The day had been a relatively normal one, so far.

Dad was having a rough day. Nora had been able to tell, when she'd put him to bed that morning, that he must've passed a hard night. And when she'd put him to bed again a few minutes ago, he'd been adamant in convincing Nora as to the reality of this alleged dragon he'd seen.

Being a lighthouse keeper was a difficult job for a man his age. And he'd been heartily disappointed, as well, when it slowly became clear that their plans from last year—his imminent retirement and picking back up a hobby of whittling he'd developed while he was in the war – were now…not the plans. And dealing with confusion of how things lay now, and with the grief of having that dream pushed back….it hit him harder than either of them had expected.

Paul had told him in no uncertain terms that he was happy to take Lampie's job from him, when he was finally able to settle his own affairs and actually marry Nora. And now…Paul wasn't here.

Nora sat alone in the kitchen. There was chowder on the stove she was supposed to be making for her supper. She'd fed a cold leftover crab-cake to Dad before having to practically wrestle him into bed, twisted in fear and confusion and drink. He'd sleep it off. He always did. He'd do better in the morning with the food and water she'd gotten into his system, and she was already slotted for duty tonight. They usually alternated.

She'd debated changing out of her blouse, which still smelled like the tavern (read: beer. She smelled like beer), but ultimately decided against it, knowing she would want to change before her shift anyway. It was cold work, up in the lighthouse proper, and not suited to her billowing skirt.

Nora sighed, unwilling to commit to a course of action that would put her back in that prison of a lighthouse. Not while it was still light out. It was still dusk. She had time.

Time to just be Nora. Not the lightkeep.

She'd been having to parse out Nora for the past year. She'd never thought she'd have to. She'd been happy to be 'Nora and Paul Roberts.' Who was just Nora? Just Nora the lightkeeper's daughter? Just Nora the lightkeep?

Just Nora had grown up by the sea with her parents and her brother. She was a smart sailor, an expert swimmer, and her mother used to joke that she must be part mermaid, with seawater in her veins. The sea provides. It's all a person needs. Saltwater cures any ailment. Sweat, tears, and the sea were the answers to life.

Just Nora had a bittersweet relationship with the sea, and of late, it had been hard on her, to be the lightkeep. The sea calmed her mind and filled her lungs with salt and life and purpose. It also had taken Paul away from her.

Nora stood. It had been a fairly normal day, which didn't mean it had been a good one. And as much as she sometimes resented the ocean that separated her from the love of her life, she acknowledged the wisdom of her mother's words, today. She had already done her fair share of sweat, after having to hunt Lampie down at the tavern. She had run out of tears to shed for Paul. Process of elimination: she could do with a walk on the beach.

So long as the sun hadn't finished setting, yet, she wasn't beholden to her duty.

She was still Just Nora.

Decided, she slipped on a headscarf and coat, shutting the door closed behind her. No lighthouse. Just for a moment.

She breathed in deeply, smiling, walking out of the house and toward the large foghorn. Despite everything, Nora knew she was one of the fortunate ones. She had lived all her life by the sea. Almost all her life by this very lighthouse.

She recalled a time in her youth when all she wanted to do was sit on the beach and breathe and watch breakers. Her mother and brother had sat with her for a time in the morning, and then grown restless, citing their need to run errands in the town. Nora reluctantly said she'd stay another few minutes and then join them.

The next thing she knew, along came John—then called Jackie, to avoid confusion with Dad—to fetch her for supper. "Have you moved since this morning?" he'd asked incredulously. And Nora realized: No, she hadn't. And was suddenly struck with hunger and stiffness. All the while she marveled that, to her, at least, the time had seemed but minutes. And yet the evidence was against her in the position of the sun, the achy soreness of her body, held too still for too long, and a swath of sunburn baked into her arms.

The sun was hidden, presently, behind some cloud cover that often was present, this time of year, making the whole of the outcropping where the lighthouse sat seem enveloped in a sort of dusky, pre-evening light. Still bright enough to see boats out in the bay, and the breakers on the beach, but with a certain chill in the air that spoke of the sun not returning soon.

The outcropping offered a view of the beach from above, and so it was that, when Nora stood next to the foghorn and looked down, she could see an unfamiliar, dusty-haired boy running by the surf. Based on the spacing of the footprints he trailed behind him, he'd been running for a while, and he wasn't wearing shoes. She stepped as close to the edge of the outcropping as she dared, all else forgotten in the sudden fear that he was in trouble; was there a wreck? A fire? Was he being chased?

She hesitated, unsure of whether to commit to the trip, picking her way down to the surf. She made the safe decision of going for the stairs Dad had built, instead, seeing first that he'd entered a cave, and knowing where to find him when she reached the beach.

She wasn't sure what possessed her. A boy on the beach was none of her concern.

She sighed to herself. She'd at least let him know she was there. Maybe inform him that this cave wasn't a safe place to play, with the tide coming in. If he was a stranger to the town, or a stranger to the ways of the sea, he might not know.

"Hello, in there!" she called as she approached, just to make sure she wasn't scaring anyone.

A hope in vain, she saw. A young boy was appraising her with caution in his posture. He was sitting on a rock in the cave, holding a thin piece of driftwood.

"Hi," she said, trying for a friendly tone. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just playing tic-tac-toe," he said in answer, hopping off the rock and standing before her properly.

He was polite, at least, even if he still looked wary of her. He stood up straight, not slouching or fidgeting; he'd been taught manners. Probably been to school. He was dressed like a vagrant, in filthy men's clothes that had been cropped short so as to not drag. She confirmed that he wore no shoes.

"Well, this isn't exactly the best place for tic-tac-toe," Nora said good-naturedly, looking around to indicate their surroundings. "The tide's coming in, and high water reaches this cave sometimes."

The boy was the personification of a stoic audience, his expression not faltering.

"You better head for home," Nora finished, and was somehow not surprised when the boy's eyes dropped to his feet.

A stranger in town and nowhere to stay. That was unfortunate. "You're not from Passamaquoddy, are you?" she found herself asking aloud. Not that it was her business.

"Nope," the boy answered eyes still downcast, almost…wistful. "Just sort of…traveling."

A stranger in town with nowhere to stay…who had come here alone. That…was also unfortunate. "Where are your parents?" Nora asked then, expecting the shrug, though it nigh broke her heart. "Where are you staying?" she tried.

Another shrug.

"What's your name?" she asked softly. Come on, kid. He had to give her something.

"Pete," he said immediately. Like he'd maybe heard her thought.

"I'm Nora," she said, inserting a little more brightness into her voice than necessary, "and I have to get back on watch, up in the lighthouse," she pointed out the cave's entrance, in the direction of the unseen lighthouse. "There's chowder on the stove if you'd like some," she found herself offering sincerely. She'd add some water, make it stretch to a few bowls.

She found herself genuinely hoping he'd say yes. Maybe she could offer to clean his clothes for him. Let him stay the night. She offered a hand to him, wondering as she did so if he would think it too babyish, to hold her hand. Maybe he was too old for that kind of thing.

To her surprise, he started to reach for the proffered hand…before snatching his hand back like it had been burned.

"What's the matter?" she blurted in shock, "It's a hand, not a shark!"

The boy – Pete – was looking at her with such…not suspicion. It was closer to fear.

A stranger in a town with nowhere to stay…who had come here alone…who was afraid to take her hand.

Oh.

"You can finish that chowder, if you'd like," she repeated, offering the hand again, more slowly.

Pete's grimy hand was still uncertain, but he slipped it into hers. It…was so much smaller than she'd thought. He looked at her hand, and his face darted up to hers in silent question; Is this all right?

Nora's answer was a wide smile, and he walked beside her out of the cave, hand-in-hand, even offering her a tentative smile in return, before he suddenly let go.

"Oh! I forgot something. Be right back," he blurted, turning and running back into the mouth of the cave.

Nora slipped her hands in her coat pockets curiously, but waited. It was still dusk. The sun wouldn't finish setting for another hour. She could afford to be patient; all who loved the sea could afford to be patient. The sea knew no restraint; no limits. Its patience could weather stones to beaches, given enough time.

She allowed herself a moment to breathe in deep, taking advantage of the proximity of the cave and the ocean, which amplified the usual smell of salt and brine. Five deep breaths, and then she let her doubts and worries come to her, so she could address them.

She was bringing this boy home with her to eat her dinner. Well. That wasn't a worry. This was a boy who otherwise, she was certain, would have gotten no dinner, and had no bed waiting for him tonight. She had those things to offer. So she could hardly turn him away. He was a child.

She pulled her hand out of her pocket, rubbing her fingers together, inspecting it for residual grime. The boy needed a good scrub. He was the kind of filthy that came from more than one day of going without washing up. It was clear that he'd been hot, in the sun, and that the sweat had just dried and added to the grime on his face.

At length, the boy trotted back over to her from the cave, and she wondered how he'd come to be without shoes. She knew little boys notoriously hated "being shod" with shoes, but school was on. And what's more, it wasn't the heat of summer, anymore. It was well into September, and it felt it, most days. There was a bite to the breeze that hadn't been there a few weeks ago, even if they were a coastal town.

"That chowder will be stone cold," Nora said, to make conversation. "And it'll have to be reheated. You don't mind, do you? Are you terribly hungry?"

"No, ma'am, I don't mind" Pete answered politely. "Chowder sounds real nice. I ain't—I mean. I haven't had a hot supper in a while."

"Oh?" Nora noted his correction. He surely had been to school; no teacher would accept the so-called "rough speaking" that was the habit of children of farmers and tanners. "Well, I'm glad to help. Maybe while I'm re-heating the chowder, you can wash up? I have to show you our newfangled bathroom. We have a modern shower that pours the hot water right on you. No pump. And I could freshen up your clothes, if you'd like. I mean. If you don't mind waiting."

"Oh, I don't wanna be a bother, ma'am," Pete dried to demure, even as Nora practically saw him drooling with desire when she'd mentioned the shower.

"Oh, it's no bother. I'm staying up all night with the light, tonight. I don't mind doing some cleaning, first. And you'd have to wait for the chowder to re-heat, anyway."

"Well, if you're sure it's all right," Pete surrendered weakly. Not that he'd fought terribly hard.

They climbed the rough-hewn steps, Nora noting to Pete to watch for splinters, on the wooden rail, and were soon at the lighthouse, trudging up the hill and approaching the door; Nora was taking off her headscarf and coat, while Pete, conversely, was twisting his fingers anxiously.

In the light of the kitchen, Pete looked even worse than she'd thought. He was small. He stood uncertainly by the door and Nora offered him a bright smile.

"Now. You need to scrub up, young man, it won't do to dine at my table without washing up, first, it's against the rules. I'll show you how that shower works."

He followed her haltingly and was quick to nod his understanding as she explained how to control the temperature, and how to run water through the shower spigot, instead of through the bath tap.

She fetched a towel and robe, instructing him to leave his things by the door and she'd take care of freshening them up for him.

When she actually got her hands on the clothes, she faithfully brought out the scrubbing board and filled a basin to quickly wash his things. She had to empty it and refill it three times.

The shirt was almost worn to rags. It was threadbare in some places by the sleeves and underarms. And several sizes too big for him. When Nora wrung it through her clothespress a third time, she realized it was actually a printed fabric, with a pattern of stripes, and not a solid color like she initially thought. It was that dirty.

The overalls were a little hardier, no holes, but the bottoms of the cut-off legs were rags. Thin and caked with sand and with hard-packed dirt and blotched black stains underneath. Did the fabric get no rest from the elements? Had he been sleeping outside, too?

That thought was added to the list of concerns and clues that painted an ever more disturbing history. She was drawing conclusions she didn't care for. A stranger in town with nowhere to stay, come alone. Runaway. Happy to be clean, and excited at the prospect of food. Neglected.

When the boy appeared in the kitchen, Nora made a show of inspecting his hands for cleanliness, which he submitted to with uncertainty. But not confusion. He hadn't always been this way, Nora mentally confirmed, again. At some point in his story, he'd had someone to monitor his speech. To teach him how to respectfully address adults or ladies. At some point in his story, he'd had someone that made sure he was clean when he sat down to supper. He'd had someone teach him to appreciate being clean, if there was any evidence in how well he'd scrubbed up, with the skin she could see.

Nora made to guide him to a chair, hand on his back—and he shifted and stepped clear of the touch, out of range of her reach, his expression wary and guarded.

Afraid to be touched. Avoiding being within striking distance. Abused.

Nora bit back comment, smiling and letting the action pass as if it hadn't been noticed. She ladled a generous portion of chowder into a bowl, setting it in front of him, but he stayed standing, keeping her in his sights. She bustled to the other side of the table, reaching for the sugar and cream for her coffee, clearly placing her teacup on the table.

"You are such a gentleman, waiting for the hostess to be seated," she said brightly, "shall we bless the food?"

Something seemed to click into place, and the boy – Pete. He'd said his name was Pete – offered a tentative smile in return. Nora sat, and he followed suit, more carefully and slowly than Nora thought was usual for a boy of his seeming age—she pegged him at 11 or 12. He was so solemn and well-behaved.

Nora clasped her hands together and bowed her head in a simple, short prayer over the food. The boy crossed himself in rusty motions when she finished. Another interesting piece of the puzzle. Catholic? He had reddish hair; perhaps his parents were immigrants? Everyone Nora knew identified as Congregational Protestant, or maybe Methodist.

With eating things to fuss over, the boy – Pete! Pete!—seemed to relax. He politely asked for pepper as Nora steered the conversation to neutral topics, or else stuck to telling herself about him. She offered him oyster crackers and warmed milk, secretly hoping to segue into inviting him to stay the night if she could fill his belly with enough warm food to get him comfortable. She was loathe to turn him out-of-doors knowing he'd probably find a hogshead to sleep in.

She crossed in front of the table, going the long way to the stove and gave him another ladle of chowder as she told him about being in the lighthouse, and he tucked into the second helping just as readily as the first.

A thought occurred to her as she washed out the pan, the chowder gone. She slowly dried it before deciding to just run part of her thought process by Pete.

"So. Pete," she said aloud, and Pete was more relaxed, now, and looked at her. "You're travelling. You came here this morning from the west of town, and you're not sure where your parents are, or where you're staying," she summarized what he'd actually told her.

"My parents are dead," he admitted. "I was staying with the Gogans."

"The Gogans," Nora parroted, and she untied her apron, trying to appear busy, like they were still just chatting. Pete responded to it well.

"The Gogans own me, I guess," he said matter-of-factly. Parroting something he'd been told often. "They said it was against the law for me to ever leave them."

Timing it carefully, Nora passed behind him. She pulled gently at the collar of his robe as she passed, and saw enough. "Where did you get that bruise?" she asked.

It wasn't a bruise. She'd seen a welt. Like the kind you get being hit with a switch, or maybe a belt.

"Mr. Gogan," Pete answered, and didn't look at her. "I was milking the cow and I missed the bucket."

Nora sat again, and Pete glanced at her. "Had he done that before?" She knew. The pieces she'd guessed at had been spot on, and the picture was all too clear.

"All the time," Pete said emphatically. "The first time I ran away, the orphan home sent me back. This time, I'll just keep running."

Nora didn't wince like she kind of wanted to. He'd…admitted it to her. Admitted he was a runaway. Even admitted to being abused. She had been right. And she didn't like that she'd been right. "Well, you'll be safe here," she found herself saying.

And he would be. She could make sure of it. She didn't know where any Catholic churches were. She didn't know if Pete needed to see a doctor. Didn't know if she should loop in Sheriff Brown, or if Pete would be protected by the law in what was clearly a terrible, abusive situation. Were there laws against it? To keep children safe? She didn't know.

But there were things that she did know. She clearly knew how to make food he'd eat. She knew he must have been loved, once; he'd been raised healthy and educated and even given religion. And Nora knew she could love him, even if maybe she wasn't sure if she could help him the way he needed.

"Nora…no one's ever been this nice to me," Pete said, then. "I'll always remember it."

A child reassuring an adult that things were fine, even when they weren't.

Nora blinked back a rush of emotion at that. That wasn't just him. That was her story, too. She cleared her throat. "Pete, why don't you sleep here tonight? And then…we'll figure out what to do tomorrow. Okay?"

Pete nodded. Smiled.

"Wonderful," Nora sighed. "I've got work to do. Come on."

She stood, indicating he follow her, which he did.

' E

I have been on this Pete's Dragon kick, and I started to really want to work on this, but Pete's limited POV wasn't doing it for me anymore. I realized that a big part of the narrative of Pete's Dragon is that, for the longest time, Nora believed that Elliott was just Pete's coping mechanism. She wasn't here for the dragon shenanigans. She was here for a child who she saw was in a bad situation, and she wanted to help.

Have I found a loophole about finishing my WIPs before starting something new? Yes. Because this is part of the story. It's just...Nora's part.

Nora's chapters will follow movie canon, just like Pete's do.

I've tried to combine some parts so it won't be as many chapters as Pete's are, so far.

Yay for loopholes!