Something Wonderful

by MozaWesterburg

By nine years old, the mouse knows he's never getting adopted out of the orphanage. But that's the least of his problems. After saving another of his victims, freshman Bradley Thorne acknowledges Stuart as a threat to quiet power over the little kids. Stuart's only hope is to lay low and keep his mouth shut, but the arrival of the Littles might just change everything. Happy 4th!

"Alright. So what are we here for?"

Johnny Biggle turned from the white freezer door, to the tall freshman that stood on his left. In the back of the kitchen, with the lunch ladies out for a mid-morning smoke break—more like a smoke hour, as it usually happened—the two boys snuck back behind the counter, past the industrial sized dishwasher, and up to the freezer.

Bradley Thorne met his question with a sly grin. "Normally, word of this doesn't get away from the upperclassmen. But I'll let you in on a little secret."

"Oh yeah. Like what?"

"Way in the back of the freezer, the lunch ladies keep a stash of ice cream bars for the kids they like the most."

"Shut up. You're lying."

"Don't believe me? Take a look for yourself." And the teen, who stood only slightly shorter than the freezer entryway, grabbed the handle and forcefully shoved it to the right. The door came rattling along its roller until it was all the way open, allowing a chill to snake up against their legs. "No locks or anything."

With the door wide open, Johnny put his hands up to part the curtain of clear plastic strips that hung from the ceiling. Like most students, he'd never really seen the inside of the school's freezer before. Nobody but staff was even allowed in the kitchen. Peering inside, the freezer seemed narrow, with many steel racks lining the walls making up for the lack of space. There was only one lightbox. Bright, but flickery. The boy could barely tell what he was seeing inside the many containers that held the leftovers of their lunches. Anything aside from mashed potatoes looked alien.

Up to that day, Johnny thought he was one of the smarter kids in NYC's Asylum #3, Grade 2. He aced his math tests, was a wiz at tic-tac-toe, and he was even the first kid in his class to anticipate the twist in the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. So when dealing with a 9th Grader, especially one who had never spoken more than a word to him before, he was fairly confident that he could look after himself.

The curtain strips were damp and icy to the touch. He let go of them and wiped his hands in his pants. "Won't they know if some of the bars are missing?" He scrutinized Bradley.

"Definitely. But who are they gonna pin it on if we're already gone when they get back?"

Johnny took a step back. "I don't… I don't know about this."

"That's fine." Bradley put up his hands defensively. "I just thought maybe I'd share a tip with you. You're one of the only kids I trust not to go snitch about something like this. But if you're scared—"

"I'm not scared!" Johnny fired back. Then he shifted his glare to the freezer entrance. Even if the promise of free ice cream, something he hadn't tasted in years, wasn't enough to make him suspend his doubt, the thought of being branded a coward was enough to make him go anyway. "I'm going."

The second grader pushed through the curtain and disappeared. Inside, Johnny looked from shelf to shelf, trying to decide where, amid all the leftovers of the food that fed the entire orphanage, he himself would hide that ice cream. He rounded the L-shaped corner to the right and approached the shelf in the back, tipping one of the lidded square containers up to his eye. Even this close, he was no better at identifying what lay inside. But it was definitely not ice cream.

Something didn't make sense. If there really was a hidden stash, he would have to know where exactly it was. Not let Johnny wander the back of this freezer aimlessly...

He was under the shadow of a tall meat rack, far from the light, when it hit him. I knew it! Johnny spun around, furious. "Bradley—!"

But the shout was deafened by the sound of the door rattling along its rollers. Johnny booked it. His cheap, beaten up sneakers slipped and nearly brought him down on the ice patched floor as he rounded the back rack.

But by the time he reached the door, it was already too late. The last inch of gap closed before Johnny's fingers could reach the pull-style interior handle. With the echo of the door closing in his ear, the boy threw all his might at it, trying to pull it back open. But the freezer was beyond due for a safety check. The vacuum seal made the weak, old handle useless, like a locked car door. Johnny struggled on, shouting to be let out, pounding on the door with one hand as he yanked with the other. He shouted right over the footsteps outside the door, walking calmly and quietly away. He was angry at Bradley, and even more frustrated with himself. But those feelings quickly gave way to a much more powerful sense of dread.

The light flickered. It flickered again. And before a minute had passed, it was off.

---

It was lucky that Stuart had forgotten his thumb sized copy of Thumbelina back in the cafeteria that morning. He had already been told not to take books down there, and this being one of few precious copies of classic literature that the orphanage had ordered for him, Stuart returned to collect the tiny tome before anything could happen to it.

It was still before noon when the mouse carefully hopped down the steps, bathed in dust-flecked sunlight from the stairwell window. The time it took to get down here in the cafeteria and back alone would cost him most of recess, but it was worth it.

He reached the basement, made up mostly of a bright, fluorescent lit cafeteria. On either end facing the stairwell were a set of bathrooms and a doorless boiler room sat in the right corner, furthest from the food line.

On the table in the right corner near the kitchen lay his book, undisturbed. He had just leaned forward on the tabletop to scoop it up when he heard the banging. Stuart froze in place, tail stuck in mid air. The noise was distant, but constant. Like a heartbeat, steady and loud. His mind involuntarily generated images of a monster, trying to break free from its cage. To eat some tiny children, perhaps. Tiny enough to swallow whole.

He shuddered, his body coming back into motion as a chill ran up the tip of his tail, all the way up his spine. Maybe he was too old to really believe in monsters, but the noise still activated a powerful, instinctive drive in the mouse to run.

He fought it off. Whatever was making it demanded investigation. Book in hand, Stuart forced his shaking legs to move, one step at a time, and made his way behind the hot food line, back to the kitchen where the sound was coming from. He didn't know what to expect when he got there.

But as it soon became obvious, he was not the one in danger. The banging noises were coming from within the walk-in freezer. And the voice that the mouse could now hear was that of no monster. "Biggle? Johnny Biggle?!" He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted. "Is that you?!"

"STUART?" The boy's sob exploded from the other side of the door. The mouse's voice was distinctive enough for even the panicked boy to recognize behind the metal door. "Get help! I can't-can't get this thing open!"

"It's okay, s-stay calm!" the mouse assured him, though he was beginning to feel his own heart rate climb as the severity of the situation began to set in. "Just-just hang on! I'll get help!"

There was no point in asking how Johnny got in there to begin with. Explanations would have to wait. Stuart turned and took a few sliding steps towards the exit, but stopped. Turned back to the freezer.

He was nervous. He didn't want to leave Johnny alone. Not with this strong suspicion of why he was in there to begin with.

He turned back towards the freezer and hurriedly studied it. If he were any other fourth grader, he could just pull open the door from this side, no problem. But at his size?

Stuart climbed the work island nearest to the door, but it was too far away to reach the freezer handle, even if he were to jump. He assured Johnny that he was coming to the rescue, then ran to the kitchen. When he came back he brought a lasso made with kitchen twine. He had made it himself, and it was much like the one made of red shoelace upstairs that he'd come to rely on frequently. From the floor, he aimed and managed to get the loop through the handle, bringing it down to slip into a knot around the handle.

He took a deep breath.

He didn't want help. He could do this on his own.

Taking the shoelace in his hands, he wrapped the ends around both his hands and pulled away until the slack was gone. Then pulled hard. The door didn't move. Stuart tried again, this time hoisting the lace over his shoulder and throwing every ounce of his arm and back strength into it. This went on for minutes. His muscles ached and the laces burned like rope against his hand. He then tried climbing the wall, using the shoelace's tightness to traverse to the nearby wall, foot over foot. With his body just over the side where the door was supposed to open. Stuart tugged. He pulled until the twine slipped from his hands. To stop this, he wrapped the twine around his burning palms and heaved and hoed until his feet slipped against the wall. But the door wouldn't budge.

Stuart hopped down from the wall and let go of the twine and took a moment to catch his breath. His body was covered in sweat, and his palms were on fire from trying to keep grip. If only he were stronger. That's when his eye caught a wheeled food tray, one that was used to move tubs and milk crates from the kitchen into the cafeteria. It itself wasn't too heavy, but with enough force…

It was a long shot, but using all his might, Stuart pushed the wheeled cart close to the freezer. He then tied the end of the twine tightly to one of the back legs of the tray, and began to push.

It reached the end of the twine's slack. Again, the door wouldn't move. But maybe with enough force…

Stuart, taking in deep breaths, pushed against the back wheel of the cart with the tied leg, hoping any movement of the cart would somehow double the force against the freezer's handle. He backed up and ran against the wheel, slamming his forearms into it with all his might. Nothing. He did it again. He gritted his teeth, every impact sending a pulse of pain up his arms. Every time, the cart drew an ever little bit tighter against the lace, and then went that much slack again. Stuart did this seven times—or was it eight? Nine? He lost count. His eyes were shut as he braced himself for each collision.

And then suddenly, that's when he noticed a different noise. Johnny had stopped beating in the door when Stuart agreed to help, leaving the basement to grow eerily quiet. That's why he heard the moving.

And it wasn't the door.

Stuart watched the further end of the cart suddenly rise from the floor. The wheel in his hand left his grip, away from him, and only then did he realize what was happening. He dived through the air to the side, out of the way. The mouse landed on his stomach and slid on the gray floor, friction pulling his collar down and tie tight against the back of his neck, as the cart came crashing down backwards. He had just narrowly missed getting crushed beneath the metal leg of the cart, three times as wide as his own shoulders.

The noise thundered across the kitchen, the vibration rippled across the floor, up through the mouse's shoes. It made every hair on his body stand on end. He had braced himself for the awful noise that occurred when the cart fell backwards, but was surprised that it was followed by the familiar sound of the freezer door, thundering open along its rollers. The force of the cart falling had done the trick.

The door stood open before Stuart. From within came the drone of the old fan blades that kept the freezer just barely working. At that moment, it was music to his ears.

From the icy curtain emerged a shivering seven year old in a blue plaid uniform. "O-okay." He cradled his arms, looking from Stuart, to the fallen cart. "I'm-I'm off popsicles f-forever."

---

When Stuart and Johnny had returned upstairs from the kitchen, they'd expected to have missed all of recess, as well as the chance to say goodbye to whichever of their schoolmates had been picked for adoption. But as it turns out, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes had not managed to make a choice. These two had met and married in their mid forties, and like many others before them, had come to the orphanage not long after receiving the news that they would be unlikely to start their family with a biological child. Though they had tried to make that one all-important connection with one of the kids, by the time the children returned to their class, the couple felt the whole experience had been a blur. And they concluded with one another that perhaps they hadn't really gotten over the doctor's news, and had hurried to the next step too early.

But just as they were preparing to leave, another child appeared in the doorway.

Johnny stumbled into the empty playroom, the strange, uniform-clad mouse in the boy's right hand. Both boys were breathing heavy, exhausted from throwing their whole body's strength against the faulty freezer door. Although his voice was usually the thing that unsettled newcomers, now that the adrenaline had worn off, Stuart could barely speak, let alone climb more than a handful of stairs by himself. A grateful Johnny carried him the rest of the way in his wet, ice cold palm. But he himself had started shivering, his pale cheeks quickly filling with a dark pink flush.

Johnny's eyes scanned the empty room before falling on the lone couple, letting air in and out through his mouth. The boys and Hughes stood there, staring at each other in stunned silence. Before either of the parties had the mind to greet each other, Johnny's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell backwards, taking Stuart down with him with a tiny, little yelp.

---

"I can't believe I fell for it."

"Come on. Don't beat yourself up."

Up on the ground floor later that afternoon, they waited alone outside the Big Office. Because classes were in session, the hallways were quiet, giving a distinct sense of calm following the incident downstairs. With no background noise to keep their privacy, the human and mouse spoke to each other in hushed voices.

"But it was so obvious! Everybody knows Bradley's a con artist! I knew, and for some reason I still believed him!"

"And you're not the first person to know that, and still fall for it, either," Stuart told him. It wasn't unheard of for the orphanage's high schoolers to mess with the younger kids to pass the time, but this particular abuse was concocted and executed solely by Bradley Thorne. He'd lure an unsuspecting boy into the cold, icy freezer, with the promise of ice cream, or bait with the theft of one of their own few toys. Before they realized what was happening, he'd slam the door on them. And unlike the teens who pranked their younger schoolmates strictly for amusement, Bradley would nonchalantly head up to the boy's dormitory during their entrapment to pocket whatever money or little valuable belongings they had stashed in their unsecured trunks before returning to set them free.

Stuart knew all too well about this particular prank. He himself had been Thorne's victim once, years ago. And there was no question in his mind about why this was done when it was done. The staff tended to run around in a flurry when potential adopters were around, making the place seem more organized and orderly than it really was. But if there had been any effort to crack down on trouble in the midst of all this, well, they had failed spectacularly. Bradley had once again found the perfect time to put his little known prank into action.

The real question was, why Biggle? Johnny Biggle had no money to his name. Like Stuart, he had belonged to the orphanage as long as he could remember, and came with nothing more than a name and the diaper that he wore on arrival.

Stuart would soon have his answer. "I found ten dollars in one of the folders behind the radiator," Johnny told him. I never should've told him about it. I knew something was fishy. I guess I was just a little psyched that an older kid was talking to me."

Stuart sighed. "If nothing else makes you feel any better, you should know, he tricked me the same way when I was younger."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yeah, huh! It's true! And he lured me in with something dumber than ice cream."

Johnny was glaring at the floor—the mouse supposed he was upset with himself. But Stuart's statement made him look up with a softer expression. "What'd he tell you was in there?"

"A mini car. Or maybe it was a mini zamboni? I guess I don't remember exactly." Stuart shook his head. "It was years ago."

"A mini zamboni." Johnny smirked. "In the freezer."

"I told you it was dumb." Stuart shrugged. "But it sounded like fun, so I guess I was willing to believe him. I was too scared to tattle on him back then, though. I never told anyone about when he did it to me."

"Except Solara Weaver," Johnny said. "She got you out."

Stuart looked at him in amazement. "Yeah." It had been so long since he heard someone speak her name. He was surprised that anyone else remembered her, let alone someone younger than himself. It had been almost four years, but just hearing her name still grazed a wound inside of himself that still hadn't healed entirely. "She always knew I needed help. I don't know how. But she always knew."

Johnny nodded, pulled his throw blanket closer around his damp shoulders, and the boys enjoyed a moment of respectful silence, only disrupted by the concerning argument taking place in the office. Normally the visitors were rather quiet, but today of all days, neither of the boys were all that surprised to hear the adults speaking in raised voices.

Upon Johnny's collapse in the playroom, the visiting couple rushed over to them, questions falling out of their mouth like a spilled bag of marbles. Johnny came to almost immediately, and though he assured them he was okay, Mrs. Hughes insisted on grabbing him a blanket from the nearest room, while Mr. Hughes began searching for a member of staff, and an explanation.

As soon as said staff was located, the door to Mrs. Keeper's office closed, the boys on the other side, almost immediately forgotten. Complaints flew left and right. Accusations of neglect and abuse. Questions went unanswered. Stuart and Johnny slowly recovered outside the door, their testimony, for whatever reason, deemed unreliable.

Probably all for the best, though. Fate had repaid Johnny for that semi-traumatic experience. After blowing off their steam, the Hughes' had announced a change of mind. Before the hour was over, Johnny Hughes would be leaving City Orphanage #3, never to return. Never, in their minds, to become subject to such neglect again.

It would take developing a miserable head cold and days in bed to feel like himself again. But at that moment, Johnny couldn't care less. He was on top of the world. "I owe you big," he told Stuart. "If you didn't get me out of there, this wouldn't be happening for me."

"Aw, don't put this on me," Stuart grinned and kicked the floor. "I was just passing on the favor. But still, I'm happy for you."

"I just wish I could pay you back somehow." He furrowed his brow in thought. "Hey! Why don't I take you with me?"

"How's that gonna work?"

"I'd keep you in my pocket," Johnny said without skipping a beat. "I'd feed you when they're not looking. And you could sleep in my shoes!"

Stuart wasn't insecure enough to be insulted by the notion of being kept like some sort of secret pet. But he quickly drew the line at sleeping in someone else's shoes. "Get outta here! Have you ever smelled your sneakers before?"

"No. Why, have you?"

There was a mutual chuckle. And then quiet fell upon them again. Stuart turned away from Johnny, but it wasn't fast enough to hide his frown.

"Don't give up, Stuart. Who knows? Your parents might come back for you someday, like Laura's did."

"I'm not so sure." It was a fantasy Stuart had indulged in when he was younger. That his real parents, despite whatever reason they'd given him up in the first place, would come back for him. And they could just resume life together, as a family.

Even so, most of the children, whether they were truly orphans or not, had concrete information about the families they came from, as well as an understanding if there was any chance of reconnecting with them someday. When the information was appropriate to disclose, even the youngest children had a good idea if their real parents were alive or dead, or simply unable to take care of them anymore. Laura Fitzgerald knew about her parents' accident, on that incredibly bittersweet day when her widowed father was released from the hospital, and had come back to take her home.

But in Stuart's case, everything was a mystery. Without paperwork, there was nothing the social workers could tell him about where he came from, or even what his last name was. "What about adoption?" asked Johnny. "There's always that."

Stuart spun the tip of his finger in his palm, and managed a grin for his friend. "Yeah. There's that."

What he didn't tell Johnny was, he had thought long and hard about his situation since he had been left alone to become independent, and he had already worked out what he was going to do in lieu of being picked for adoption. He would graduate from this school someday, get a job somewhere that paid a lot of money, no matter what that job asked of him. And then, maybe he'd be able to work towards getting other orphans homes. If it were up to him, no other mouse would spend nine years waiting and wondering the way he had done. "In the meantime," he told Johnny. "I'll do my part here." He walked up to the end of the tabletop and pressed a tiny hand against Johnny's. "That's enough for me."

This conversation confirmed to Johnny something that he'd suspected all along: that leaving was just as bitter as it was sweet. He rested a finger from his opposite hand on top of Stuart's hand. "Thanks, man. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too," Stuart said. He stepped back and stuffed both hands into his dime sized pockets. "Just do me one favor. Well… two, actually."

"Uh, sure. What?"

"Have a good life," Stuart said. "Have fun. And, uh, since I'm a little worn out…" He rubbed the muscles on one of his still sore arms. "Could you open the door to the playroom a crack on your way by?"

---

"Stuart! Again?"

Stuart hadn't even realized he'd closed his eyes when they snapped open. His tail became animated, his head nearly slamming into the underside of the window frame. He couldn't get a word out.

It seemed like as soon as he'd climbed out from beneath the crack, Mrs. Keeper was at his side, setting her clipboard down on the hallway table, and pushing down on the window from the top. She didn't even wait to make sure his tail was clear before she zeroed the gap between the window and sill, and relocked it at the top. "I told you before to leave this window alone until we have a man here to look at it!"

"But I only opened it a crack," he argued. Stuart was tempted to point out how she had been saying that 'a man' would be here to fix that window for a year now, nevermind the freezer door, but politely refrained from it. "Nobody could fall through an opening like that."

"Except you! And what's worse is that there's no screen behind it! What would people say if they came and saw a child hanging waist-out of the window?"

"Well…" Her accusation wasn't fair. His waist wasn't even near the edge. But there was no point in arguing. "Not good."

"Right. Now, I would really appreciate it if you were on your best behavior today. We've got another pair of visitors coming this morning."

"Another couple?" Stuart had been here long enough to understand the staff's codewords. But it wasn't common to see an adoption happen two days in a row. This was pretty exciting news. "Don't worry," Stuart told her. "I'll get everything together. I've already made a list of everyone's best talents. I'll make sure—"

"No! No! You're not understanding me." Realizing he had only good intentions, she sighed and softened her voice. "Listen, Stuart. You're very outgoing, and… sweet as can be! But… I think it would be best if you stop trying to take matters into your own hands."

"What do you mean?"

"I just—after yesterday's incident with Johnny', I can't take any chances."

"Everything will be okay." Stuart chuckled lightly. "It's not like there will be anymore Bigglesicles for them to see."

"Stuart. This is serious." Mrs. Keeper bore down on the mouse with a frighteningly stern look. "We'll be lucky the Hugheses didn't report us to the police for him getting stuck in the freezer like that!" She shook her head. "I'm furious with Bradley. But as usual, he denies everything. I keep telling the higher ups that this place is overdue for cameras…" she muttered the last part under her breath. "And there's only so much in-school-suspension seems to do for him."

I don't think in-school-suspension works for people like Thorne, Stuart thought helplessly. "But I got Johnny out. Isn't that the important thing?"

"I know. I know." She closed her eyes and held up her hand dismissively. "You're just trying to help. That's all you ever do!" After double checking that the window was firmly locked, she picked up her clipboard under her left arm and pointed to him with the other. "But Stuart, you should have just come to us when you found out where Johnny was. Who knew how long he was in there? What if he got hypothermia? What if he wound up in the hospital before anybody else knew he was there?"

"But I knew he was in there! And got him out fine!" Stuart repeated. "All by myself! I took care of it!"

"That's not the point, Stuart! Being responsible means knowing when to step in and when to admit that you just… can't. I am asking you kindly to please stop trying to take things into your own hands. Let the adults handle the adulting, alright?"

"I…"

"Now I have to get everything ready." She straightened her back, turned on her heel, and prepared to hurry off. Only to stop after a few steps, and look back at the tiny boy on the table. "If you really want to help, remember my rules when the visitors arrive. The usual: No spiderman climbing the walls. No leaping to the ground from tall distances. Nothing that'll… well, unsettle them." She bit her lip and met his eyes. "Are we clear?"

His arms fell to his side, tail dropping low enough that the tip rested against the tabletop. He replied numbly. "Yes, ma'am."

He waited until the clap of her pumps were gone, then turned back to the window and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Being reprimanded for the window was nothing, but having his act of heroism diminished was a real blow to his self esteem. It may not have been intentional, but for as long as he could remember, Mrs. Keeper had done nothing but reinforce to Stuart that he was an 'other'. And it didn't help that she concluded her impromptu lecture by speaking about his presence around strangers if he was the demon child that should be kept locked away in the attic.

But he decided it wasn't worth staying upset over. It was hard for a human to appreciate the herculean effort required for a mouse doing something as simple as open that water-warped, old window. Or a sticky freezer door, for that matter.

And it was adoption day again. Someone here was going to have their lives changed forever, just like Johnny. Even a cloudy autumn day couldn't take that joyful knowledge away from him.

And as it turned out, just as he hopped down from the table, the platinum sheet of cloud in the sky began to pull into two, and from the divide came a ray of warm sunshine. It shone down on the cold stone steps before the orphanage, at the exact moment that a yellow taxi cab pulled up to a gentle stop at the curb.

---

"You're crazy. Using a cart to knock the freezer door open?"

Later at breakfast, Stuart sat crossed legged with a pocket sized abridged copy of Tarzan at his feet. He was with his usual crowd, at the round meal table closest to the kitchen. They referred to it affectionately as the Loser's Table, often reading comic books while downing cereal, or arguing about the best fight scenes in the movies they saw from time to time.

Words of yesterday's adoption had reached their table, and subsequently, Johnny's rescue. Stuart hadn't intended on openly admitting to his involvement in it. But like with any school, news travels fast. And it wasn't long before his friends demanded to know what had happened.

Freckle-faced Flynn McDonald was one of them. "Where do you even get an idea like that?"

"I dunno," he said with a full cheek. Stuart swallowed his bite of apple with peanut butter so he could speak clearly. "Sometimes you just think of things in the moment."

"I heard Mrs. Keeper's mad at you," said dark haired, prematurely deep-voiced Derry Fisher. "For the Johnny thing."

"Seriously?" Flynn's baby blue eyes widened. "For what? He's a hero!"

"Yeah but he didn't tattle on Thorne."

"Well, no shit, he didn't tattle on Thorne!" Flynn hissed. "Nobody does."

"And she wants people to think Stuart can't do anything by himself." This was said by the boy on Flynn's left. Bald, sunglasses wearing, copper skinned 6th grader, Andrew Fields, who tossed a grin Stuart's way. "She hates when you prove her wrong."

"I think she might be more upset with the Hugheses finding out about the freezer," said Stuart. "But hey, it's like they say: All's well that ends well, right? I mean, at least Johnny's finally gone home."

"Yeah, that's true. Good on him!" Derry raised his milk carton. "Toast?"

The boys raised their milks and juice to the center of the table, while a tiny, paper sample cup followed. "To Johnny Hughes!"

"At least another one of us got out of this place," said Derry.

"And imma thinkin' Johnny's not the last one," said Andrew out loud, eyes darting between his friends with an unspoken scandal.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Flynn replied.

"You notice the teachers running around like there's a fire drill 'bout to happen or somethin'?" He hooked his thumb towards the cafeteria exit and stairwell. "Makes me wonder if they got another mom and dad coming."

"Yeah. Sure." Flynn waved him off. "Two days in a row."

"It could happen!"

"It is," Stuart confirmed quietly. "Mrs. Keeper told me they were coming."

At once, all three boys gaped at the mouse, as if they all had suddenly forgotten he could talk and couldn't believe what they were hearing.

"Hold up." Andrew spoke first. "She told you they were?"

The orphans were never given the heads up about the arrival of potential adopters. Derry leaned over the table to study Stuart in such a way that his obstructive black bangs nearly fell away from his eyes. "What's that about? I thought she hated you."

"She is mad at me," Stuart corrected. He didn't like to think Mrs. Keeper hated him, however. But maybe it was true.

"That's why she told him," Flynn said.

Andrew's head spun in his direction. "What?"

"Because he's not gonna get—!" Then Flynn cut himself off. His sky blue eyes widening.

The three boys sat, the weight of unspoken words between them. Derry bit his lip as he looked at his best friend. Andrew folded his hands and turned his eyes to his cereal.

Stuart cast his gaze down at the table. Flynn's brutal honesty was a contributing factor in why he had few friends (thankfully, an appreciation for that honesty, and his love of X-Men comics, unified him with the Nerd Herd.) It also made him one of the most transparent people Stuart had ever known.

Generally, kids weren't supposed to know when couples were coming. Though they failed in so many other ways, in particular getting bullying under control, even the orphanage staff were sensitive enough to comprehend the unethical to clue kids in on the arrival of new couples. Even if the visits were common, sometimes daily, there was a risk in getting the many children of the orphanage excited—or competitive—by giving them advanced notice. At the end of the day, they were only gonna take one child to take home with them.

Today, Keeper, the person in charge of ensuring the orphans were placed in loving homes, had freely informed Stuart about the visitors. This confirmed something they all grimly understood.

The three of these guys were unlikely to get adopted.

The mouse? Beyond hope.

"S-sorry." Abruptly, Flynn pushed himself out of his seat, the plastic chair squealing as he slid back. The broken table wobbled, shifting onto its short leg. Stuart cried out and wobbled, flailing his arms just to keep on his feet.

Andrew and Flynn gently set the table back on its longer legs, sticking a bundle of unused napkins under the shorter leg to keep it steady. Stuart sank down and rested his head on his knees, his tail curling around him. Nobody spoke for the longest time. A tension bubble had formed between them until Andrew found words tactful enough to pop it. "Okay, forget him, alright? Remember, we're all losers." He spun his index finger in a circle between the three of them. "None of us are leaving."

"Harsh," said Derry. "But true."

"And I'mma tell you somethin', Stu:" Andrew said to the mouse directly. "I don't care how bad it makes her look. She's nuts if she doesn't think you were brave, tryna get Biggle out of there on your own."

Stuart's eyes lit up, raising his head from his hands. "You really think so?"

"If by 'brave', you mean 'stupid'."

Grimaces spread like wildfire across the table at the appearance of that familiar, know-it-all voice. Stuart tipped his head back, sizing up the figure who eclipsed the text in the Lord of the Apes in shadow. "Hey, Heather..." he said with hesitant politeness. "What's up?"

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" demanded Andrew. "Stinking up our air with that dollar store body spray?"

"Check your pits before you open your mouth, Andy," the sophomore replied. She turned her pointed nose at Stuart. "It's one thing to be naive. It's another thing to be an idiot."

Stuart's jaw fell open. "What did I do?"

"You did it again! You let the bully get away with it!"

"Wait a minute." Andrew stopped mid-impulse to sniff his armpits to point at Heather. "Who told you about this?"

"Please." Heather rolled her eyes. "Adoptions are everybody's business. And considering why Johnny was chosen, nothing's spread around school so fast since that time Gibby Walls ripped his pants in gym class."

"Oh, come ON!" A new voice made them all turn their heads. A short, heavyset boy who had the habit of outgrowing his pants faster than the orphanage could supply them happened to be walking past, carrying his lunch. "I thought nobody remembered that!"

Heather shrugged and turned her head back to Stuart so fast, her long ponytail whipped through the air like a whip. "It's not like I actually expect the staff to care. They're less than useless. But this whole macho-man attitude you guys have about these situations is only making it worse. You should've told them what Thorne did!"

"And tell them what?" Derry swung sideways on the bench, face turned up at Heather even though his bangs were still in the way. "That Bradley Thorne locked him in the freezer while trying to steal from it?" challenged Derry. "Johnny would've got screwed!"

"It's better than him getting hypothermia! Plus, what would you've done if Thorne came back to throw you in there, too, huh? Tell me that?"

"That wouldn't have happened," said Stuart calmly. "And I didn't need help. I did it on my own." Though he said it confidently, he was starting to doubt himself. He'd only gotten lucky that the cart had tipped the way it did. Had it not, he absolutely would have had to go for help.

"And last time I checked," Derry added, pointing at Heather, "nobody asked for your opinion."

The bell for passing period began, and the middle and high schoolers scattered to their first period class, while the younger students were lined up by their teachers. Stuart closed the book and kicked the rest of his apple into the bagged waste bin, left just beneath the table's edge for his convenience. "I appreciate the concern, Heather. But I can take care of myself. And others, too."

"Fine, Macro MacGyver." The girl shrugged, whipped her hair again and began making her way for the exit. "Whatever makes you feel good about yourself. But don't be surprised when nothing changes. What-ever..."

"Better hurry!" Andrew shouted after her. He cupped his hands around his mouth to make sure his last words were heard. "Don't want to be late for the Student Body Supreme Know it All Committee!"

"Bite me, Outfield."

Stuart watched her leave, quietly frustrated. For as long as they had known each other, Heather was particularly harsh towards the mouse. His polite disposition, which had earned him a generally positive review across the orphanage, did nothing to charm her. Stuart didn't expect everyone to like him, but he didn't understand what compelled her to chastise him at every turn like this.

It made sense why Mrs. Keeper might hate him. The woman had burdened herself with keeping him a secret for the first few years of her life, nursing him with a dropper and teaching him how to speak in a shoebox in her office, as if she'd adopted him herself. And now that he had freedom to roam the asylum on his own, he was perpetually at risk of getting hurt or killed, and risking the future of the entire orphanage. To an overwhelmed social worker, his existence was a headache.

None of this applied to Heather, and yet years after Solara's departure left Stuart to look after himself, she continued to refer to Stuart as 'the baby' and diminish his triumphs with reminders of all the problems still made by his size.

He wanted nothing more in that moment to climb to ear level and demand to know what her problem with him was. Instead, Stuart took a deep breath, twisted one of his sharper nails into his palm—strong enough that it would hurt, but not strong enough to make himself bleed—and let the feeling pass. Though he didn't know it yet, this practice would become key to his maintaining a civil relationship with a particularly sardonic, mouse hating house cat.

Derry grabbed his book bag from beneath the table. "Gotta run. Gonna get detention if I'm late again."

"See you, Derry," said Stuart.

"Later, dude." Andrew stood from the table as well and turned to Stuart. "Pass me a note in English if you see 'em?"

"You got it." Stuart knew who the 'em was. It was luck that he had been bumped up to sixth grade English, and met Andrew. From there, he eventually became invited to the table, and acquired his first real friends. He gave Andrew a thumbs up.

The cafeteria cleared out quickly, with Stuart being one of the last to leave. Not wanting to repeat yesterday's trek back downstairs, he carefully slipped his tiny book back into his old, plain messenger bag, hopped down onto a chair, then onto the floor.

He had gotten pretty good at avoiding being stepped on, but it was generally safer to let the other kids hurry ahead of him once the bell started. From the cafeteria, Stuart made his way up the stairs to the middle grade classrooms behind the crowd. Realizing how long it took him to get from point A to point B, his teacher gave Stuart a small grace period before being marked tardy, so he didn't need to rush.

By the time the starting bell sounded, He was still on his way to the fourth grade classroom. He was in the middle of the deserted hallway when a distant voice shattered the silence. "Stuart!"

Stuart's steps drew to a stop, dead center in the middle of the floor. He closed his eyes, braced himself. Squeezed the strap of his plain black shoulder bag.

Footfalls drew closer. Every step on the stone floor echoed through his tiny body. "Stuart! Wait up."

The mouse didn't have to turn around. There was zero doubt about who was behind him. "Bradley."

"I'm glad I caught ya. I got a question that's just been eatin' away at me."

"Gee, I don't know." Stuart mustered up his courage to turn around and look him in the face. "I'm gonna be late. Can we talk later?"

"It won't take long." Bradley slowed down with seven or eight whole feet between them. Stuart still felt like it was too close. "You know, Keeper's coming down on me with all kinds of… weird accusations." He was close enough to press a hand up against a random locker. He looked it up and down like it was a bikini model pin-up. "I can't think of another reason she would think I had anything to do with Biggle's freak accident yesterday. Unless…" He slowly turned to Stuart. "Someone decided to get a little revenge against me."

His voice was so loud. He was confident no one was going to hear this conversation. That made Stuart all the more nervous. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You sure? People who stay quiet don't usually look that nervous." Bradley peeled his hand off of the locker and took a slow step forward. "You know, there's something about you that just… I dunno. Gives me this deja-vu. Especially with how they say you came to Johnny's help yesterday."

He knows. Stuart never once used Thorne's name when explaining to staff what happened to Johnny. But if Heather was to be believed, the whole school had found out that it had been him who had gotten the second grader out of the freezer. And that, somehow, word about Bradley's involvement in both Johnny and Stuart's entrapment years ago got away from the few kids Stuart thought he could trust.

"Always saving the day. Always doing the right thing. Solara'd be real proud." He pulled his hands back and stuck them in his pockets, turned his eyes to the floor, and looked back up at Stuart with a menacing glare. "You told her about me."

"I never told her." He wanted to be brave, but his heart was pounding. "I never told anyone how I got stuck in there. I swear I didn't!"

"Did Biggle said somethin'?"

"No!" Stuart cried. Though he didn't know why he was lying for Johnny. That boy was far and away from Thorne's wrath. He could have easily taken the rap for snitching without consequences.

Another step. "Someone had to say somethin', Stewie."

Stuart took a step back. "Well, they had to have just… made a blind assumption, I don't know!"

"Assumed with what, Stewie?"

"Don't call me that." Now he was annoyed, and his voice came out bolder. Maybe 'Stuart' wasn't the toughest name, but he accepted it as his own—perhaps the only part of his parents he had left. But he'd never gone by Stewie. He couldn't stand that variant of his name. It made him feel like a baby.

Of course, Thorne knew this. He seemed to know everyone's achilles heel. It was as if he'd mastered the art of making people feel dumber, weaker, smaller than they were. "And anyway, if the staff had proof, they wouldn't bother interrogating you, would they?"

Another step forward. Stuart, another step back. His nails dug into his shoulder strap, creasing the fabric. His hands were clammy, and it felt like he was going to throw up, right then and there. A few feet was all that was keeping the mouse and the ninth grader apart. The hallway was wide and clear. Without trash cans or other obstructions, there was no chance of outrunning him.

The ends of Bradley's lips slowly bent upwards. He had come from money once, and had a set of straight, white teeth to show for it. And, Stuart noticed, very sharp canines. Some girls spoke of him being handsome. They'd never actually seen him smile.

"Let's keep it a rumor, then," Bradley said in a low voice. "Biggle's lucky he got out of here. That means there's only one of you left to blame for giving me this problem. And it wouldn't be hard "

He took three steps at once. Stuart tried to step back again, but he was so nervous, he tripped over his own feet. He grunted and fell backwards, watching in horror as Bradely abruptly lunged forward, hands outstretched.

"STOP!" Stuart's shout seemed to reach every corner of the hallway. He covered his eyes with his hands. He couldn't look.

"That's what I thought."

Stuart pulled his hands away. Shaking.

The classroom door over Bradley's right shoulder opened. In too-short-for-school dress and cowboy boots, the teacher of the class stepped out, giving daggers to both boys. "Okay. Whatever's going on out here, that was entirely too loud. Bradley, Stuart, you two get to class. Immediately."

"Will do, Mrs. Zuckermann," Bradley said over his shoulder calmly. "Just giving my buddy a hand-up, here. Sorry for that."

With a look of suspicion, she went back inside and closed her door.

Bradley turned back to Stuart. He was still crouched over him, his face just a foot away from Stuart, cast in shadow. Somehow, this made his teeth seem to glow.

This was it. Stuart was terrified through and through, and yet he couldn't stop staring into his tourmentor's icy blue eyes. He waited to be snatched up like a toy off of the floor, flashing back to random parts of his life, and simultaneously wondering how so much evil could be packed into the body of a scrawny ninth grader.

He got on hands and knees and leaned in so close that Stuart couldn't move. Was so close he was forced to endure being assaulted by the awful aftermarket cologne he had got a hold of. "You forget yesterday happened."

And then, Bradley stood up. And he turned around. And he walked the other way.

Stuart didn't dare to move a muscle until he heard the door to the stairwell open and close. He lay there, his heartbeat in his ear, blinded by the overhead lights for what seemed like an eternity. It was well past the excusable delay period for him to get to class when he finally found the courage to get back on his feet. His legs wobbled.

His nerves were shot. Somewhere down the hall, someone dropped a pencil, and he jumped and whimpered, his tail's crest like a graph of the height of his panic. He stood there for ages, turning around, fearing that even the slightest sound he made would send Bradley running back. Taking him away. Making good on his threat.

---

"Detention."

Stuart looked up from the top of his miniature desk, his eyes instinctively flying to the clock above the blackboard. He'd been spacing out almost the entirety of class, only coming around when the fourth grade teacher casually slipped a tiny piece of paper next to Stuart's folded hands. By the time the mouse read the paper, the teacher had already moved on. "I'm… I'm sorry?"

Mr. Pope turned away from the girl he was quietly helping, sitting two desks behind, and looked at Stuart pointedly. "De-ten-si-on," he said. Loud enough for the entire class to hear. "English. Noun. Retaining after class for misbehavior."

"But…" Stuart gaped at him, spun back to the slip, then spun back to him. "What did I do?"

The curious class had suddenly grown quiet. Annoyed that he was about to set aside a moment explaining the punishment, Mr. Pope straightened himself and turned his whole body in the mouse's direction. "Stuart, do you realize how many times you've been late to class, just this month?"

"But I have an office pardon! I've never gotten detention for being late before!"

The man put up his hand, waving away the excuse. "Yes, I'm perfectly aware. The school has set aside a number of accommodations for your… er… 'condition'. But that didn't stop you from becoming a big hero with the freezer yesterday, or so I heard. Is that right?"

Stuart was speechless. He couldn't believe Biggle's rescue was being used against him like this.

"Being over twenty minutes late for four classes out of five for the last week is far more than your grace period allows for. It's time you stop expecting special treatment, Mr. Mouse."

A series of snickers cropped up from his peers. He didn't dare look at them. Embarrassment wrapped Stuart like a wet bathrobe, pulling him down into his seat, so small, and still wishing he could disappear. Mr. Pope's addressing his students by their last name was meant to be an old school form of respect. But casually substituting 'mouse' for Staurt's lack of a surname was perhaps the most excellent way of setting Stuart apart from the other kids.

The students around him began to whisper to each other, a few giving Stuart sympathetic frowns. But only a few. A lot of the fourth graders had had detention either once or twice, so it wasn't a big deal to them.

But to Stuart, this was humiliating. And Pope's justification for the detention revealed something Stuart dreaded. The whole staff knows.

He was doomed. It was only a matter of time before Thorne got punished, and decided to pay him back for it.

---

"Detention?" Derry dragged the bangs away from his rarely seen gray eyes, wide with shock. "You? Detention?"

On the floor before the shoes of his three comrades, Stuart somberly held his detention slip above his head. "See for yourself."

Derry got down on one knee and read the pink detention note in Stuart's outstretched arms. "Signed by Pope and everything. Man. I knew he was a tool when I had him last year, but I didn't think he was that bad."

"Tool? He's the whole fucking box, handle and all!" He reached forward and violently snatched the paper from Stuart's hands. The sixth grader thrust the paper before his squinted eyes, trying to decipher the cursive lettering. "'Repeated failure to arrive to class in a timely manner'? Oh-" He rolled his eyes and smacked his hand and the paper against his thighs. "Come ON!"

"This is a joke." Andrew spoke up at last. "You're probably the most well behaved kid around. Pope can not get away with this." He gently took the note back from Flynn and handed it back to Stuart. "You gotta take this up with the office, Stuart"

The mouse twisted his toe into the floor nervously. "I can't."

"Why not? You have a pardon for this thing!" Now even Andrew was as loud as Flynn. "You always have! What makes him think he can shove it to the side like this?"

"Andrew's right," said Derry. "Pope must be on a power trip. He has it out for you 'cuz you're the only one who never gets in trouble for anything. You gotta stand up for yourself."

"But it's not that easy," Stuart told them. "Some of the lateness was because of my own carelessness."

Andrew studied him. Stuart was an old friend to him now, and while he thought he knew the mouse well, something in his voice seemed suspicious. "What do you mean?"

Stuart realized he didn't want to explain. Not about today. The worst part about having friends was not being able to ask his friends for help. Even if it wouldn't make him feel like a total baby, their attempt to intervene would only mean they'd get it, too. Maybe they were too big to get dragged downstairs, but Stuart didn't want to think of what Thorne could do to torture them for trying to protect him.

He didn't know having friends could feel so lonely.

The second bell rang, ending the passing period, and shooing students away to their next class.

Still feeling bad about what happened at breakfast, Flynn crouched beside their tiny companion. "If you're going to detention, I'm going, too!"

"That's nice of you to offer, Flynn," Stuart told him kindly. "But don't waste your recess on my dumb mistake. Go have fun."

"No way! Hm… maybe we can sneak you outside," Flynn whispered. "Hey, Hinkle!"

He shouted to the heavyset man in a white polo and running pants, standing outside the Heath classroom up ahead. He ran ahead of the pack, backpack bobbing on his back as he went. "You don't mind unlocking the utility closet real quick, do ya? We need a kickball."

"No balls today, McDonald. Keeper would pop right out of her slimmer belt if she caught me dragging the horses into the street when it's below fifty degrees out. And it's Coach Hinkle to you."

"Oh, come on!" Flynn slumped before the man, backpack sliding down from his shoulder to his hand, hitting the floor with a thump. He gestured to the windows above the lockers. "Look, the sun's out and everything!"

"Not another word, or you'll give me an extra twenty push ups for the next three weeks. To the cafeteria, the three of you!"

As he stormed off, a slew of other disappointed kids overheard the news, sighed, swore, and marched off ahead, their heads hanging low. Andrew shook his head and turned back to the nerds. "Third day of indoor recess in a row. And it's not even winter yet."

"Oh well." Derry shrugged. "Wanna see if the UNO deck is free?"

Flynn rolled his eyes, picking his bag up and throwing it back over one shoulder. "Fine! But I'll be dealer today."

"Tell me you're gonna try that trick where you try to make a fountain out of the cards, and they go everywhere."

"Lay off, dickhead." Derry snickered as Flynn punched in the arm.

Andrew lagged behind to tell Stuart to screw the detention and come anyway. But something about the way the mouse was already looking off in the distance rubbed him as reluctant to be in anybody's company. "Sure you don't want us to sneak you in?"

"I'm not risking getting you guys in trouble, too. Thanks anyway."

"Dude, is something up?"

"No! E-everything's fine," Stuart told him, somewhat too quickly. "We'll catch up at dinner."

But with nothing to go on but the detention hanging over Stuart's head, he let it go. "Later then," he assured him. To the others, he said: "Hey, did they ever find out where the other 'draw 4' card went?"

"Flynn freaked out and took a bite out of it, remember?"

"That's because you buttholes reverse-skipped me six rounds in a row!"

Their voices became lost in the sounds of hallway traffic as they descended the staircase.

Feeling more alone than ever, Stuart turned and began the depressing climb all the way back up. The only thing worse than detention at a regular school was detention in an orphanage. And the only thing worse than detention in an orphanage is detention at orphanage #3 when something deep inside you desperately craves a little fresh air.

But despite his friend's insistence that they would go with him to dispute this detention to the front office staff, Stuart decided he would just take the punishment without complaint. After all, he had no excuse to explain why he was late today.

There wasn't a confrontation in the hallway.

There was no bully.

---

While the boys made their way downstairs to play cards, Stuart turned around and headed upstairs to the elementary and middle grade's detention room. It was just another classroom on the second floor not used during the middle of the day, and by none other than Ms. Zuckermann, the teacher who'd snapped at him and Thorne earlier that morning. With a knack for getting on Mrs. Keeper's bad side, this was not his first detention, and he fully expected it to not be his last one.

But Stuart found the door locked, and there was a note on white printer paper taped to the window. It was written with a black Sharpie, had today's date, as well as the order:

RECESS DETENTIONEES: REPORT TO MRS. ROBINSON

The kindergarten teacher?

"Ms. Zuckermann's water broke," muttered a new voice. Stuart hadn't noticed the seventh grader waiting in the adjacent doorway until he spoke. "Waited to see if anybody else showed up, but it looks like it's just us."

The mouse thought of his encounter with her today and looked only more confused when he replied. "I… didn't know she was pregnant."

"Neither did she until an hour ago," the boy said of the rail-thin teacher, clicking his tongue. "Well, if she's ditchin', I'm outta here. Wanna come with me?"

Stuart very much wanted to. After all, downstairs was where his friends were. But he was tired of running into trouble today, and he was starting to feel broken. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "No thanks. I'll just… go to the playroom, I guess."

"Suit yourself, little man," the seventh grader said. "But playing by the rules isn't gonna help you if nobody else is."

He left, and then Stuart was there, in the hallway, alone. He replied to himself in a broken voice. "Yeah... I'm starting to believe it..."

---

The mouse's friends may have been disappointed about the recess arrangements. But in Mrs. Robinson's class, there wasn't anything different. Recess was always inside.

The kids busily playing with their jump ropes and indoor-safe balls didn't take much notice of the mouse as he passed the double doors and dodged them on the way to the teacher. A heavyset older woman, sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, looking as if she could use some ibuprofen, Stuart had to climb onto her desk and clear his throat to get her attention, and then explain the situation as he passed her the note.

"Detentionees to Mrs. Robinson's…? Oh for the love—!" Ms. Robinson slapped a hand over her eyes, a curtain of short brown bangs falling before them. "That woman is so full of it!"

The kindergarten told Stuart to make himself comfortable, and use the time to read or work on homework, though she didn't sound entirely concerned about the latter.

"And Stuart!" she added, shouting over the chaos. "Do me a favor, won't you?"

The mouse knew what was about to be asked of him. Despite how low he was feeling, he managed to resist the urge to sigh. "I'll watch the kids. Break up the fights…"

Mrs. Robinson smiled. "What a good boy. I'll be back in a minute!"

Finding herself in the presence of an older child who could be considered as a chaperone, she excused herself, stood up from her desk and waddled out of the room, presumably to find some painkiller. The mouse watched her leave, then turned to look at the chaos before him.

Stuart actually knew a lot of these kids. The youngest students in school, some of them had shown up as recently as two months ago. And as winding up at the orphanage was a massive life adjustment, he offered companionship and something of impromptu consoling to the most emotional arrivals.

Eventually, his presence was recognized, and a boy Stuart remembered as Benny Herez asked him if he would like to join their game of Tag. With all the work he put in to get to know them, Stuart wasn't above playing with the younger kids. He hopped into the game immediately, and enjoyed the challenge in dodging a storm of small feet in an extremely narrow room. He got tagged almost at once, and found that storm parting a circle around him. Eventually a small, shy girl who moved just a little too slowly got close enough for Stuart to tag, and he gleefully slapped the side of her light up sneakers and moved the game along.

Unfortunately for Stuart, the game only lasted for a few minutes until the children grew bored with it. By the time they lined up a short game of Red Rover, it seemed as if he'd been forgotten, and Stuart decided enough 'a-minute's had passed. He was done playing babysitter, and he retreated to the bookshelf to find something to read to pass the rest of the hour. He was surprised to find some of the custom cut chapter books he'd totally forgotten about, tucked away between regular sized Dr. Seuss classics and a battered copy of Where the Wild Things Are.

Between becoming engrossed in his discovery, and the frenzy of movement and noise across the room, he was oblivious when the double doors to the playroom opened, and a pair of strangers stepped inside. Stuart had no idea they were there at all until little Scotty Haines went running towards the doors, and then, inexplicably, froze.

The immobile child before the sea of moving bodies was just jarring enough to notice. Stuart only barely peeked above the top of his abridged copy of Little Women to find the boy locked eyes with a woman he had never seen before. He watched as she handed back the padded ball that had rolled towards her, and just as soon as it began, the magic spell that kept him frozen shattered. Scotty dashed away, right back into the mayhem that consumed the middle part of the room.

The lady rose from her crouch and stood shoulder to shoulder with a man who was every bit as much a stranger to Stuart. Their eyes passed over the whole of the room before their feet dared to take another step forward.

It clicked. The visit. Stuart thought, heartbeat picking up speed. How did I forget already?

For the bedlam to carry on, despite the potential adopters standing before them, wasn't a surprise. Some of these kids were so young, or so new to the orphanage, and strangers of all kinds—not just adopters, but social workers, therapists, health inspectors, and sometimes even police—marched in and out of this place on a regular basis. They might not have even understood the meaning of these particular visitors, yet. Without the teacher around, there was no one around to remind them to straighten their clothes, or ease up on the roughhousing.

Stuart was glad for them. These kids had yet to be weighted down with the anxiety that fell on those who stayed here beyond their cute phase. As it usually happened, one of them would get chosen before they ever knew what it was like to want to make a good first impression.

Strangely enough, Stuart never felt as calm as he did, in the presence of potential adopters. Their overwhelmed expressions as they took in the sights before them told him that it was they, more than anyone else, who were anxious. At any rate, there was no chance that they noticed the mouse from all the way across the room. And so he had no qualms about studying them.

They were younger than the Hugheses, but not the youngest couple Stuart had seen. Old enough that they looked as if they might understand the responsibility of raising a kid, but young enough to still lead active lives. To go out and have fun.

It was hard not to identify a visiting couple. Often they stood out like sore thumbs in the mass of small children and overwhelmed staff, and even more so when they came striding through the crumbling asylum were draped in diamonds, pearls and—he shuddered to think of it—real, fur coats. This wasn't the case for this couple. There was no huge, designer handbag hanging cumbersome hanging the woman's arm, and her fair face was accented by the smallest amount of makeup.

Her partner was dressed modestly, too, in a simple suit tailored to his slim build. The man stood just short of six feet, with circular wire framed glasses that reminded Stuart of the wise old wizard in one of his favorite books.

Their body language was interesting. Rather than clutch her arm, hold her hand, or flank her side, he trailed behind her, digesting the room on his own as she weaved through the games and toys to introduce herself to the children as an individual. Neither one of them gave off the air of being possessive of the other. Yet when she'd turn to him with a tip of the head, he'd nod at her from across the room and return the expression if they spoke telepathically, and she'd give him a different sort of look, as if to reply to whatever that nod actually meant. Stuart almost wondered if they were mute.

Her demeanor towards Scotty had been gentle and composed. Not atypical for the couples who'd passed enough tests that got them to this point in the adoption process. But the lines on her face as he ran away, and the way her partner seemed to mirror it, said the encounter had awoken the panic.

He knew that look too well. 'The panic', for lack of a better term, was nothing new around here. But Stuart's heart went out to this couple in particular. Their dread was palpable.

They didn't look like a pair of New York elites making a pit stop after a night on the town to take home a child. They looked like they were entirely concerned with making a good impression.

Yeah. That's it. Stuart thought, finally settling on a word. They seem… good. Real good.

---

Eleanor Little looked back down the hallway, to the playroom where they'd left the uniform wearing mouse. After their rather peculiar conversation, in which they'd learned his name, the couple had excused themselves, and Stuart retreated to the comfort of another crumbling pocket book. And she could've sworn she heard him letting out what sounded like a quiet sigh. But it was hard to tell, with his face hidden behind The Little Mermaid.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked.

Frederick Little nodded ever so slightly. "He's… something else."

"A special something else."

The young father of one stuck his hands in his pockets. Frederick had worked hard to come up from a poverty stricken home, to get his family where they were now, and yet spending time in Stuart's company had humbled him. He used to think other kids were lucky, that they never had to endure the disruption and heartache of being moved back and forth between two homes. He had been repeatedly relocated from his parents in Illinois, to go live with his grandparents in New York, and back again. Only now did he really appreciate the concept of being wanted by your biological family at all: So much that custody was fought over him and brother Crenshaw for most of their childhoods. Most of these kids never knew what that was like.

The mouse back in the playroom did not.

"Think of how many of the others he's watched get adopted." The woman's gaze drifted to the crayon drawings pinned on the corkboard, on the hallway wall. The border stapled around the drawings read "my friends" in multicolored letters. The crayon drawings were done in various degrees of talent, It took a moment, but after gazing at them all for a while, he noticed a lot of them had a tiny stick figure at the feet of the other doodled children, marked either by big circle shaped ears, whiskers, and a line for a tail. They'd never find another kid like this. Not if they looked forever. "Amazing now he's not… bitter, or hostile, in any way. Someone like that could do well in a family."

Meanwhile, the blurry imagining of a childhood of a lonely little boy was playing behind the man's eyes. Like a home movie on fast forward. When he came out of it, he found his wife's eyes. "I think we can do better for him."

"Are we sure about that? Are we going to be able to… take care of him?"

"Don't you think we should try? I mean, think about how many times that question has scared people like us away?"

She sighed. "You're right. But what about George?"

"What about George?"

"I mean, we told him we're making him a big brother. That's what we came here for, wasn't it?"

"Pardon me, folks."

The Littles turned around to the sound of the classroom door right behind them opening, and Mr. Little stepped to the side as a pale, skinny highschooler stepped out, holding a tin lunch box.

"Oh. Hello. Sorry, we didn't—"

"—realize there was anybody in that room," Mr. Little said. The classroom the boy had emerged from was dark.

The was nearly as tall as Frederick, and had the same white-blond hair as their very own George. "I was just coming around the corner on my way to class." He gestured to the Rocky and Bullwinkle lunch box in his hands, repurposed with a crude red tape cross on the front. "I heard one of the little first graders got a scrape, and I went to grab the first aid kit they keep in this room." He shrugged. "Don't need to bother the nurse for everything."

"That was a nice thing to do." Mrs. Little gave him an approving smile.

"I, uh…" The boy drummed his long nails on the tin of the box. It actually came from the highschooler's classrooms. A former orphan who aspired to be a doctor had put it together, and left it behind for others to use. He'd never once looked for this stupid thing before, only seeing others use it. He was glad he was able to find it when he did. "I hope you don't find this terribly rude, but before I scuttle off, I couldn't help but overhear you talk of your dilemma as I was coming up to the door."

Frederick raised a brow. "Oh… well… I don't suppose—"

"Let me explain. You have a nine year old son at home that you want to teach how to be responsible, is that right?"

Mrs. Little nodded, but rocked from one foot to the other, uneasy. "That… is true…"

"And you think that by making him a big brother, that he'll have to learn some responsibility. And... that will work. But what if I told you there's an even better thing you can do?"

Frederick raised an eyebrow. "Really? What's that?"

"Well, to put it simply—" He slapped the lunchbox against his thigh before opening his arms out wide. "Get a big brother! I have no doubt that Greg is an awesome kid."

"It's George, actually," Mr. Little corrected. Though he was somewhat surprised the boy didn't know this about them, if he knew everything else.

"But the reality is, a mentor is the greatest thing you can give a boy. These older kids here at the asylum are often overlooked. But they're responsible. Well mannered. They know how to behave, when to be quiet, and how to treat adults respectfully. I mean," he chuckled forcefully. "It's all they know—all we know. That is to say. Rather than expect Greg-George-to try and lead by example without an example, why not give him the example. Catchin' my drift?"

The Littles exchanged subtle shifts of their eyebrows, but nodded at the boy. "I think we do," said Mr. Little.

"Not to mention all the benefits. Pick a smart enough kid, and you've got a free tutor for reading and math and science-classes that kid has already passed. The right guy can teach George about the world, now to help out around the house, even learn how to repair it. Maybe even show him how to build some things."

"Build things," Frederick repeated thoughtfully. "Hm… like… model ships?"

"Yeah. Ships or birdhouses. Whatever. But you're only gonna get that if you go with a big brother. Capeesh?"

Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Little exchanged agreeing smiles. "You know… you may have convinced us… mister… er…"

"Bradley Thorne," the teenager thrust his hand before Mr. Little. "At your service."

Frederick shook Bradley's hand with a forced smile, before slipping his hands back into his pockets. "Well, thank you… son. For your advice. I think we'll be heading to the office now."

"Oh, the Big Office! Just take a left at the corner, can't miss it."

"Thank you." Mrs. Little said this graciously, even though they had already been to the office, and knew exactly where it was.

"I'd better be hurrying, too. Gotta get that bandage to little Harold Smitts." And Bradley made a show of turning and speed walking down the hall, in the opposite direction.

"What a nice boy," Mrs. Little whispered to her husband. She intentionally didn't try hard enough for Bradley not to hear, and for good reason.

"Yes," Frederick said. He stuck his hands in his pockets, looking suddenly uncomfortable, as if the handshake had covered him in green slime and he was doing his best not to react to it. "Very... forward."

Still. "He does have a point," Fredrick admitted. "About choosing a mentor for George." It seemed as if the last piece of the puzzle finally clicked. "I think that young man's made our choice all the easier, don't you think?"

"But George wouldn't be happy with this. He had his heart set on a little brother."

"Sometimes you learn by watching what others can do," He winked at his wife. "And what you can do for them."

Mrs. Little grinned back at him with full understanding. "Do you know? I think so, too."

Bradley didn't see the wink. And he couldn't have known what the Littles were truly thinking. He only overheard his praise as they walked in the opposite direction. He kept his teeth behind his lips until he closed the door to the stairwell behind him.

Had the Littles known the orphanage like any of its residents, the red flags would've been obvious. In the first place, the first grader's rooms were in the opposite direction that Bradley was heading, closer to the playroom where Stuart was still serving out his detention.

The other thing was that Harold Smitts, though a very familiar name around these parts, was not a member of the orphanage. He was a much lesser known player who appeared on a battered Yankees baseball card, folded and used to prop up one of the tables in the cafeteria. He was only on the team for a season in the early sixties before his poor performance revealed his father had secured him the spot on the prestigious national team just with money. He was retired as a player immediately after that discovery, and left the stadium mid practice game, flashing the practice audience the bird. Or so the buzz said. Since the event wasn't recorded, it was only speculation, and entirely possible that the story was made up of him after the fact. Either way, it had become tradition that whenever someone got an F on a test, or got food poisoning from the food, the kids leaned over the table and cursed Smitts for being a bitter loser.

At this point a toothy grin and a rumbling laugh ripped his mouth open. Bradley's ticket to a better life, secured.

Just this once, Smitts had been useful.

---

"Ah, there they are!" Mrs. Keeper greeted the Littles excitedly as re-entered her office. "Come in, come in."

Just as she'd done a few hours before, she waited for them to enter and then closed the door behind them. "You two spent a great deal of time out there. I was just about to check up on you." She retook her seat at the desk. "And, if I may say, I've been doing this long enough to recognize the faces of a couple that's made quite a remarkable connection."

"I'd say so," Eleanor agreed.

"Please, have a seat! Don't hold me in anticipation!"

The couple took their seats across the desk from earlier that morning, and folded their hands across their lap. Atop hers, Mrs. Little still held her clutch, but without anxiously digging her nails into the leather this time. An air of calm had washed over them. "We did have a few questions, however," Frederick told her. "If you don't mind."

"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Keeper. "Ask away."

"Well," began Eleanor, "What can you tell us about Stuart?"

The social worker slowly opened her mouth into an 'o' and nodded, as if she was only disappointed in herself for not seeing this question coming. "Ah. I see he's gone and made himself known to you, has he? You're not the only ones who have asked about him." She adjusted her glasses, as if they alone gave her a clear view of the past nine years. "Well, he came to us when he was just a few months old. Heh... It's funny because I'd just been promoted to the position I'm in now, so I remember it well... His eyes and ears and everything were open. And he'd crawl out of every box we put him in. Eventually we gave up, and just… let him roam the room—closed, of course! He'd run around while I entered him into the files—"

"Anything else?" asked Fredrick.

"Ah, let's see." She cleared her throat. "His grades are good. He learned to read and write in time with the other children. His math skills are a bit weak, but nothing that some one on one tutoring can't fix. He's very social, as you might have been able to tell. And obviously, a sweetheart. He absolutely loves to talk to grownups. I'm sure you got some of that…" She said the last part with audible unease.

Eleanor raised a brow. "Have you noticed he likes to promote the other children?"

"Oh, yes! Stuart's taken on the role of an ambassador of sorts. He's rather good at breaking the ice between the children and adults. I think he's pleased, seeing his friends find their forever homes."

"But Stuart… is up for adoption," said Frederick. "isn't he?"

"Well of course! And," Mrs. Keeper folded her hands on her desk, "I know what you're thinking. It's been a long road for him, there's no hiding that. But we haven't given up hope the right couple will come along."

The Littles exchanged the most subtle of grins with each other.

"So, now that that's said." She picked up what appeared to be an ornamented, jeweled fountain pen, only to click the top and reveal it to be a ball point. "Who else are you interested to learn about?"

Eleanor let go of her clutch with one hand, and squeezed her husband's hand.

He took that as the cue. "Actually," Frederick said, "I think we've made our decision."

"Oh?" Mrs. Keeper did nothing to hide her confusion. When she realized there was only possibility about what they meant, she chuckled awkwardly, laying the pen back down. "Oh. You're… You're serious."

"Yes." Eleanor said it out loud, articulating every word with confusion. "Why?"

"I thought you said you were looking for a younger child."

Mr. Little nodded. "We were."

"But, after we discussed it," his wife explained, "we believed Stuart is the addition we really need."

"Are you sure you're up for taking in a nine year old? It is a bit harder to bring up a child that far along in life. Keep in mind that you won't be able to install as many of your own values as you would be able to in someone younger."

"We've discussed that, but based on what we've seen of him so far," Fredrick said, "I'm not convinced that there's much of a difference between his values and ours."

"And, are you quite sure you're prepared to handle his…" She stalled. If she wasn't careful about how she spoke of him before, she definitely was, now. "... Uniqueness?

"Yes. Well, his 'uniqueness' is a perfect fit for the Little home."

"Perfect," echoed Eleanor.

But Mrs. Keeper continued to look at them dubiously. Realizing she was going to have to be blunt, she slowly reached up and removed her readers. "Mr. and Mrs. Little, we try to discourage couples from adopting outside of their own…"

When she trailed off, the pair across the desk leaned forward. Whatever they anticipated her to say, it wasn't quite as obvious as what was said:

"... species. It rarely works out."

Mrs. Little replied firmly. "Well, it will in this case."

The woman behind the desk had yet to be convinced. She played with the hinge of her glasses. "You're an awfully optimistic pair, and I admire that, greatly. I do. But you don't know Stuart. I didn't want to get into the details, but I've been looking after him personally for the better part of his life. Between the adjustments, the custom made furniture, the falls, the fractures, the… the toilet training! I mean, you might think you're doing a service by picking him—"

"Mrs. Keeper." It was Mrs. Little who cut her off. Her voice became ever somewhat icy. "If you believe the only reason we would want to adopt Stuart is because no one else will, then I have no choice but to believe you actually don't know anything more about him than we do. Now, are we going to make something happen here today, or not?"

She looked from the face of one Little, to the other. Her hands were tied. She could only direct the decisions of the approved adopters. At the end of the day, she could not make the final choice. She certainly couldn't impede the adoption process without probable cause, anyway, least risk having her license taken away.

But where in her training was deciding who was right for raising a mouse?

There was nothing she could do. The choice was made. She unfolded her glasses with both hands and put them back on with one. "I'll get his file."

---

Stuart lowered his book as he heard the now empty playroom door open. A smile crossed his face as that friendly couple he spoke to earlier entered the room again. "Still need more time? I can ask them if you can reschedule to meet the kids one on one."

"There's no need," Frederick said. "But. thank you."

"Oh." Stuart looked a little worried. "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"Oh no! We've definitely found someone."

"And we're very excited about it," added his wife, adjusting her clutch with jittery fingers.

"Really?" The mouse closed the book and laid it down beside him. "That's great! I have such a good feeling about you guys." He stood up on the bench, bobbing on his heels with excitement. "Who is it? I can't wait to tell him! He'll be so…"

And Stuart's entire line of thought derailed. Mrs. Little had extended her hand to the seat of the bench, palm open. Her hand looked clean and soft, with shiny, cherry lacquer over sensibly short nails. Just as he imagined a mother's hand might look.

And it was extended towards him.

"... happy." Stuart looked up at the couple in disbelief. "You're not serious."

"We're very serious."

"So, what do you say?" Mr. Little told him, his poker face giving way to a smile as the surprise was finally let go. "Would you like to take us for a test drive?"

But Stuart's tail bobbed with anxiety, and, to the Littles' confusion, his smile retreated. "Why me?"

"Why not you?" asked Mrs. Little. "You're outgoing, smart, friendly—"

"Selfless," added Fredrick.

"And it's like you said," Frederick shrugged. "You just know."

But Stuart stared at the hand. And the longer he did so, the more his expression looked like he was going to be sick to his stomach. This… It can't be real. It's too good to be true. Everything he'd come to accept about his life as certain was breaking at the seams, and an awful dread was taking its place.

At last, he looked up and shook his head. "No… no. I don't know."

And Stuart turned and ran. Across the bench, up the walls, and disappearing to a crack in the wall. Frederick asked him to wait, but before he got within a step of him, the mouse was already gone.

"Um." Fredrick said at last. "That… wasn't what I had expected to happen."

"Oh, dear." Eleanor took her hand back, stunned by what had happened. She turned to her husband. "What do we do now?"

---

Mrs. Keeper was still preparing the necessary documents when the Littles returned. Despite her intuition, the orphanage's smallest would be leaving here today, with a couple that was far from what she imagined would be his potential adopters, if he would ever have them. Despite this, she greeted them with a plastic smile as they helped themselves back into her office. Maybe it would work out. After all, they were lovely people. "Alright, if you two will just take a seat and we'll have you sign some of these forms, and…" She paused when she turned to the couple, and saw their hands empty. She looked at the floor, all around and behind them, something was missing. "Oh, uh. Did you have trouble finding him?"

Mr. Little's voice came out flat. Defeated. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "He doesn't want to go."

The social worker looked from one Little to the other. "You don't say?"

"I held out my hand," Eleanor said, voice cracking. "He ran away."

"Well." She looked down at her folded hands, surprised at herself. She'd been so apprehensive about this particular adoption, but now that it wasn't going to happen, she actually felt sad. Not to mention there was a great unease right above her stomach. "I'm sorry it's come to this. Though, on behalf of the welfare of the children, I must insist that if you're still interested—"

"We are." Frederick cut her off. He ran a hand through the hair over his left temple. "We just—We're gonna need some more time."

"Mrs. Keeper, if it's all the same to you, I think we should reschedule an appointment to meet with the other children."

"Ah. Erm." Mrs. Keeper felt a dryness in her throat. What was wrong with her? "Certainly. Take as much time as you need."

"Thank you," Fredrick said as he held the door open for his wife. Politely, he closed it behind him, and left Keeper alone again.

The woman stood at the front of her desk, the blank forms laid out before her. She pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed. "Greta Keeper, this isn't like you."

Calmly, she turned around and bent at her knee. She rounded the side of the desk, lifted the plate to an old air vent, and lowered herself as close to it as she could get. "You know you're not allowed in there. I've told you a hundred times before. I know you can hear me," she said, loud enough for her voice to echo through the narrow metal walls, but more tenderly than anything she had ever said to him. "We've had our differences in the past. You probably don't believe that I really care at all about what happens to you. You think all I do is nag you and lecture you, tell you to pull your shirt down or tuck in your tail. But time after time, I've turned away people who saw you as a plaything, or a pet, or a trophy, or something else. Not a boy. But these two? They're different. They put up a fight to have you. Now, I still have my doubts. And the only way I can guarantee your safety is if you stay here with us. But this is your choice."

No response came her way. Not even a small, telltale footstep that would indicate he was there. Keeper closed the vent and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind her.

She never did bother to put the adoption papers away.

Before he had friends, Stuart would spend most recesses by himself, either in the library or whatever new corner of the crumbling school he could explore. Unsurprisingly, as it turned out, there was a never ending supply of the latter.

One of these places was the air vent system: A series of metal tunnels that connected almost the entirety of the school to each other. Stuart had gotten familiar with the system not long after he began exploring the school, much to Mrs. Keeper's dismay. She was already reluctant to let him check out every dusty, old nook and cranny that would be out of other children's reach, and found the idea of any one of them crawling in and out of the ventilation system not just disagreeable, but potentially dangerous. As he was the only one able to fit inside, she thought it was a too-easy way to become lost, or stuck somewhere he couldn't be reached.

The mouse was formally forbidden from entering the vents, not that such a rule ever stopped him. He may have been well mannered and polite, but even he wouldn't comply with the most overbearing rules. It functioned as a traffic-free shortcut from hallway to hallway, and traversing from level to level helped satisfy his restless itch to climb.

Surprisingly, the last time she caught Stuart climbing out of one of the vents, Keeper clicked her tongue and muttered something about having her state license taken away 'any day now.' And that was that. Stuart had taken this as a sign that she'd given up on about this particular issue. It should have felt like a win, but he felt guilty about it.

This was kinda how he felt right now, standing in the darkness, far down in the vent behind Mrs. Keeper's desk. How she knew he was there, and that he'd overheard all of that, was a mystery he'd spend years afterward trying to understand. What he'd end up concluding was that, somehow, in the years they spent together as the social worker and the most unusual orphan, butting heads about everything, she had come to respect him. Maybe not really understand him, but respect him at least. And he didn't have words to express the remorse he felt for believing she only had it out for him.

A pair of footsteps, unusually heavy, entered the room. The social worker was back.

Stuart stepped forward, towards the serrated light streaming in at the end of the vent. Some of the metal vent covers were screwed on shut, but he knew from encountering it prior that this one was loose. It could be removed and hung back against the wall whenever he pleased. He was about to reach for it when, surprisingly, a human hand reached for the vent cover first. Stuart stopped just two feet short of what would have otherwise been his vent exit. "Mrs. Keeper… I…"

But his train of thought was derailed when he realized that the long, bony hand that had removed the vent cover did not belong to Mrs. Keeper. And those were not her brightly colored pumps that stood before the vent, but a pair of semi scuffed black dress shoes, worn by all boys sixth grade and up. "Looks like someone's getting adopted today."

The mouse was paralyzed with horror as he watched the figure before the vent entrance crouch low, blocking the light's entryway into the vent. What soon stood before it was the shadowed features of Bradley Thorne. The teenager's eyes darted left, gesturing to the desk behind him, with adoption paperwork and Stuart's file laying open for the world to see. "Nice photo by the way, Stewie." His immaculate smile never looked so menacing. "What's say you and I celebrate with some ice cream?"

Stuart unfroze in the nick of time.

He jumped back as Thorne thrust his hand into the vent hole, falling backwards onto his bottom with a tiny crash that echoed through the metal tunnel. He had missed contact with his skin by a fraction of a hair. The human wasted no time in pushing his arm further into the vent, making Stuart scuttle backwards like a crab on his hands and feet, the tips of menacingly long boy's fingernails swipe at him from above, until he was out of reach. Stuart turned over, got back on his shoes, and began to run, the sound of Bradley's grunts and curses sounding as if they were right, behind him thundering in his ears, amplified by the echo created by the metal walls.

Stuart flew down into the black void of the vent, farther than Bradley's arm could ever reach. And he kept on running.

This was it. He was going to die today. Thorne was going to kill him.

Bradley would make the single potential adoptee between him and the Littles disappear, and then do everything he could to convince the Littles that he was the son they've been looking for.

I can't… can't happen… Those people… he may have only met them an hour ago, but he knew deep down they were good. He couldn't let them consider bringing that monster home with them. He had to find them. Warn them before they made the biggest mistake of their lives.

Mice weren't gifted with night vision, and it was only by years of repetition and muscle memory that Stuart knew his way around the various turns that spat him out at different ends of the school. When he reached a fork in the system, he had to leap across a one foot gap from one side to the other, an abyss of blackness below. On a normal day, this wasn't much of a feat. He could leap from much further distances with ease. But in his hurry, he forgot to make the running leap, and hit the corner of the shaft directly in front of him with his stomach. His sneaker toes banged against the cold metal, kicking dust into his eyes. His heart hammered.

Never did he feel like such a scared, cornered little rat.

Maybe Heather's right. Maybe I am an idiot. How can I save the Littles if I can't even save myself?

"Nice people, those Littles." As if reading his mind, Bradley's echo trailed up to him.

Stuart was blind but for his touch, and his soles slipped and slid against the vertical wall. His nubby claws scratched desperately at the markless metal, and wished for once he hadn't had the habit of filing them down to look like human nails.

"Gotta say, that woman's a nice piece of ass. And the Dad looks like he'll be a pushover to boot—"

"Shut up!" Stuart shouted back at him. His voice thundered down the tiny metal hall, booming in his own ears. He didn't know if the echo carried far enough for Bradley to hear him, but he sure hoped it did. Stuart had never told anybody to shut up his entire life, not once, and he understood there was a punishment involved, if the right teacher overheard you. But he was tired of playing nice with the bad guy. He was tired of abiding by the rules when it got him nowhere. He was frustrated at everything!

Stuart flailed for purchase until suddenly, a new sound made his ear perk. Banging, coming from another vent.

His heart skipped a beat. They sounded like it wasn't even that far away.

Stuart jerked his head back and eyes scanned the darkness. Did Thorne...?

No.

No, there's no way. There can't be.

Stuart thought the air vents were safe. He thought there was no way a human could fit inside. But now that he was forced to think of it, some of the building's old vent shafts were bigger than others. And Bradley had a narrow build. If he found the right shaft entrance...

He wasn't gonna wait and find out. A new surge of adrenaline put his body back into motion. His sweaty palm finally found grip against the dusty floor. Using all his strength, he hoisted his body weight up, throwing himself on top of the cool, metal floor with the grunt.

"Too bad you passed them up. Oh well. They deserve a useful son anyway."

No! You won't! I won't let you!

He pushed himself back up and kept running, gasping and coughing as his sneakers kicked up years and years of settled dust. He needed to find a vent that would take him closer to the orphanage's exit doors. Three more turns later, and Stuart believed he was somewhere near the first grade classroom. His sneakers skidded and he turned, as he encountered another tunnel, and ran towards the lines of light signing the end of a vent. As he got closer, the bright colors, the pinks, blues and yellows peeking between the vent grill, told him he was in the right area.

Stuart closed his eyes and pushed on. His thighs were on fire, his body hot and drenched in sweat. He wouldn't let Bradley harm those people.

He was on his feet again. Running for the vent cover.

He shut his eyes and braced himself for the impact.

Bang. The metal grate of the vent cover clattered to the ground. The mouse stood, bruised and proud, at the edge of the vent. The vent he was able to open with his own strength alone. He panted and gazed triumphantly out at the empty first grade classroom—

—that wasn't empty at all. The afternoon French class turned in their seats, looking at what had made the noise. A dozen sets of eyes, one after one, trailed upwards at the previously covered hole in the wall behind them.

Dust particles floated in the air like a cloud where the forgotten vent cover had been kicked out. When it cleared, it showed Stuart froze, almost too stunned to speak. "Oh… uh… I'm-I'm so sorry. I think I took a wrong turn somewhere." Awkwardly, he backed up into the vent. "Just… c-carry on with the lesson, Mrs. Riley!"

"Ca c'était quoi?" one girl in the back whispered to another.

---

In the hallway, Mrs. Little checked her pocketbook. "Good thing I stashed that twenty in the inside pocket. I was so excited that I forgot to put in extra money to pay for the cab fare home." She clasped the book closed and stuck it back under her arm. "This morning seems so long ago now. Oh, dear, what do we tell George?"

"I don't know." Fredrick looked at her as he marched on. "Hard to believe almost an hour ago we were worried about how we were going to narrow down who we were gonna bring home."

"Me too." She took his hand in hers-warm and strong, always there-and looked into his eyes. "But we'll get through this. We'll come back another day, and…" But Eleanor couldn't make herself finish. She couldn't picture what that 'another' day would look like. She wasn't even sure if she really wanted to come back. "And we'll see."

"Honey, don't you think we should try and find Stuart before we go? Who knows? Maybe he'll reconsider."

"But there has to be a reason he ran from us the way that he did. Even if he did change his mind, I don't know if I think it's a good idea to introduce him to our family if he has any doubt about us."

"I guess." He shook his head. "I don't understand. It seemed so right. I wish I knew what we did wrong."

Eleanor's voice was hollow. "Maybe he just doesn't like us."

"That can't be that simple. Could be that we said something wrong, or-or it seemed like we'll want too much from him, or…" His shoes squeaked to a stop on the old, waxed wooden floorboards. "Maybe he just doesn't like us."

---

Unbeknownst to them, Stuart had arrived, panting and sweating, to the air vent just behind his head. His wobbly legs came to a rushed stop, leaning against the grating with his hands as he tried to catch his breath.

There they are.

They're… leaving.

They're leaving? They're leaving without Thorne. They were safe.

As his breathing quieted down, he frowned.

The Littles are leaving... without anybody?

His relief was quickly overwhelmed by a great sadness. The couple was leaving by themselves. Their disappointment as they lingered in the hallway was so obvious, it felt like his guts were getting squeezed. He'd never felt so strongly for a pair of strangers before. Why was that? They were safe from Thorne. They were gonna be okay, but Stuart couldn't get over the mounting anxiety that a mistake was still about to be made.

---

When it felt like they couldn't put it off anymore, Frederick broke the silence. "Come on." He extended a hand to his wife. "Let's go—"

"WAIT!"

The voice that shouted at them was barely there. The couple spun around, Fredrick looking up while Eleanor looked down. As far as they could tell, however, the hallway was empty. If the hallways hadn't been so quiet, they'd have missed it completely.

---

Stuart clasped his hand over his mouth. The word had come from deep within, straight from his heart. After telling Bradley off, shouting seemed to have become his default. Really, there was no reason to do this. These people were safe. But there was something inside that was devastated at the thought of them leaving, never to be seen again.

---

"Don't leave…" the voice said, meekly this time.

Mr. Little exchanged a timidly curious expression with his wife. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear that was the disembodied voice of Stuart we just heard."

"Not 'disembodied.' Just in the air vent."

That, they did not expect. Together, the parents turned their gaze upward to the left side wall. Directly middle of the entryway of two classrooms was a small, metal plate—a vent cover. The Littles watched as Stuart emerged from the dark shadow of the vent, his feathers lit by the light of the hallway. "Uh… s-sorry for eavesdropping."

For the first time since they met, Mrs. Little was baffled to see what and where Stuart's size could lead him to be. "How on earth did you get in there?"

"Oh... you know... " Stuart shrugged. "I fit."

"I think the better question is, what are you doing in there?" asked Mr. Little.

"Just uh... thinking," he said. This was a lie, though he did often use the vents for that reason. "About some things. Kinda hard to find privacy in a place like this, y'know?"

"Forgive me for asking," interrupted Mr. Little. "But er, what are you thinking about?"

"That maybe I'm the one who's making a mistake." His eyes shifted from one adult to the other. There was no clear way to explain what had just taken place in the vent without sounding insane. "I like you guys. But that's what makes it scary."

"Did we do anything to make you feel like you can't trust us?" asked Mrs. Little.

"No! No, it's not that."

It was like a light switch. At once, Fredrick thought he finally understood what it was about the mouse, and how he talked, and what he was feeling, that he resonated with so well. "Sometimes when you've had to get by on your own for so long, it's easier to not let yourself rely on anybody than risk getting hurt if you wake up one day, and they're no longer there."

"Fredrick." His wife couldn't believe he was attempting to put words in the boy's mouth. Though she knew all about her husband's past, and knew where this was coming from.

"Actually, that's it. Sort of." Stuart wasn't sure he felt comfortable admitting how on-the-nose Mr. Little actually was. How was it that these people could practically read each other's mind, and now they were reading his? Hadn't they only just met an hour ago? This was nuts. "I've never had anything to call my own before. Lots of the kids here have families they can at least remember, but I don't. It used to make me sad, but after a while, I just got over it. Now I'm at a place where I feel like I'm okay, and when you asked me if I wanted to go with you, I guess I got… scared."

Beneath the content smiles and premature words of wisdom was a wall protecting the last of Stuart's hope for love and family of his own. As long as that hope was kept under lock and key, he could function here the way he needed to. The thought of opening up those feelings after all this time was terrifying.

Eleanor took a cautious step towards the vent. It was humbling, looking upwards at the mouse this time. "What if we told you that we'd do everything in our power to do right by you? You'd have new clothes, and your own games, and books—"

"Movies, magazines..." added Fredrick. When he got a narrow-eyed look from his wife, he specified. "Not those magazines!"

Eleanor shook her head before moving on. "And you wouldn't have to crawl into a hole to get some privacy," she told Stuart. "You could have your own room, and time to be alone, to work, or think. Or, you could talk things out with us. That's what a family is for. You don't have to feel alone anymore. If you just give us a chance."

It was only with this wording that Stuart realized the magnitude of what was happening. As if zapped by static, his ears and tail stood on end. "You're asking me to give you a chance?"

"That is," Frederick added, coming shoulder to shoulder with his wife. "If you feel like we'd be a good fit." This time, it was him who extended his hand to Stuart.

Slowly Stuart nodded, his hands falling down to his sides. All his life, he thought that the burden of proving worthiness had to be on the orphan. The adults who'd been through the wringer of interviews in order to get to this stage of adoption normally had some air like they'd proven themselves enough. Now all they had to do was get over their uncertainty, make their choice and leave. Anybody that actually took the adoption process seriously was subject to some uncertainty.

Now he understood why these people felt special to him. They didn't just want to chose. They wanted to be chosen back, heart and soul.

He didn't move.

Do I?

"What's the matter?" asked Frederick.

"Um. This vent. It's shut pretty tight..." He shook the bars in his hands. It didn't budge. "Hehe… I can't really get it open."

"Not a problem." Frederick reached into his jacket pocket, and leaving his house keys, retrieved a red rectangular device, which when flipped open revealed a small pocket knife, as well as a variety of other compact tools. "Good thing I still have this thing from the scouts."

"Whoa." Stuart's jaw fell slack at the sight of the red paint and silver cross. "A real Swiss Army knife?"

Mrs. Little looked appalled. "You brought that thing to a school?"

"I know, I know…" Her husband shrugged with a guilty grin. "A knife is not exactly the thing you wanna see in the hands of your new Dad. But hey, you never know when you'll need it. Observe:"

Frederick flicked open the screwdriver tool, and approached the vent. One after one, he unscrewed the corners, keeping the vent cover in place. Once the last screw was loose, Stuart let go of the cover, and Frederick gently set it down on the floor. He then snapped the screwdriver and the rest of the tools, and slipped it back into his pocket. "Sometimes you gotta break the little rules for the greater good. In extenuating circumstances, of course," he added quickly.

With the cover gone, there stood the mouse, standing just an inch shorter than the top of the vent. Twisting his wrist in his hand, he looked at both of them cautiously, and then nodded. "I think we think the same way…. uh, Mr. and Mrs. Little."

"So, what do you say?" asked the woman, smiling up at him warmly. "Would you like to become Stuart Little?"

"It's gonna be a different arrangement for us all, for sure," said Mr. Little. "But who knows? It could be…"

"Wonderful," finished Eleanor.

After a beat, Stuart stepped out of the vent, and into the man's open palm. "It could be."

---

As soon as the adopters and their peculiar adoptee were spotted, the autumn afternoon's dreary dullness was about to come to an end.

On the middle grader's floor, out of nowhere, the door to Mrs. Zoe's afternoon math class swung open on its squeaky golden hinge. A frantic voice cut through Mrs. Zee's afternoon math class. There in the open doorway stood red haired, eleven year old Flynn McDonald, disheveled and sweaty in the school's blue plaid and black uniform. He panted in between the words. "Guys!... Guys!" He pulled curly bangs out of his eyes. "Stuart's… getting... adopted!"

"What?"

"Stuart?"

"No way!

Excitement took siege of the classroom. Even the kids who began nodding off into their workbooks were suddenly awake and alert. Though some were dubious of this development, others were popping out of their chairs, at the chance the fifth grader was telling the truth.

"It's true!" Flynn cried out. "You gotta hurry if you want to say goodbye! They're leaving now!"

The teacher might've had the kindness to let the students go, sat helpless as all the second graders launched from their seats and ran for the door.

The last to leave the classroom, she was soon to find out hers was not the only one to be disrupted. Using all his might, the boy propelled himself to the neighboring classroom, and then the next. Every time, using his full lung capacity to project the announcement. "HEY EVERYBODY! STUART'S LEAVING! HURRY!"

All the way down the hall, in a quiet study room, Heather looked up from her issue of TeenStyle, hidden behind a history textbook. Though she stayed out, a rare grin crossed her face. "Huh. What do you know?"

---

From the moment he'd sat himself down in Mr. Little's hand, and let the couple carry him back to the office, Stuart's head hadn't stopped spinning.

Only when he saw his new name in print had the gravity of the situation finally settled on him. After years of living vicariously through the joy of those children he helped get adopted, the feeling was now his. No more waiting by the windows, watching for happy couples who might've turned their cab up to their curb. No more dull ache in his heart every time he came to a room and found another bed with the sheets removed. No more wondering if he was destined to leave here when he was eighteen, like Solara. Now he understood her restlessness. It wasn't that this place was bad. But the orphanage was only ever meant to be a temporary sanctuary. A world in between the then and now, where all that one could do was wait.

And now his wait was finally over.

I'm… going home.

It was difficult to pack. His hands were shaky and his imagination wouldn't stop racing. He kept pausing to pinch his forearm, just to bring him back down to earth.

It was hard to wrap his head around. This place… it isn't my home anymore. My whole life, it won't take place here.

A great unknown stood outside the doorway. Away from the age old, stone steps from which he'd never crossed, but for a few meager field trips. And he welcomed it.

With no desire to keep them waiting, he hurried to finish. Everything he owned—every last copy of his special ordered school uniform, his few remaining mouse—sized toys given from donations, and a tiny wallet sized photo of his last class picture, was crammed into his suitcase. He left the pillow sheets and blanket, folded and tucked in, on the thin little mattress on the tiny wire frame bed in the corner of the room. One that he had called his own since he moved out of the shoebox. He sincerely hoped he would be its very last occupant.

With all said and done, his suitcase was surprisingly heavy. He'd used it as backup storage for what li since it was given to him, but never had he had to lug it anywhere. And now that it carried his whole life, it was pretty heavy. He'd never thought he'd had that many things until he tried to move it all at once.

Closed and locked, Stuart attempted to lower himself with the suitcase, from the back table, to the floor. But unlike his books, it was too heavy and awkward to climb down with the case in one hand. After two embarrassing attempts, he gave up and threw the case over the side of the table, hopping down after it.

When he landed, he suddenly became overwhelmed with the sensation of being watched. The last face he expected to see, waiting for him just outside the boys' dormitories, was Heather's.

She leaned against the door frame, peering down at him. "Word on the street says you're getting out of here."

"Yeah," he answered, dumbly. Confused by her presence. "I think I am."

She looked down the hallway. Far at the end, a new set of young strangers chatting with one of Stuart's teachers as they waited for him. "They sound like they're good." It was a quick point-blank assessment, but it was genuine. Her hair cracked her back like a whip, as she turned back to him with a look as if she were commenting on the weather. "Have a nice life, would ya?"

His ears lowered, humbled. After all this time, such kind words from her. "Thank you," he told her weakly. "That's really nice of you."

Heather took a cautious step forward. "Need some help with that?"

"No thanks," he replied, a bit hastily. It was bad enough she was making him doubt his distrust with her sudden kindness. He didn't need her to have the chance to embarrass him by carrying his stuff on the way out, as well.

Heather let him leave the room first, giving him the respect and dignity of the entire berth of the hallway. When she noticed the panicked children trying to coral themselves to see Stuart's departure, however, she smirked to herself. "Maybe it's time for me to take matters into my own hands."

---

It was slow but steady work, as Stuart hoisted the suitcase all the way to the big office. Along the way, a pair of kids, oblivious to his presence, darted past him. Their sneakers pounded the old, wooden floors, as they dared to get a lecture about running in the hallways. He was careful about not becoming trampled beneath them, but the chaos was almost paralyzingly nostalgic to him. He smiled to himself sentimentally about leaving this, too, behind.

He could hear the floors rumble upstairs, too. More footfalls. Frantic, all of them. Before Stuart could really give it much thought, Mr. Little emerged, popping out from a nearby room. He offered to help carry Stuart's things back to the office for a final check out, and this time, a grateful Stuart accepted.

---

With no less sense of importance than Paul Revere on his midnight run to Lexington, Flynn went from classroom to classroom, shouting the news of Stuart's departure. First on the top floor, where the high schoolers took their classes, (he didn't care if the upperclassmen didn't care—he was telling everybody), then the next level down. Even though Stuart's admirers were mostly the younger set, soon, there was a crowd following, ready to call his bluff on the matter.

Andrew and Derry among them. "You're full of it." said Derry, running along behind him.

"It's true!" Flynn told them, leading the crowd.

"Like that time you saw a ghost in the handicap stall?"

"That stall is haunted, and you know it! Anyway, I saw him being carried by a man with glasses I ain't never seen before! He and this pretty lady with brown hair were going to the big office!"

"Maybe he's sick," offered Andrew. "He's been acting weird today."

"Yeah, how do you know they weren't doctors?" asked Derry.

Flynn exploded. "What doctor wears a BOW TIE?!"

With all the commotion, it was no surprise that teachers and other various orphanage staff began leaving their classrooms to follow the crowd as well.

Never in recent memory had the school been in an uproar like this. What began as curiosity shifted into concern as they all realized where the students were headed: Outside.

It wasn't the first time a small crowd had gathered at the bottom of the steps to wish an adopted peer goodbye. Such was tradition—the sendoff all the orphans wanted to have happen to them someday, as it bridged the start of a better future.

But this was no small gathering. This was no small parade, following the Littles in their wake. This was a stampede. Dozens of children in the building who caught wind of the adoption dropped everything and entered the hallway, joining a mass of shouting and confusion. They darted in and out of rooms in twos and threes, trying to spot the little lucky lad. But he was nowhere to be found.

Once they had begun to work together and figured what had become of the mouse, they went for the front doors. First a trickle, then a flood.

Before the adults could do anything to stop it, the mass began rushing down the hallways, after the two strangers carrying the orphanage's most recent departee.

Between all the thoughts that swarmed through his mind, Stuart almost didn't notice. By the time the taxi was loaded, the front door to the orphanage burst open.

At first, he thought he could mistake various city sounds for something else. But sure enough, the Littles turned around and peered out the back window.

So it was what it sounded like. Unable to see from the backseat, he crawled up the torn leather padding, looked through the window, and his mouth fell slack.

Kids of all ages spilled down the age-old, concrete steps, and waved their arms frantically in the air, shouting goodbye. He had earned the hearts of every last one of them.

In the orphanage, there wasn't always someone there to dry your tears. Stuart decided he wanted to be that someone.

His life took on a new meaning. It wasn't long before he was drying the tears of the others—fetching ointment and bandages for the other, younger boys and girls who got hurt. Once in a while, he'd stumble upon one of the older kids hiding away in a corner, sniffling softly. Unfazed, went up and attempted to cheer them up, dragging them a tissue from the nearest box. Telling them a joke he read in a book lately. And if they would let him, giving them a hug on the shoulder. No matter if the one crying had wanted to be alone, or what they were crying about in the first place, or even if he knew them very well, Stuart never received anything but gratefulness for the effort. Sometimes one-on-one attention did a lot.

Even so, there were times when he doubted how much help he really was, and the mouse felt reluctant to do anything but curl away in a corner himself. And yet, he forced himself to try.

His little acts of kindness had much more of an impact than he realized.

It wasn't until he was looking out of that back window of the taxi that it all hit him. Mrs. Keeper was wrong. He hadn't tried to help. He had.

His awestruck expression melted into a smile, and at last, it occurred to him to wave back.

---

"I can't believe he's gone."

Mrs. Keeper and the other orphanage staff corralled the youngest of the children back into the building, the older children who'd gone to say goodbye trickling in by themselves thereafter. The last inside, the last to make it down the steps, were the three boys from the losers table.

Derry, Andrew, and Flynn stumbled down the stone steps, watching the yellow taxi turn a corner, and disappear. Derry got closest to the street, his "holy" shoes and the visible toes of his socks hanging over the curb. Andrew was next, holding his kneecaps on the sidewalk and trying to catch his breath from the sprint.

The last one was Flynn. He never made it halfway down the steps. "We didn't even get to say goodbye." Not even he, the boy who'd started the crowd in the first place, got to talk to the mouse who brought their nerds table so much laughter one last time. Now they'd probably never see him again. His lip wobbled. He looked like he wanted to punch something. He raised his fists up to the stone railing on the right side of the steps, only to drop it. "I never got to tell him I'm sorry."

Andrew looked up when he heard Flynn's voice break. "Man, don't be like that. We've all said stupid stuff. He didn't think about it much."

"You think?"

"Well, even if he did," he straightened his back and gestured to the street. "You think he's ever gonna think twice about it now?"

Flynn folded his arms and turned to face the eastern sky. "I guess not."

"Y'all know what this means," said Derry out of nowhere.

Flynn looked back at the boy almost in the street. "What?"

Andrew, too, looked at him curiously.

The grungy boy turned to his friends with what very well may have been the first smile he may have worn in years. "Hope."

Their faces changed as the meaning of the word clicked. If Stuart had got out—

"Maybe it's not too late," said Andrew.

Even through his tears, Flynn had to smile. "Yeah." He blew his nose into his sleeve. "Yeah!"

Their moment came to an end when a jumper-clad girl with pigtails who couldn't be older than six leaned out the door. "Are you crybabies comin' back inside before Mrs. Keeper throws a fit?"

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Flynn turned and shouted tearfully at the giggling first grader. "My best friend just got adopted!"

Smiling at each other knowingly, Derry and Andrew gave their friend a much needed hug. Then, taking either shoulder as if he'd broken an ankle, turned him around and ushered him back up the steps. "We're all gonna miss him," said Derry.

"Yeah," said Andrew. "Who else is gonna chase the ping pong balls when they roll under the radiators?"

"Or find change in the cracks in the floors for us when the ice cream truck comes by?"

Andrew had to snort. "Or let second graders out of the freezer."

"Wonder how Biggle's doing right now," thought Flynn out loud.

"A lot better than us," said Derry. "Even if he's blowing snot webs. Speaking of which, you think we should start planning how to get Thorne back?"

"Ah, let it go," Andrew told him. "We'll make sure he don't pull that shit on anyone else, but he ain't worth the time."

"Stop saying things that remind me of Stuart..." said Flynn, wiping his nose on the inside of his sleeve, just before the door closed behind him.

---

Eleanor and Frederick faced forward, letting their son take one last look at his former home in privacy. He watched the children grow smaller and smaller as they reached the end of the street, as small as mice themselves. And then the cab turned the corner, and they were gone.

Stuart let go of his breath. His smile weakened. Even in what should have been his most euphoric of hours, there was a sadness brewing inside of him. If ever there was doubt that he was loved at the orphanage, it was extinguished, then and there. Up until now, they had been his family. Kids, teachers, every last one of them. Even Mrs. Keeper, for all the trouble she'd caused him, had held onto him with the best of intentions. And today, she let him go.

Stuart turned his body away from the window, looking from one adult, to the other. Ready for what was next. "So. What do I call you?"

---

Before leaving for college, Solara Weaver knew that Stuart had better reinforce that Heather's attitude towards him wasn't because of anything he himself had done. What better way to do that than to disclose the truth? After all, Stuart had proven himself to be mature enough to handle some secrets, and obey her order to never breathe a word of it to anyone, lest he "gonna get it, and get it good." But Solara had been a big sister longer than she'd known Stuart, and she knew better than to spoil his innocence with the truth.

Heather had confided the full story in Solara herself. Stuart knew nothing about it, but this was done a blip in time when the girls, who were notorious for butting heads with each other over much more than his worth, were rather fine acquaintances.

Heather was afraid of rodents, as Stuart would absolutely refuse to believe. But it ran deeper than a common innate fear. Born in New York, as most of the children were, Heather had been exposed to them due to poor living conditions in the inner city growing up. They snuck up on her when she walked through the alley to public school, when she walked up and down the subway. She'd even been jumpscared by them in school itself, bursting from the vents in the cafeteria one time. They scurried around her feet, sniffing her shoes, searching for food. Trying to survive. She dealt with them even worse those nights when she slept in the subway, when her mother had gotten kicked out of another boyfriend's apartment. She grew from fearing them to positively hating them. Rats weren't just everyday pests. They were loud, invasive, inescapable plagues of grief. Rats represented everything about her past that was wrong. Everything she was trying to escape in this proverbial limbo that was life in the orphanage. Everything she tried to cover up with a premature use of makeup, new scrunchies, spotless clothes and hair straighteners that turned her already flat hair into a perfect exclamation point, when put into a ponytail. As well as excessive showers, and half a bottle of soap.

When she lost her mother at eleven, Heather had come into the foster care system. From there, she was eventually transferred to the orphanage, where she was repulsed to find that it not only was inhabited by a five year old boy who was every bit a mouse as much as a boy, but that he was expected to be treated as a peer and a friend. And it boggled her to see Solara be so particularly protective of him.

But time has a way of softening hard feelings. Until the moment Heather had wished him farewell, Stuart had thought there was no part of that girl that didn't despise him. And this would not be the only example of how she'd come to validate his existence.

This was just the only example that he was around to see.

---

Weeks later, up on the third floor, Bradley Thorne was dropping a largely ignored textbook back into his desk before grabbing his bag and leaving the now empty chemistry classroom.

His mind inadvertently drifted to the mouse. Every little sock and shoe and whisker, vanished. Nothing but a tiny retired doll bed in the dorms to prove he was ever there. He was long gone, now. Taken by the same couple whom he was so certain he had claimed for himself. Thorn had lost track of Stuart once he ran deeper into the vent in Keeper's office. He managed to make him believe he'd climbed into the vent by tossing heavy objects from the office inside. He thought this would drive Stuart as deep into the ventilation system as possible, thereby giving himself enough time to find the Littles.

Thorne left the office and calmly strolled downstairs with the intent of 'bumping' into the couple again. But when he rounded the corner to the exit, even casually whistle to better sell it, it was already too late. Somehow, the rat had already found them. And they crossed paths as the Littles took Stuart back upstairs to the office, this time to sign the unfinished paperwork.

Minutes later, a new taxi was off for Manhattan proper, taking the young couple and the tiny bastard with them.

Bradley slumped against the window, hiding mute in the shadow of the corner, as the Nerd Herd passed him. They didn't even know he was there. Though the sun was breaking through the clouds, the pale skin on his arm looked sickly white as a ghost in the light of the window. He pulled it back with an aggressive motion and stepped closer into the shadow, waiting until the cab disappeared on the horizon.

I'll find him. This isn't the end. He can get away from this place, but he will never get away from me...

Thorne jolted, shaking his head until his thoughts were on the present, and felt instantly calmer. He swung around the corner, thinking about grabbing an acquaintance for lunch that day. His planning was put on hold, however, when he spotted the sophomore, Heather Thompson, leaning up against the wall, her face in a book.

Bradley involuntarily slowed as he approached. He was pretty good at downplaying which girls he was actually into, but something about Heather shook him. Her clipped way of talking and inability to fake empathy in people and conversation that didn't resonate with her made her one of the most brutal girls in the orphanage. Plus, upperclassmen girls generally never looked at freshman boys, which made the prospect of actually dating one all that more alluring.

They were just about to cross paths when a skinny hand came out from behind the book, a pink piece of paper folded halfway over.

"Office note," she muttered without looking at him.

He slammed to a stop with her hand before his chest. Bradley snatched the paper from her. and Heather pounded her pink high tops on the ground as she walked away.

With a 'tisk', Bradley unfolded the paper in his hands. He'd never had another student hand him his disciplinary slips, but given the school's ongoing investigation with Biggle, he had a good idea about what this was about.

So he was rather surprised when he realized it wasn't an office slip at all. Just a piece of construction paper that used the same shade of pink. And inside wasn't a checked off instruction to head to the office, but a girlish handwritten note in a blue ballpoint.

Cafeteria. 3 minutes. Come alone.

Raising his brows, Bradley looked over his shoulder, then crushed the paper in his fists with a devilish grin.

---

The lower levels were basically deserted when Bradley Thorne walked the stairs down to the cafeteria. Having missed the word frantically spread by Flynn, he only knew someone must've gotten adopted out, based on the rush of little kids outside, and the panicked adults that followed. Though he was inclined to believe it was one of the younger kids. It never occurred to him that the rat could be so popular.

He didn't care much either way, only that this had created the ideal conditions for a quick rendezvous. It took just over three minutes just to get here after reading the note. Privacy was a premium in the asylum. Better not waste a minute.

His shoes seemed louder on the tile as he circled the tables, looking for signs of her. He crossed the room, getting nearer to the kitchen and the wobbly table used by the nerds from the middle grades.

And that's when he spotted something—a lock of shiny brown hair, disappearing like the tip of behind the doorway to the kitchen with a telltale 'crack', and the sound of light steps in saddle shoes.

A grin crossed his face as he followed the sight, stepping into the empty kitchen. All was quiet but the hum of the industrial sized dishwasher, cleaning the last load of trays. The rest of them were washed and stacked, ready for the next meal service. Everything was orderly and in place. Nobody would be coming back until it was time to make dinner.

He looked from the stoves on the left, to the corner—rounding sink on the right. He ran around the sides of the island to find the owner of the whipping hair. It had been amusing at first, but now the hunt was getting old. "Heather?" He stood up from behind the island, and ran behind the line of stoves that made up their own island.

There.

A cool breeze ran up his khakis, a chill wrapping around his ankles. The freezer door stood wide open. He ran up to the fluttering clear strip curtain entrance, and Bradley almost rubbed his eyes. Inside the narrow freezer, right there on the right side of an eye-level shelf, was the baby pink bra. A real bra.

Like a moth to a flame, the freshman was drawn forward by it by an incredible want. Whatever obvious suspicion should have fallen on him was completely overruled by the prospect of getting close to something so coveted. He'd only ever seen these articles of clothing in PG-13 movies, and privately passed around copies of Sears catalogs. He pushed aside the strip curtains, stepped inside the icy chamber, and slipped the bra off of the hanger, holding it at arm's length. Carefully, he turned it over in his hands, marveling at the deep cups and satin trim like a lost treasure rescued from the sands of time.

He completely forgot about the sophomore who'd led him here, at least until he heard the door begin to thunder along its rollers.

Bradley turned around, watching the gap between the freezer and the kitchen narrow to the width of a hand.

He ran back, sliding on a patch of ice and nearly cracking his knee on the floor. By the time he reached the door, it was shut firm. He yanked it again and again, pumping his arms with all his strength, but the suction keeping the contents cold was keeping it shut.

"Wow," a voice mused from the other side of the door. "And I thought Stuart was stupid."

The realization hit Thorne like a ton of bricks. "HEATHER?" He yanked on the handle, throwing all his muscle into it, but it wouldn't give more than half an inch. "The hell's with the door?"

"Jump rope," she told him. Outside the freezer, Heather Thompson had quickly tied one end of a long, double-dutch jump rope to the freezer's handle. The other was already pre-secured to the leg of the sink with a complicated knot, and secured several times over for better strength. "Crazy what you can learn in only one year of girl scouts," she said to the freezer door. "Or how long you remember it."

"WHAT? Are you seri—?!" he cut himself off only after realizing the answer was obvious. "LET ME OUT!"

Even as the door rattled and shook behind her, it did not budge. Heather confidently leaned her back against the wall beside the door. "Not yet. You remember Solara Weaver?"

"What—? What about her?"

She admired her unchipped frosted pink nails as she spoke. "We talked about you, you know."

"What the—"

"The day you locked Stuart in the freezer? Remember that?"

"You two hated each other!"

"No we didn't! We were like sisters! Sisters fight sometimes! She wanted to teach you to learn to pick on someone your own size. She made me promise if I could ever figure out how, I would."

Bradley rattled the knob again. Heather wondered if he'd break it off. "Dammit, Heather, you can't leave me in here!"

"Oh I won't walk away while you're in there. I'm not as wicked as you." She put a finger to her teeth, looking gleefully mischievous. "How long did you have Stuart on ice for, Thorne? How about Biggle? Twenty minutes? Forty? How's an hour sound to you?"

"How's this sound to you?" Thorne asked. "FUCK YOU!"

"An hour and a half it is. Oh, and I'd be easy with that bra, if I was you. Mrs. McGirk's not gonna want it back stinking like a boy who bathes in Old Spice."

The name of the school's fifty year old female coaches echoed in his head as Bradley looked down at the bra. He hadn't even realized he was still holding it by the strap around his wrist when he snapped his wrist, flinging it off of himself with the same horror as if it were a tarantula.

For the next hour, Heather busied herself by occasionally checking the restraint on the door, and finishing her magazine out in the open, to the music of Thorney 's endless cursing and pounding on the freezer door. At no point did she give him the time. So every minute after the first ten minutes felt like an hour.

Even without fear of being caught, she would let him out much earlier than she let him believe, only after the pounding began to slow down, and she could release a stuttering Bradley that was too weak to think of anything but a scalding hot shower, scrubbing his skin raw.

Interaction with Thorne was never the same again. He never crossed paths with Heather in the hallway without a look of contempt that could strike fear into the hearts of every student he'd ever tormented. But Heather recognized this as her victory. Whispers of bullying at the orphanage largely petered out, at least for a while. Though the staff were still largely oblivious, the no—snitching rule had worked out in her favor. Thorne wouldn't dare tell what she'd done, least of all admit that he'd been baited with the smothering of a grown woman's underwear.

So it was hard to tell what caused those snickers when the middle graders saw Bradley from afar. How they'd possibly have found out was anybody's guess. But if she had to guess, they simply figured out how abnormally angry he became whenever he became the butt of the joke, and decided to take advantage of it. They may not have known why, but it didn't matter. The uncertainty about what they knew was enough to make the rest of Bradley Thorne's duration at Orphanage #3 a living hell.

Whether or not she could take credit for it, never again was there a case of a kid lured and locked in the freezer. And that, to Heather Thompson, was something simply wonderful.

---

If you made it this far, I just wanna say, thanks for reading.

This guy's a one shot fic, exploring the day Stuart got adopted. I did something like this for the Robot Jones pilot. I dunno, I just like getting into character's heads on the day major stuff happens. Granted, by the time this got finished, it takes a loooot of twists and turns. To see this basically happens in the background within the first five minutes of the movie is a pretty big stretch, but there ya go.

As I was writing, I wondered if the Littles were not even the first to consider adopting Stuart, during his long stay at the orphanage. In the fic, I wanted the Littles to even suspect this here, especially based on Mrs. Keeper's admitting that she discourages couples from adopting a child of a different species.

Mrs. Keeper's as interesting a minor character can get. There's the obvious species-prejudice angle to her, which paints her as a less than likable authority figure, if not a secondary antagonist who nearly impedes the Littles' adoption.

To her credit, her attitude could be based out of concern for Stuart's safety with those who might be too careless with him, which is valid. (It's a good thing the Littles didn't disclose the washing machine incident.) For better or worse, the Littles, Eleanor in particular, are hypersensitive to his safety.

Furthermore, while there's no evidence in the movie to suggest this, one could headcanon that also might've stopped humans from adopting Stuart before if she suspected they only wanted them because he's cute, and nothing more. argue she just wants to make sure the couple that takes Stuart home actually treats him like a son, and not, like, a pet. According to a friend, the original script had more animal kids in the orphanage than Stuart, which lends to the idea that she's not just making up her claim that different species adoptions "rarely work out." Knowing this, she comes off more complex, whereas she might otherwise be seen as a bigot, or at the very least a cynical old bat who might be assuming Stuart's just gonna end up getting returned to the orphanage when he stops being cute, like a dog going back to the shelter.

For the sake of this fic, however, to keep things simple, Stuart's just never been seriously considered for adoption, no matter the reason.

I liked the idea that the back and forth about Stuart in the office goes on for a while, and there's even this subject question raised about Keeper having impeded Stuart from being adopted before out of sheer prejudice. It may help make the Littles seem a bit more cunning if they're onto her as being more than narrow minded.

I feel like it could also paint Mrs. Keeper as a more dynamic character if we the audience see her actually care about Stuart's welfare. She begins to rise from her speciest mentality when she considers Stuart might actually prosper with the Littles, and feels personally guilty when finding out he's refused them.

I've also wanted to explore Stuart's development/how he came to be the character we know from the franchise. He's shown to be mature and considerate, and he has quite a few friends at the orphanage when he leaves-as shown from the shot where all the kids are waving at him in the taxi. I felt like it would be interesting to explore what led him to be that way by just nine years old. Even though he seems aware he's not likely to be adopted by the time the Littles arrive, he's not bitter about it. He's just happy that the kids around him are going to good homes. He likes kids and he will always resonate with them, which will help him be an awesome teacher when he grows up. Recently I also had this idea that he's specializes in boo-boo care by the time he's nine-something that inspires Bradley. He grabs the first aid kit and makes up a situation like Stuart would be in, in front of the Littles, to make it seem like HE'S been the junior nurse.

I had this idea that his moral compass isn't as easily explained as something that comes from within. He had a role model, so to speak, about how to be mature and compassionate and kind, as well abiding by the rules. What Stuart doesn't quite understand until years later is that she has her own flaws, and that in this story specifically, following the rules and keeping your head down doesn't necessarily lead to success in life. And considering how much Thorne hates him specifically, it certainly doesn't keep Stuart out of trouble.

Solara only matured for the sake of taking care of her own lost baby brother, and then treated Stuart, the most physically vulnerable orphan, as her substitute baby brother. Six year old Stuart utterly reveres this person without understanding why she is the way she is, and it helps him learn to take care of others, as well as himself. In the end, he's too humble to realize he turned out to be a more positive influence on the orphanage than she was. That's why he's special.

And all of this contributes to how he knows exactly what to say to George, when the two finally begin talking. I figured he'd be struggling to prop up George and reinforce his confidence for all the years that they live together. And it helps that he had someone to do that for him.

And just to reinforce that he's not perfect, I felt like it would be more realistic to create one student whom Stuart would have non-jealous friction with. While he only really gets to see Heather in a negative light by the time he's adopted. Whereas Solara has won Stuart's affection with little white lies and exaggeration, Heather has no use for lying to him. She's brutally honest and calls him a baby, which in her eyes is the truth-Solara does baby him (although in her time, its more understandable: he's still very young and all that more vulnerable than he is when the Littles come into his life.) And basically like the novel counterpart, Stuart needs to pick up his independence quickly if he's going to get by, as a mouse living in human society.

(I had an idea for when he'd run into both of these women down the road in life for the main fic.)

I also thought it might be an interesting twist if Stuart was initially hesitant to go with the Littles. After having "been there as long as [he] has", he grew from bitter and jealous to content with the idea of staying until graduation. The shock of getting adopted, especially after he'd passed a certain age where he'd feel like he's too old to get adopted, is just too much at first. It's easy for him to talk to the Littles at first because he's already assured himself that being picked is out of the question. He doesn't wanna open that pocket of precious hope again, just to have something happen which send it all crashing down.

Also small detail, but it was when writing this fic that I personally decided not to call his hands 'paws' moving forward. With a character like this, if I were reading a fanfic and his hands were called paws, I probably wouldn't mention anything about it. But hands feels more correct. I'm not an expert on anatomy by any means but Stuart does have thumbs, so whatever caused that humanoid evolution/mutation certain mice have had in this universe has not only caused them to just randomly decide to wear clothes. They walk upright, speak human language and have humanoid appendages.

/Worldbuildling textwall/: Worldbuilding is a bitch and a half with this universe. When I first brought up this new hyperfixation with one of my friends who's super good at worldbuilding, they asked me what the difference was between Stuart and Snowbell, and it was weirdly frustrating to be unable to give a straight answer to such a simple question, or even propose one. Neither the book nor the movies try to make any sense of it (maybe just to save time.) As of right now, I've had a few ideas bouncing around my head as to where the anthropormorphic mice came from. Even if you suspend your disbelief, the only thing that sounds somewhat explainable is that there was a Secret of NIMH style experiment with mice to see if evolution can't be manufactured (why they chose mice over monkeys, well, maybe there are super humanoid apes who speak perfect English as well?). Only this would have to go back hundreds and hundreds of years, maybe to the renaissance, and the origins of modern science. Passing through many scientists' hands, books and books of theories and journals and discoveries. And someone had to have zoned in on mice being the best candidates for this playing God and forcing humanoid evolution. Over generations, the experiments shaped their bodies to carry out humanoid tasks, everything from walking and writing words on paper. It just so happened that the experiment took off with mice and ended up making them the most humanoid of them all.

In this headcanon, there would still be regular mice and birds like there are cats like Snowbell that don't wear clothes and don't speak to humans (or is it that they actively choose not let humans know they can speak for whatever reason? That's another area for someone to explore). Stuart and Margalo are in that group that were distantly spawned from these experiments, Stuart having the advantage of being the species that was focused on./worldbuiding textwall over/

Once again, this fanfic's been sitting in my docs pretty much finished for a while now. The kind feedback I've gotten on my other fics made me seriously hyped, so here I am on this morning on my day off at the crack of dawn, making a really lame temporary cover so I can let this go. I do have rough sketches that go with the story, including what Derry, Flynn, Andrew and Thorne look like, but they don't make for good cover art. Too bad fanfic doesn't have a multi picture setting because I would abuse the hell out of that thing. I really like exploring Stuart's life before the Littles, and making fan characters of the people who really molded him into who he is. It's important if you think that they helped make him the kind of person that made such an impression on the Littles that they wanted him for their own.

I realize that this universe also hinges on the idea that at least a few major city orphanages still exists into the late 1990s, long after their real first world counterparts were all defunct, and had been for some time. (At the very least, I figure in this alternate universe, the 2000s brings reforms which terminate the last of the mass orphan schools in America. The social workers including Keeper begin having the children gradually moved out into foster homes and the orphanage/school is completely shut down by the time Stuart's in highschool. So Andrew, Derry and Flynn have a very good reason to hope about "getting out." Though it's interesting to think of the UTTER CHAOS caused by various kids being taken away en masse and the boys realizing that soon, they're never gonna see each other again =/)

This one doesn't have much on Solara Weaver, the mentor's mentor, so to speak. She's long gone by the time this fic takes place. I've got more scraps on her that hopefully I'll publish in the near future.

Thanks again if you got through all this garbage at the end here. See you guys around. Cheers.
A/N EXTRA: AS I'M ABOUT TO PUBLISH THIS I READ AN ARTICLE ON VENT TRAVELING BEING SUCH AN OVERUSED TROPE AND NOW I JUST FEEL AAGGH. I hope that's not a turn off. I think it's such a cool trope. It's such iconic imagery in Toy Story 2, and traveling through the vents makes sense due to them being small and staying out of site of humans. And then there's the Yogmans in Robot Jones. They can't walk the hallways like normal, being the little gremlins they are, and they probably think it's cool to have their own secret passageway. And... well dammit, it is! -.- /Tangent/Too bad I could barely fit my arm in an air vent, let alone my entire fat ass. Also the school I went to growing up didn't have any airconditioning vents, only uncovered radiators that were hotter than the sun. (My elementary school was in the city and was kinda old too. I picture the orphanage also being a very old building and having the same old outfitting.)/tangent end/

And I thought it made enough sense at least for Stuart, because he is small and has a knack for climbing due to still being part mouse. Of course he's gonna get to get into every small space he can.

Also, this is obviously a huge one-shot. I'll be combing it for grammar/spelling errors and the like going forward, or I'll never get this uploaded. But if you spot any typos, feel free to leave it and any and all thoughts, including "but why tho?" in a review. Cheers.