdued silence; the two fourth grade teachers were talking in hushed voices at the front of the room. Something was wrong. He just wasn't sure what.

He hung up his hoodie and backpack and took his seat quietly. The girls in front of him whispered back and forth, and he couldn't help but listen.

"I heard it was two men in a white van."

"I heard they knocked him out with a baseball bat."

"The FBI is coming, they're gonna talk to everybody."

"No way, are you serious? The FBI?"

"Uh-huh, kidnapped kids is like a really big deal. I saw on TV that if they don't find them fast...they're probably dead."

"Poor Riley."

Spencer pressed his hands over his mouth. They were talking about Riley. Riley was missing. Somebody kidnapped Riley.

He thought back to Gary Michaels, his eyes blank behind his glasses, his nervous voice rising up tight and high.

Somebody kidnapped Riley, and it was his fault.

Everything was always his fault.

Author's Notes:

Hey y'all! I took a little hiatus, but I'm back and I'm happy to be here!

If you follow me on tumblr (themetaphorgirl), I was keeping updated there. I've just been so exhausted! There's been massive layoffs at my job, I've had a lot of health issues thanks to my chronic illness, and I've been under a lot of stress. I took a break from writing, but I think it really helped! I feel like this is some of the strongest writing I've put out in a while (at least I think).

It's definitely the saddest chapter I've written so far. But...SPENCER AND ALEX WILL FINALLY MEET IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. FINALLY. I AM SO EXCITED. IT'S FINALLY TIME!

Thank you so much for sticking around and reading, and please let me know what you thought!