"No. I refuse." Says Carlos, "He is a minor. His actions were in self defense and he does not need to talk to you without his parents present. I don't give a fuck who you are."

Kendall's attempt to restrain his husband are just as effective as they are serious. Which is to say, not at all. He's right, but seeing as how both of Guzman's parents are absent; his mother being dead and his father locked away in a prison cell, he has no guardian.

"Mr. Garcia I have a job to do." Says the inspector.

Carlos takes one worried look at his husband and makes a bold decision, "I am seeing to it that all three remaining survivors of the Las Encinas massacre, including my biological nephew Polo Benavent, fall under my protection in a legally binding adoption contract. I will take them on as my sons and in the time that it takes for us to get to the US and make this official you can organize your case and at some point you may question him, if necessary, with me and or my husband present. Meanwhile, I will organize my case against the school which allowed this and the attacker that decided to show up in the wrong classroom. The moment the sun comes up tomorrow and the roads have been salted my husband and I are taking those boys home. What you do is your business."

The three of them turn to see an anxious looking Guzman standing there.

Kendall nods, "Run along, Guzman. This is an adult conversation."

For the first time being addressed by someone older than him did not feel like an insult. Guzman sighs deeply, furrows a brow, and then turns to walk away, clearly defeated. Defeated and relieved. This is not something he has to worry about right now. He can focus on something far more important; his friends. If he's crumbling they must be in shambles.

Polo may be involved in a lot that happened but what Guzman over heard Carlos say was right. He's a minor. They all are. It's not their place to know right from wrong in a game they're not allowed to play. Not yet anyways. They still have time. It is their place to look out for one another. Speak out. Guard and protect those who need them. Right now Polo and Ander slip away quicker than he does so they need him.

'Focus on Guzman later.' He thinks, and he's so very wrong.

Nimble fingers catch his eye, the needles between them that is. He's in the hallway with the little old hobble of a woman. She's stitching something. Knitting maybe? No, those are pants that already exist. They're Guzman's bloody jeans. The blood is all gone, she is patching them. What for, he can afford new ones. She smiles softly up at him from where's she's sitting in her velvet red chair; a blanket keeps her warm and a lamp cast light on her here in the crook etched in the center of the corridor where a tall window illuminates snow covered trees all over a pair of beautiful mountains so chiseled and crooked at the top but lights litter the fields and he knows they're not alone out here in the tundra.

She's groaning as she attempts to stand. There's a resistance there to assistance but she makes it to her feet. Slowly she makes her way over to him with the pants in her left hand and her right hand bracing the wall just beneath all the portraits. She's in a few of them. Perhaps she's the owner. He should respect her. A warmth comes from her that he cannot ignore as she lays the pants down in his grasp. The patch isn't perfect. You can easily tell she used a completely different colored fabric to cling to the underside of the gash. Still, he accepts it and appreciates her even taking the time even if it does seem unimportant.

She places a hand on his shoulder and looks back down the direction of the corridor where he and his friends are staying. She points to the light coming from the door. A big wrinkly smile spreads across her soft face and she looks back at him with an assuring nod. It's all he can do not to say thank you because he knows she will not understand. Simply, he smiles back and takes her hand into his own before slipping past her and letting go the way you do an orange and browning leaf you were afraid to crumble.

He continues further down the hall and steps through the threshold allowing the warm fire light to engulf him. Over on the bed, already in his underwear, he finds Ander. Ander is asleep and drenched in a sheen of sweat. Must be a fever. The chest movements are awfully slow compared to what Guzman's seen from previous sleep overs. The boys skin is more than pale. So Guzman slips into the bathroom the boys share.

There he finds a tall shelf with three sets of pairing towels. Azule for Guzman (a delicate blue, almost like glass), Adventurous sea-foam for Ander (A green so pale it's a cream), and seductive midnight for Polo (a wild deep purple not dark enough to be wine). They're all labeled by name just like their separate toothbrushes all have a single initial on each one. Hanging on hooks on the back of the door are the same themed in color robes. This organization, of name and color, becomes something Guzman finds to appreciate. He has no time to worry about something as common as a mix up between two boys he may one day call brother. That word feels too strong when he thinks of a boy like Polo but when he's picking up one of the green towels he's not thinking about Polo.

He's making his way over to the sink to open the faucet and use the cold water. He doesn't soak the towel. He only get it damp enough to be felt on the surface. A fever still needs to break but a young boy is suffering and the slightest of eases in contact could be enough to remind Ander he is not alone. Guzman is on his knees by the bed on the side Ander has chosen. Ander's always on the right. His face is stressed and pained even in sleep as beads of condensation drop off the reddened nose past the grey bed sheets and down to the floor.

Guzman gently places the damp fabric on the exposed skin where Ander's closest shoulder blade rests. Ander gasps but does not waken. It isn't until Guzman has pressed down on several places around his collar bone and onto the base of his neck that those bright eyes snap open and center in on the boy who's on his knees. Ander looks around confused and shivering but then brings his vision back to Guzman.

They sit there in silence. An ease has passed over Ander and while he's still shivering he's no longer locked in that horrible nightmare of the tiny flames with legs that burn people but nothing else. It was all a dream and he's safe. He's fine. Nothing can hurt him with Guzman here. Oh, but... where...

"Where's Polo?" Ander breaks that silence.

Guzman looks around, "I last saw him in the screen room."

Fear floods Ander's eyes. Something awful just occurred to him.

"Do you remember when we were kids, that summer you met Lucrecia?" He swallows hard and rises up quickly. Too quickly because now the room is spinning.

Guzman places a hand on Ander's lap, "Woah Ander. Easy. Yes I remember. We spent it playing cards."

"You remember where?"

Guzman pauses to think. When they weren't at his house or her house or Ander's house they were torturing Polo about his relationship with Carla or...

"With Valerio... in the hidden space behind the walls of the science lab." He finally responds.

Ander is trying to stand and it's hard to breath as he says, "They were in the science lab when the school went up in flames. They knew about the secret space. They could be there. They could still be alive Guzman. No one knows but us."

Guzman places both hands on Ander's chest and speaks very sternly, "I will pass the message along to detective Garcia. We are too young to be handling these serious affairs. That gives me hope, Ander, so thank you but you need rest and that fever needs to break. So lay back down. I will go find Polo and when I come back I'll bring some soup."

He rises to his feet and Ander lies down on his stomach anxious but compliant. Guzman then unfolds the towel and spreads it across Ander's back. The temperature of his flesh is hot enough to take the cool out but having something to absorb the sweat will keep Ander from drenching the sheets further. There's also something Ander finds assuring about this gesture. He buries his face in the pillow and thinks about only Guzman's lips moving in conversations they've had in the past until sleep overtakes him.