Ben and Kane stood alone on the cliff's edge.
The air was thick with the threat of cool moisture. Rain, sleet, or snow was destined to fall from the night sky above them. There were no stars, no moon of which light could be provided. Darkness surrounded them, extending on the horizon for miles. Gazing intently into this darkness, Ben did his best not to acknowledge or provide any attention to the man standing before him. He tried to ignore his chilling smile and the wicked gleam in his blue eyes.
While Ben was awake, caring for his injured son, the Eastgate sheriff had called this man, Peter Kane, a devil, and others had insinuated he was a demon in disguise. The words had haunted Ben in his waking hours though, if he were honest, he had never believed such a thing could be proven true. He would never allow himself to believe it.
While a man could be corrupt, depraved, malicious and sinister, that didn't make him an archfiend. Men were men; devils and demons were something else entirely—in his waking hours he knew Kane had been no more than a monster of a man. But in his dreams, being forced to stand before Kane as he chuckled and sneered, his eyes glistening and gleaming as he recounted things about Adam, Ben himself, and the past, things no stranger—no man—should have ever known, he wondered who or what Kane really was.
"So, you're changing the rules," Kane said, his voice disrupting the silence around them. "Good plan, Papa. I wonder what Adam will do in response?"
"I will not speak to you anymore," Ben said firmly. "I do not care for your tales."
"Why? Because you're afraid of the things I say? Or is it because of the truth I know? Oh, the things I could tell you if only you'd listen."
"I will not," Ben said.
"Hmm," Kane hummed disapprovingly; the noise which escaped him was grinding and deep. "I am disappointed in you. You may have heard tales about me, but you have no idea the tales I have heard about you. The Great Ben Cartwright, one of the bravest and strongest men the world has to offer." He scoffed. "You're not as great as the stories would lead one to believe, and you aren't brave, at least where your sons are concerned."
"Do you dare talk about—"
"Your sons are your strength but they're your weakness too. Your love for them makes you a coward. It makes you do mindless things. Take yesterday for example, Adam was lost and then he was found and now you're not taking time to consider what happened. You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him to distract you from the questions you should be asking. How did he get from the timber camp to the lake unseen? When did his direction change and why?"
"I don't know," Ben said. "And I don't care. We found him, that's what's important."
"How do you know? If you aren't privy to the truth of certain events, then who are you to decide their importance?"
"I will not discuss this with you. I will not discuss anything with you."
"With God all things are possible," Kane said. "I wonder what kind of things the devil can allow one to achieve. The devil was in Ross Marquette, remember? In the end, even your son thought so; although, after Ross's death he kept that particular belief to himself. He kept a lot of things to himself. Do you remember what the time that came after was like? What Adam was like?"
Closing his eyes, Ben tried to ignore the question and the memories Kane was so determined to unearth. He didn't want to be reminded of the past. The present and future seemed difficult enough without recalling old wounds.
"The day Ross and his wife died a part of your son died too," Kane said. "He killed a part of himself when he killed his best friend. His actions which followed made that abundantly clear. You were so afraid of losing him then, do you remember? Fear consumed you. You were so worried he was becoming like his grandfather was, drinking himself into oblivion. When you didn't worry about the amount and frequency in which he was drinking, then you worried he would become too liquored to think clearly and get himself killed. And when you didn't worry about either of those things, you worried about something worse. That fateful day was coming. You could feel it approaching, remember? It was becoming closer and closer with each minute that passed, that dreaded inescapable day when he would leave home and you for good. And for a while he did. Where were you then, Papa?"
Opening his eyes, Ben didn't want to respond, but he was incapable of remaining silent. It was too painful of a memory to be ignored; Adam had left after Ross's death, but he hadn't remained gone.
"He came back," Ben said. "I brought him back."
"Even then he was different. Quiet. Distant. He became more careful and reserved."
"He came around."
"He wasn't the same. There was a distinct difference between who he had been and who he became. That was when his need to leave home truly became apparent. It was as though he couldn't tolerate remaining in place for more than a week. He began favoring business trips over being home and anytime travel was needed you began delegating it to him. You chose him for those trips over your other sons because you knew the truth. That dreaded day was closer than it had ever been. Someday was approaching quicker than it ever had. What you could offer him, the life and legacy you built was ceasing to appease him. He was born a wanderer, but it was his later actions, it was his pain which gave birth to his need to run. He couldn't stay where he was, not forever. Not for long. The memories of the past were consuming him. There was too much pain for him to contend— "
"What is the point of this conversation?" Ben growled. "Why must you always repeat what I already know?"
"You're the Great Ben Cartwright, don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future. You know, you should really be thanking me."
Chill creeping up his spine, Ben was appalled.
"If it wasn't for me," Kane continued, "Adam would have remained unchanged. He would have continued wandering and running until he never came back and now..." He paused, his lips curling into a toothy grin. "...He'll never leave."
Waking from the dream suddenly, Ben found dawn had come uneventfully. He dressed quickly and quietly, silently struggling to dismiss Kane's final words. They were hard to ignore and had awoken a new kind of pain. How could he ever look upon the changes in Adam as something to be thankful for?
Striding through the hallway, he found Hoss emerging from his bedroom. "Mornin', Pa," he whispered. Pulling his arms through his brown vest, he was careful not to shut the door behind him.
"Good morning, son."
"You look like you're in need of some good news."
Hoss nodded at the bed beyond the doorway and Ben's eyes found Adam sleeping peacefully. Seeing his eldest son in his middle one's bed was a difficult thing to interpret as good though he knew it was. If Adam had moved, if he had risen from bed and walked to Hoss's bedroom then that meant his unresponsive state had ended.
"He came in early this morning," Hoss whispered. "Of course, he didn't say nothin,' but he walked in on his own. I don't mind sayin' I'm grateful he didn't remain how we found him yesterday for too long."
Ben was grateful too though he remained silent. It was difficult to feel anything beyond the disturbed emotions his dream had left behind.
He'll never leave, Kane's vicious words singsonged in his mind, torturing him with their agonizing truth.
Moving to the side of the bed, he watched Adam sleep for a moment, oddly taken by the very contradiction of his son's appearance. Curled into a tight ball beneath the blankets, his form was deceiving. He was skinny and he appeared small, the state of his body more fitting of someone much younger. It was his face which gave the truth away. The length of his beard and the slight beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes which had become more pronounced due to his dramatic weight loss. It occurred to Ben that his son did not look like a boy, and he no longer looked quite like a man. He looked weak, sickly, the state of his body reflecting illness of his mind, leaving him captive somewhere between a man and a child.
How could he possibly have believed his son was capable of venturing into the outside world? How could any of them think a trip to the timber camp or even town was an appropriate idea?
Despite these grim questions there was one answer which remained unchanged since the evening before. Asking too much of Adam and then struggling with the consequences of his actions were the only things which could have demanded they see the situation for what it really was. Adam was sick and he wasn't getting better; in fact, with each day that passed, he seemed to be getting worse.
But today was bound to be better, Ben was reminded, because yesterday was decidedly worse. Yesterday Adam had been missing, lost to the land, and running from whatever he had seen or felt. Today he was safe and warm, tucked into his brother's bed and Ben intended to keep him that way.
Longing to feel him, to have tangible proof of Adam's physical presence, Ben extended his hand and carded his fingers through his son's unruly hair. Adam looked so feeble, so defenseless beneath the blankets. He looked like someone who needed to be protected and cared for. He looked like a stranger in comparison to who he had once been.
Ben thought of Ross Marquette then—though he didn't want to. It was a hard comparison to avoid. A glaring one that everyone around him seemed as aware of as himself. Doc Martin had likened Adam's mental confusion to that of Ross. Ben still knew they were drastically different. While they both were unbalanced, the symptoms of their respective unbalances were different. Ross had taken to hurting others, but Adam seemed intent on only hurting himself. Even so, violence was violence and both types of brutality demanded to be stopped. It was Adam who had been forced to stop Ross, and Ben knew it was he who needed to stop Adam. He would do for his son what couldn't be done for another. He would save Adam from himself. One way or another, somehow, some way he would.
"Doc was worried about leavin' him alone," Hoss whispered. "You want him up and out?"
Reaching for an extra quilt folded on the top of the bureau, Ben shook it and his head. "No," he said. "Let him sleep. We'll leave the door open, and I'll check on him after a bit."
Tucking the quilt over Adam, Ben glanced at the oil lamp. It was flame burning so slightly that it was in danger of being extinguished by even the slightest burst of air. It was a problem Hoss quickly noted and rectified before following his father out of the room.
They came upon a Joe in the hallway. Holding his boots in one hand, he was covering his yawning mouth with the other. Nudging their backs with the palms of his hands, Ben silently shepherded both of his sons down the stairs.
"We need to talk about Adam," he said, standing at the foot of the fireplace as his sons gathered around.
"What does that mean?" Blinking blearily, Joe sat on the blue chair and dropped his boots on the floor and cast Ben a tired look.
"It means things are gonna change," Hoss said softly.
"What kind of things?" Brows furrowing, Joe looked between his brother and his father; any tiredness he had been feeling was chased away by anticipation and concern. "Now what does that mean?"
"We need to accept the way things are," Hoss said. "What Adam can do and what he can't. He ain't the same, Joe. We've all known that for a while, and if we didn't then yesterday was proof of it. Adam's in a bad way, there's no use in hidin' that from each other now."
"He's sick," Joe stubbornly insisted. "That doesn't mean he can't get better."
"He's not getting better," Ben said sadly. Oh, how the word hurt to say aloud. "Joseph, he can't take care of himself."
"He ain't to be trusted alone," Hoss said. "He hurt himself before, he'll do it again."
Ben wondered how in-depth Hoss's conversation with Doctor Martin had been, if this was another thing which had been advised or if it was a deduction Hoss had made on his own. It was bound to be the latter; Hoss was as aware of Adam's odd behavior as his father. He had seen and acknowledged his older brother's self-harming actions and it had concerned him enough not to offer Adam a gun prior to their visit to the timber camp.
"Is this about what Frank Marshal said about Adam yesterday?" Joe demanded. "Because I'm tellin' you, Pa, Frank is a liar. He was a liar when he worked at the Silver Dollar and he's a liar now."
"It ain't about what Frank said," Hoss said. "It's about what Adam did. Now I don't like or believe that man any more than you do, Joe, but that don't change the fact that Adam is the one who chose to run away. He was the one who decided to go missing and take himself to the lake. Nobody helped him; nobody told him to take off his clothes and sit in the cold water. He did it all on his own. I'm worried; Pa's worried and you should be too, because we don't know what else Adam might choose to do on his own."
"Yesterday we were lucky, Joe," Ben said softly. "We found him and brought him home safe; in the future we may not be so fortunate. Adam needs to be... watched. He doesn't eat; he doesn't sleep in his own bed. He needs to be cared for and told what to do."
"You'll turn him into an invalid," Joe said, his voice trembling and eyes filling with furious tears. "Adam is strong, Pa. He's always been so... strong."
"I know," Ben said, his voice tight. In Joe's expression he saw his own emotions, sadness over what Adam's life had become and fear over the unknown deterioration the future could potentially bring. He empathized with his youngest son's dread and anxiety over changing anything where Adam was concerned. What if they made it too easy for him to remain sick? What if by changing their expectations of him, they were ensuring he never improved?
"Things have to change, Joe," Hoss said. "You know it, don't act like you don't."
"Haven't they changed enough?" Joe asked. Elbows propped in his knees, he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. Breaths coming in shaky gasps, it took a moment for him to compose himself enough to continue. "You're giving up on him."
Ben frowned. "I am not— "
"Yes," Joe insisted. "You are. You both are. It's like when we're searching for him in the desert all over again. Don't you remember, Pa? The minute when we were gonna give up was the very moment we found him. We were ready to give in and then there he was."
It was an occasion Ben didn't think he would ever forget, both due to the relief and guilt attached to it. They had given up on finding Adam and then out of nowhere he had appeared. If it was a decision made five minutes earlier, if Adam's pace had been any slower, they would have missed him completely. He would have died in the desert, laughing and chattering nonsense while carrying Kane's body around. They had given up then and Adam could have died. It was a decision that haunted all of them, he supposed. But this decision was nothing like that one. He wasn't resigning himself to accepting his oldest son's assumed death; he was doing what was necessary to keep him alive.
"Joe," Ben said gently. Moving away from the fireplace, he crouched in front of his son. His knees ached and cracked in protest of the movement, irrefutable evidence of his age. "Look at me."
Staring at the floorboards, sniffling, and swiping his hands over his eyes, Joe did not comply.
Ben wanted to tell him there was no shame in shedding tears over the conversation; some truths were harder to accept than others. There was no harm in expressing sadness; there was nothing wrong with grieving for the loss of the Adam they once knew. However, there was wrong and fault in remaining in denial, in not doing everything possible to help the person Adam had become.
"I know this isn't easy," Ben said. "I know it hurts."
"It hurts more because it's Adam," Hoss said, soft knowing words which finally prompted Joe to look up and set his eyes upon his older brother. "Like you said, Joe, he's always been strong. Maybe that's why it's got to be okay for him to be a little weak. Nobody's infallible, little brother."
"I know that," Joe whispered. "I just wish I knew what he went through; I wish I knew what was making him feel or do what he does."
"We all wish that," Ben said.
"I wish I could help him," Joe said.
"Adam's always been our older brother," Hoss said. "And he'll always be that, even now. It's hard to accept him the way he is now because he's never been like how he is. He's always been stubborn and strong, lovin' and protecting us, both when we was kids and even sometimes when we were grown. He wasn't always happy about it neither, but he did it because that's what older brothers do. He watched over us our whole lives, Joe, and now it's time for us to do the same for him. We got to love and protect him, even if it's from himself, and that's how you help him now."
Joe considered the words for a moment, then cleared his throat and swiped his hands over his eyes, wiping away his tears. He glanced at Ben, then at Hoss, then repeated the motion. When he laid his eyes upon Hoss a third time, he didn't look away. Green eyes shining with determination, he pursued his lips and nodded firmly.
"Okay," he agreed.
"Okay," Hoss repeated. "Now, let's see what Hop Sing has on for breakfast."
Smiling slightly, Ben finally stood. As he watched his sons rise from their seats and make their way to the kitchen, he was grateful for the wisdom shared among brothers, all the things his middle son could convince both his older and younger son to believe and do. Hoss's patience, kindness, and quiet insight were all gifts. Though Hoss would never ask for one, Ben knew he owed him an apology for his previous doubts.
"Hoss hold back for a minute," he said.
Casting a forlorn look at the kitchen, Hoss hesitated in place and then turned around. "Yeah, Pa?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pants pockets as he closed the gap between them.
"I'm sorry," Ben said. "For the things I said last night. I was worried, which I know is a poor excuse."
"Ah, Pa," Hoss said, scrunching his nose. "I know that. You don't have to apologize. I reckon sometimes there's just nothing fear can't make a man believe."
"That doesn't make what I said to you right."
"It don't exactly make it wrong neither."
"Well, either way, I want you to know I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted you. I trust you indefinitely when it comes to your brothers."
"I know." Smiling Hoss turned, then hesitated and looked at his father once more. "Pa?" he asked. "Just what exactly did Frank Marshal say to you when you rode together lookin' for Adam?"
"What do you mean?"
"What did he say about Adam?"
"Nothing much. He said they were friends."
"Friends, huh?" Hoss appeared perplexed.
"Well, friendly," Ben qualified. "Why?"
"I don't know much about Adam and Frank being friends or even friendly. In fact, I recall them being just about the opposite."
"Frank said Adam was the one who hired him."
"Oh, he did," Hoss said. "But I don't think Adam offerin' Frank a job had anything to do with them being on good terms."
"What makes you say that?"
"Like Joe said, Frank was a hand from Silver Dollar. He's the wandering type, used to come and go quite a bit in those days. He'd turn up to work round up for Ross every year and he wouldn't stick around after. He showed up in Virginia City a month or two after Ross and Del died, about the time when Adam was really going through his... difficulties. He and Frank were known to have violent disagreements at the saloon. Hearsay was that Frank was of the opinion Adam owed him a job because... well, because he was the one who killed Ross and by doing so, he had dismantled the Silver Dollar's business operation and cost him his job."
"Hearsay?"
"Hearsay to me." Hoss shrugged. "I never witnessed the fights myself and never could get anything out of Adam afterward about what started 'em."
Ben didn't need specific details; he could imagine the derogatory things that could have been said and how it would have made Adam feel. During that time, Adam had felt bad enough—he had blamed himself enough for what had happened to Ross—he hadn't needed anyone else to declare him guilty of what he already perceived as a crime.
"Frank said Adam saved him from himself," Ben said. "He said it was a favor he would like to return."
"Frank says a lot of things."
"Like what?" Ben pressed.
"Does it matter?" Hoss asked.
Ben wasn't sure. The information Frank had volunteered conflicted with what Hoss or even Joe knew. Had the man been lying and if so, then for what gain?
"You know, I thought a lot about Frank last night," Hoss continued. "Adam and Ross Marquette too. I kept thinking about what happened with Ross, what Adam was forced to do and how he was after, all the drinkin' and running away he did. And then I thought about how he ran away yesterday and how Frank said he looked him in the eye and grinned. I don't know if I believe that, but I think maybe seeing Frank at the camp may have something to do with Adam running. Don't ask me why. I just do."
How did he get from the timber camp to the lake unseen? Kane's words echoed in Ben's mind. When did his direction change and why?
"Do you trust Frank Marshal?" Ben asked an odd feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. "Do you think he was telling the truth about how your brother left that camp?"
"No." Hoss shook his head. "Not even a little bit. Not that matters much though, because whether I believe Frank or not, it still don't explain how Adam left without anyone noticing or how he made it to the lake without being seen. Somebody should have seen something, Pa; it doesn't make sense that Frank was the only one who did."
Nodding, Ben silently agreed. They were odd, the things Frank had said, and the things Adam had done. He didn't like strangers and he didn't like to be alone, but he hadn't been alone at the timber camp. He had been in both of his brothers' company, and friend or something else, Frank hadn't been a stranger. So why would Adam run?
This was a question Ben would spend the afternoon considering whilst in the company of his silent oldest son.
The day was relatively unspectacular, which was a gift in comparison to one which had come before. Adam slept late into the morning, then rose, dressed, and descended the staircase on his own. He appeared slightly tired but not overly so. His facial expressions were temperate and unenthusiastic. To Ben, it seemed as though the day prior hadn't happened at all—as if Adam's unresponsive state had come and gone without Adam being truly aware of it ever taking place.
Nursing a cup of coffee, Ben sat with him at the table, carefully watching as Adam shoved the breakfast Hop Sing had cooked for him idly back and forth on his plate. They sat there for a while, long enough for Ben to refill his coffee cup and for Adam's food to become cold.
Watching his son fiddle with his fork before placing it on the table with a heavy sigh, Ben finally decided some encouragement was needed.
"Adam, if there is something else you would rather eat that can be obliged. If you don't want what has been given to you then use your words to ask for something else. You have to eat, son; you've lost too much weight, you must even be aware of that."
He waited for a reaction, for a stubborn spark to appear in Adam's eyes as he silently opposed the ultimatum. He expected some kind of unsavory response; the threat of shoving the plate on the floor, or of something else. He anticipated some sort of stubborn challenge.
One never came.
Retrieving his fork, Adam gave the contents of his plate one final shove before he began to slowly eat. More time passed around Ben and his son; it took a while, but Adam was able to stomach half of his breakfast. Dropping the fork, he pushed the plate back slightly and peered at his father as though to ask if what he had eaten was enough.
Smiling, Ben decided it was. "That's good enough for now," he said.
Nodding once, Adam pushed his chair back from the table, preparing to stand as his father grasped his forearm and ceased his movement.
"Wait," Ben said. He hadn't meant to keep Adam at the table any longer than necessary; he hadn't had any intention of addressing what had happened yesterday. His instruction was impetuous, as unpredictable as the next words out of his mouth. "I met a friend of yours yesterday, Frank Marshal. He's one of your men at the timber camp. He said you hired him. Do you remember doing that?"
He wasn't expecting an answer; he was looking for a reaction. Hints of conflict or familiarity etched on this oldest son's face. He saw neither as Adam's stony expression did not waiver. Eyes set on the wall behind Ben, he didn't appear bothered by the mention of Frank; he didn't seem the slightest bit concerned about the recount of yesterday's events. It was as though they were happenings which had nothing to do with him; it was as though his father was chronicling sparse events of someone else's day, a person whom Adam had no interest in or concern for.
"He helped me look for you," Ben said. "He said you ran up the mountain and into the trees. Do you remember doing that?"
As Adam's focus didn't waiver, Ben wondered if he was being ignored. Then he wondered why he was pushing this topic of conversation, struggling to glean answers to questions Adam remained unwilling to speak about or completely unaware of.
Squeezing his son's forearm reassuringly, Ben forced a small smile and himself to abandon the conversation. "Well, we found you," he said. "That's what's important."
How do you know? Kane's question rang in Ben's ears. If you aren't privy to the truth of certain events, then who are you to decide their importance?
Suddenly fidgeting beneath the weight of his father's hand, Adam turned in his chair and cast a wide-eyed gaze at the end of the table opposite his father. It was the oddest thing—Ben recognized that in the moment. Eyes focused on the empty chair at the end of the table, Adam's breaths were quiet and labored as he began to tremble.
"Adam?" Ben asked. "What's wrong?"
Shaking his head in an overwhelmed manner, Adam pulled his arm away from his father and stood. A series of frantic paces took him from the table to the base of the staircase, where he suddenly stopped; turning in place, he set his eyes on the empty chair once more. Hand moving absently, he tugged at his shirtsleeve until the button on the cuff gave out and fell on the floor, then slipping his fingertips beneath the gaping fabric, he began to scratch his arm.
The movements were slow, harmless at first. Then, as Ben approached, they became something more; quick, furious, and violent, his nails dug and raked his skin deeply, reopening the wounds he had inflicted upon himself the day before and leaving a set of fresh long puckered lines behind.
Grasping his son's arm, Ben held it firmly and pulled it away, his own eyes wide and horrified. Blood dripped from Adam's forearm, a thick, deep red substance which matched the stains on his fingertips.
"Adam," Ben said, his voice soft, thick, and full of shock.
Looking at his father, Adam's face was void of emotion. He stared at him for a moment, then looked back at the empty chair, then looked at his father, and then back at the chair.
Ben felt as though he was missing something, something important, something big. Some invisible detail that would allow him to finally understand everything. Why Adam ran away; why he hurt himself; and why he suddenly seemed so afraid.
Looking at the chair, Ben didn't see anything. It was empty; there was nothing to see. Nothing to explain Adam's behavior; nothing to explain anything at all.
Breathing coming in panicked gasps, Adam's body grew weak beneath his weight. Wobbling slightly, his knees buckled, and he began to fall.
Letting go of his son's wrist, Ben caught him easily and hoisted his limp body into his arms. Though he had never seen the beginning of one of his son's unresponsive states before, he was certain that was what this was. He had no idea what caused it. How could something as harmless as a chair possibly give birth to such a thing?
Cradling his son, he placed him in a different chair, the blue one that was so loved, safe and familiar. Kneeling before Adam, Ben held his cheeks in both of his palms, forcing his son to look at him.
Slowly, Adam's eyes were becoming dull and glazed.
"You're not doing this," Ben said, forcing as firm of a tone as he could. "Do you understand me? You're not doing this, not now. Not ever again. Stay with me, Adam. Don't run away like this."
Staring absently, Adam's head began to grow heavy in his hands and Ben felt a panic rise in chest. Little by little, he was losing his son to another state of absentness that would last for who knew how long. He had had him and now he was losing him again.
There were splotches of blood everywhere, smeared stains collecting upon both their shirts, the chair, and the floor. Bright and accusing, they served as evidence of another good day turned bad. Tired of all the bad days, Ben was desperate for some good.
"Stay with me, Adam," he repeated firmly. "I can help you; I can protect you from whatever it is you can't escape. Please, please, son, don't do this again. Darling, I..." He hesitated, shocking even himself with the epithet. It had been years since it had escaped him, ages since it had been directed toward one of his sons.
It was the word that seemed to change everything. Body becoming rigid beneath his weight, Adam pushed the back of his head toward the chair as the dull, glazed look in his eyes transformed to something else.
Hands falling from his son's cheeks, Ben gripped Adam's knees. A relieved smile danced on his lips as he saw a hint of anger and indigence in his son's hazel eyes. While Adam may have retained Papa, keeping it in his vast repertoire for use in private and as ammunition, he hadn't allowed Ben to do the same.
"You always hated being called that," Ben said. "Even when you were a baby, I'm convinced. You put an end to its use as soon as you could speak. I suppose, it is a comfort to know some things will never change."
Trembling beneath his father's hands, Adam cast a worried glance at the chair once more. Brows knitting, his face contorted painfully as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was still terribly upset, frightened, and intimated by a dining room chair, the presence of which was something he had been accustomed to for years.
It didn't make sense how the morning could start so well and then end like this. It simply didn't seem logical for Adam to be fine one moment and then so overcome the next, overwhelmed by seemingly nothing. There was nothing in the chair, any rational man could see that, but Adam wasn't a rational man, not right now. Not anymore.
Watching Adam's focus remain frozen on the intimate object, Ben thought about Frank Marshal and his odd recount of how Adam had left the timber camp. Frank had said Adam seemed nervous. He had said he kept looking over his shoulder and staring at the base of the mountain.
It was weird, Frank's recount echoed in Ben's ears, the way he was looking at it, like somebody or something was there. I didn't see nobody, but I think maybe he did.
Ben cast a confused glance at the empty chair. There was still nothing to be seen, nothing suspicious at all.
His eyes, they were gleaming, glistening with something akin to evil.
Looking at Adam, Ben found his son's eyes were gleaming, glistening not with anything close to evil but unshed tears.
"What's over there, Adam?" Ben asked softly as Adam's bottom lip began to quiver. "What could possibly be bothering you this much?"
Adam didn't answer; Ben didn't expect him to. He did anticipate, however, the sobbing fit which quickly consumed his son.
"It's okay," Ben reassured. "I promise you it is. Whatever it is, it can't hurt you. I'm right here.
Adam's cries were full of agitation, so deep they rattled his chest. Panicked, fearful, and devastated, they were accompanied by tears which seemed to have no end.
Ben did the only thing he could think of to help his son's pain. Pulling Adam's shaking body close, he held and rocked him, rubbing slow circles on his back. Mournfully, he couldn't help noting this was the most noise he had heard from his son in weeks. It was so reminiscent of the sobbing fit Adam had when he had been found wandering the desert—or even the ones which had come after. It was knowledge that did nothing to calm his worry or hasten what felt like age-old questions as they sprung to the forefront of his mind.
What was going on? What was happening to his son?
