I really struggled with this chapter for some reason. I hope it measures up.

Relevant reminder: Matthew Tate is the warlock who copied Melinda Warren's powers and ratted her out to the witch hunters, leading to her burning at the stake. Before her death, she trapped him inside a locket, a prison that lasted for centuries.

After the unpleasantness with the Elders, Chris enjoyed a few weeks of relative normalcy. On Thursday in the second-to-last week of March, Piper and Leo excused their kids from school to celebrate the Spring Equinox, but this day off was no vacation. The kids were shaken awake long before the sun; they had to get an early morning start if they wanted make it on time to the eco-village in Upstate California where they would spend the day. Every year, Piper and Leo had the same tired argument, and every year Piper won: no, they could not just orb to their destination. Everyone else was capable of making the drive there. If it was good enough for the mortals, it was good enough for the Halliwells. Wyatt, Chris, and Prue mostly slept in the backseat, Chris and Wyatt with their foreheads pressed into the windows, and Prue with her head propped on Wyatt's shoulder, as the sun crept over the horizon, spraying the sky with vibrant orange, fuchsia, and violet.

They reached the eco-village a little after ten in the morning and headed immediately through the gates, where a young man in natural, undyed fibers stood to greet people. He handed each of them a bucket of compost with a trowel, a garden fork, and a Tupperware of pre-germinated seeds, then directed them to the communal garden. "A year of growth and abundance to you!" he called after their retreating backs.

Paige and her family had already arrived. (Likely, they had gotten a late start, taken their sweet time with a full morning's breakfast before orbing there as Leo had suggested.) Henry was on all fours as he scraped a small hole in the ground with his trowel. Off to the side, Bobby sat with his legs folded beneath him as he worked on molding a castle out of packed mud. Paige, kneecaps deep in wet soil, waved as the family trotted over.

She wore a pair of khaki overalls over a short-sleeve red shirt. The strap dangling off her shoulder seemed more a fashion statement than an accident. In anticipation of the labor of the day, Chris had dressed in a tattered pair of jeans and a too-large t-shirt that he sometimes wore to bed.

Finding an empty spot to deposit himself between two strangers already many seeds in, he sank to the ground and set down his supplies. The first item he reached for was the instruction packet taped to the Tupperware lid, which he flipped over to read what he was to plant: parsnips. Following along with the steps, he tucked his garden fork into the earth, giving a sharp wrench of his wrist to overturn the soil. As it came loose, some dirt rolled away from the freshly-made mound. Digging in with his fingers, he felt for stray rocks or weeds that might be lying in wait. Any extra large clumps of dirt he stabbed with the fork to break into smaller pieces.

With the trowel he dug a shallow pit about half an inch deep. Filling the hole with loose compost, he dropped a single seed into the mound, careful not to damage its tiny, flimsy roots. After nudging some of the compost inward to cover the seed completely, he piled over that with more soil, tamping it down. Once the first was done, he shifted about half a foot over to dig his next hole. Already the skin beneath his fingernails was crusted with packed dirt.

In some of the nearby rows, Chris heard voices humming or singing an array of discordant melodies. He couldn't make out any individual words, but he recognized a few of the tunes from years past. Many people sang to their plants as they buried them, considering the interment a ceremonial bequeathing to the earth. He let the floating music fade into the background with the trills of thrashers and warblers that coasted by overhead.

While he worked, he let his his mind wander aimlessly. He thought about his brother, toiling away a few yards in front of him. Over the past couple of weeks, Chris had noticed a big shift in Wyatt. For one thing, he had cut down on his sneaking out to go demon hunting. Perhaps the responsibility of a charge grounded him enough that he no longer had as strong an urge to throw himself headlong into danger. Or perhaps he simply didn't have the time.

Whatever the reason, Chris approved of the change. He had never particularly enjoyed covering for his brother to his parents, lying awake at night until he heard footsteps in the nearby bedroom that told him Wyatt had returned safely.

Truthfully, since their conversation the day Wyatt got his charge, Chris felt different himself. Lighter. He hadn't quite realized how much the memories from his kidnapping had weighed on him until this moment, toiling in the dirt with the sun beating overhead and sweat dripping down his spine. Talking to Wyatt had helped ease some of his guilt. He could never take back his actions, having killed that innocent, but Perry was right: he could learn to move forward. And what better time for that epiphany than the Spring Equinox, a time for renewal? This year, more than any before, Chris sensed the depth of what that could mean. He felt like a new self lay just within his grasp.

He managed to plant a whole row of parsnips before the sun began to dip. Someone had come around with oranges, raisins, and nuts a number of times over the course of the day, but even so Chris found himself famished by the time he was ready to call it quits. When the cowbell signaling dinner clanged, he sat back on his knees, twisting this way and that to release the tension in his spine in soft pops.

He raised his gaze, shading his eyes against the bright orange glow of the low-hanging sun, to pick out members of his family dotted around the garden. At some point, Phoebe and her kids had arrived. They usually came later in the day because Katie couldn't last very long at manual labor. This time, Chris grinned to notice, she seemed to have taken full advantage of her newfound ability to interact physically with the environment around her. Her hands, arms, and even face were heavily coated in dirt.

When she saw him, Chris waved to her, but she had time only for a quick nod and smile before her attention was drawn elsewhere. Phoebe was calling her and Lea toward the long stable, behind which a giant space had been cleared with several fire pits encircled with log benches. The logs were decorated with vines and wreaths, dotted with tangles of leaves and brightly-colored flower petals. When Katie hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder at her cousin as if to wait for him, Chris waved her onward while he followed with the crowd at a more sedate pace.

In the hoard of oncoming people, Prue somehow ended up beside Chris, her clothing as dirt-streaked as his own. They both handed in their tools and buckets, then searched the expanse for where their family had settled. Prue spotted them first at the last fire pit on the far end and nudged Chris to point them out. The two trotted over to where their parents, Paige's family, and Phoebe and Katie were waiting. Henry had started the fire and was feeding it small twigs and leaves so that it could grow. By the time it had caught onto the larger logs, Wyatt and Lea had both joined them.

Phoebe was chatting with her sisters. "—just couldn't take the day off. One of Coop's couples is having marital issues." She and the others had already lined up at the trough by the stable to rinse their hands before dinner, which Chris realized he had forgotten. On his way to do so, he passed a large stone altar where several people from the eco-village stood chanting. The altar was round, its diameter wide enough to fit eight to ten people around the perimeter. It reached chest height and held on its uneven surface an array of herbs and plants. Chris spotted, among other things, laurel leaves, bundled-up wheat stalks, even some juicy red apples.

Crossing Chris's path, clearly headed toward the altar, was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose attire made Chris do a double take. Sure, many of the people here wore undyed cotton, giving them a bit of an old-timey aesthetic, but this man looked like he'd stepped straight out of seventeenth century colonial America.

He wore tan breeches that clung tight just below the knee, revealed starched white stockings and leather turnshoes. His loose linen shirt, frilled down the front, was tucked into his breeches. His dirty-blond, shoulder-length hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck with a thick piece of twine. Most unusually, he wore a flintstock pistol strapped to his side.

That nobody else reacted to the openly-carried weapon told Chris he was invisible to those around him. The people here to celebrate the equinox, lovers of peace as a general rule, could not have so easily dismissed such enabling of violence. As he passed, their eyes met, and Chris turned to watch the man go. Before the man reached the altar, his body faded from view.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Chris shook his head. He supposed, after not meeting a new version of himself for nearly a month, he was overdue for another encounter. Really, he should have expected something like this. Regardless, there was nothing more he could do with it now. He would simply have to wait to fall asleep to meet this self more completely.

For a moment, he struggled with the desire to find out more, though he knew he'd have to wait until he fell asleep again and met the man for real. But the moment he released his stubbornness and accepted the reality of his lack of control over the situation, he felt lighter. In a way, it was freeing. What was the point in fighting the inevitability of these powers? What happened would happen whether he ignored or obsessed over it.

Perhaps it was just the serenity of the equinox washing over him, but he managed with little difficulty to shrug off his thoughts and continue on to the trough to wash his hands clean of the garden dirt. When he returned, Paige had unpacked a cooler full of hot dogs and sodas for dinner. Wyatt and Prue had collected fallen branches, wiping the worst of the mud off on their shirts, and were busy stabbing them into hotdogs and passing them around.

Once he claimed one, Chris squished onto a log between Katie and Lea and held it into the fire. The flames licked up and around his dinner, releasing a thick aroma and making Chris's stomach growl in anticipation.

Beside him, Katie's cheeks were pinker than usual; they had also filled out a bit since he had last seen her. Most notably, a bead of sweat trickled down her nose. He had never seen her sweating before or, in fact, have any bodily reaction to intense heat. She leaned forward, eyes closed, lips quirked in a half-smile, pushing her face as close to the flame as she could stand. Time was, she could walk straight through a bonfire without even noticing she had done so. This new limitation thrilled Chris, a signifier of her slow return to normalcy.

"So how's the practice coming?" Chris asked her.

Katie blinked her eyes open to watch the flames. "I can be solid for a whole hour now," she said brightly.

"That's amazing!" Chris replied. The deep orange hue reflected in her irises, making them glitter, extra vibrant. Chris had a sudden vision of Katie several years older, raising her arm to draw a pillar of fire higher, higher, a manic glee glinting in her hard eyes as it grew—

Chris looked quickly away. He took a long moment to check his hotdog, squishing it between his thumb and forefinger, and decided it was done. Blowing away its steam, he gnawed off the tip. Heedless of his thoughts, Katie took a sip of her can of seltzer, then set it back down on the log between them. "Did you know that soda makes your nose feel like there's little bubbles popping inside it?"

Forcing his mind to focus on her words, he said mildly, "Does it?"

"Yeah!" she chirped. "I never used to like soda. I didn't think it tasted very good. But now I love it. It's like having a dance party inside my mouth!" As she continued to chatter, Chris let her voice wash away the vivid image from his mind and soothe him back into a state of relaxation.

At some point in the evening a group of preteen girls they didn't know wandered over to invite Lea and Prue over to their fire pit to roast marshmallows. With permission from parents, the two cousins cheerfully accepted and followed the group across the expanse to another fire. Katie meandered over to Paige for another hotdog while Chris slid himself to the ground so he could prop his head up against the log. There, worn out from the long day of labor, he dozed in and out, never fully falling asleep, but lulled by the voices around him and the penetrating heat on his cheeks.

Some time later, Chris was shaken awake to help clean up their campsite. The fire had been snuffed out with a shower of dirt, leaving the air much cooler than before. He helped gather wrappers and empty soda cans and carried them over to a large dumpster along the wall of the stable.

Once everything had been cleared away and Paige's cooler packed up with the remaining food, the families parted ways and headed home. Chris once again nodded off during the car ride, though the bumpy route kept him from dreaming, and stumbled into bed the moment they got home.

It was in his own bed that he finally slept deeply enough to enter his subconscious. Sir Christopher and Ian's wedges had shifted to make way for a new space between them. This area looked much more like a standard home than either the knight's stone cathedral or the boy's bus house. It was modest, with a fireplace cut into the back wall that burned with emerald fire. In front of the fireplace stood a wooden bedframe with ropes for slats, upon which sat a straw-filled mattress.

In a lot of ways, the new space seemed similar to Perry's in its simplicity and unembellished functionality. The far corner held a small writing table and wooden chair that looked as though it had been carved by hand. Above the fireplace hung a shelf lined with countless jars of herbs, only some of which Chris could identify.

At the moment, the man Chris had met at the eco-village was seated on the bench in Ian's wedge, chatting with the boy and Krissy, who had come to join them. Chris noticed he had removed his pistol from its straps and laid it carefully on the bench beside him. Chris started toward them, bumping into Perry on his way over.

"So… another past life?" he guessed.

"Seems so," Perry agreed. "He looks more recent than our knight friend over there." He jerked his head to Sir Christopher, buffing his armor in his wedge. "Then again, history isn't really my strong suit."

Chris grimaced in sympathy as they entered Ian's wedge and the three halted their discussion to look up at them. "I guess I should ask your name," Chris remarked dryly to the newcomer.

The man eased out from between the bench and table so he could stand tall before Chris and Perry. In addition to his dirty-blond hair, Chris noted now that the man's eyes were a sort of gold-flecked hazel. He looked nothing like a Halliwell. (Wyatt, the only member of the family who had blond hair, had most certainly inherited it from Leo's side.) He swung his arm gallantly across his torso and bowed at the waist. "I am Christian."

From behind him Krissy piped up, "He's friends with Melinda Warren!"

Perry's eyebrows rose, his lips quirking. "Now, that history I'm familiar with."

Christian looked at them with pained eyes. "I am sorry to say I could not save her in her last moments. It is my deepest regret in this life."

Chris didn't know what to say. To him the facts of his ancestry were literally ancient history, but this man had lived it, clearly still grieved the loss on a visceral level. And if nothing else, Chris could empathize with the remorse of losing an innocent.

"I'm sorry," Chris offered as gently as he could, and Christian gave a nod of gratitude. Over the next few moments, the somberness trickled out of the air, until finally Chris asked, "Did Krissy say 'friend'? You're not related?"

"Not by blood," Christian affirmed. "What compels you to ask such a question?"

Chris had heard a story of his mother and aunts once entering the bodies of their past lives; they had been the Halliwells' distant ancestors. While it obviously wasn't always the case that past lives bore some relation—wasn't Sir Christopher evidence of that?—it seemed odd to Chris that a past life would have so close a connection to the Warren line without being connected by blood.

Chris shrugged the thought away to reply, "Because I'm related to her." He waved a hand to encompass the abyss. "Most of us are."

Astonished, the man made a slow turn in place to face Krissy and Ian. At his questioning look, Krissy hitched her shoulder and nodded. Ian admitted, "I don't know much about my bio family, but it's what they tell me."

"Some of us aren't too happy about that fact," remarked a lazy voice from afar. Chris glanced over his shoulder, where Demon and Mutt (who seemed to have developed quite a shine for Chris's snarky creature self) were meandering from the playground toward the group. Out of the corner of his eye, Chris caught sight of Merlin, who bared his teeth, leapt up from where he'd been pretending to read on his bed, and stormed across the empty space to make his own presence felt.

"Don't get me wrong, the inheritance in the power department is none too shabby, but do you have any idea the humiliation I had to live down in my youth, being related to the former greatest force of good the world had ever known? Think of my school days!"

While Christian's brow crinkled in bemusement, Mutt's face popped out from behind Demon's shoulder. "You went to school?" he asked, his expression crumpling in disappointment.

Demon's eyes twinkled as they fell not to Mutt but to Chris. "Well, no," he admitted, inclining his head, "But if I had…!" Almost prayerfully, his gaze rose heavenward in a martyr-esque, woe-is-me stare, and Chris couldn't help but roll his eyes.

When Demon, not finding his desired reaction in Chris, shifted so he could meet Krissy's gaze next, the girl curled her lip in disgust. "Your lineage is your only redeeming quality," she snapped.

"What a joke," sneered Merlin as he finally stomped up behind Mutt. "That's the worst part of all of you."

If not for Krissy, Chris might have found Demon's remarks offensive. On principle alone, he didn't want to like Demon. But it was hard to find his comments anything other than humorous in the face of her disgusted reactions. The self-satisfied smirk lazily creeping its way across Demon's lips highlighted his motives: Clearly, he had made his statements to get a rise out of someone. Honestly, Krissy (not to mention Merlin) was a bit too high-strung for her own good.

By contrast, Perry remained unfazed by Demon's fun, a reaction—or lack thereof—that Chris greatly wished to emulate. They had gotten off on the wrong foot, he and Demon, and he would not soon forget the ache in his jaw when he awoke after punching his counterpart. But he could see himself getting along with Demon, or at the very least developing a grudging mutual respect, as Perry seemed to have.

Yes, he was evil, and reveled in his every vice, clinging to the relish of blood and gore. But—and perhaps it was the lack of inhibitions that made it so—he knew better than any of the others, save maybe Mutt, how to have fun. As long as Chris didn't think about how many innocents Demon had likely killed, his lack of remorse and even glee for doing so, Chris could see them getting along just fine. Certainly better than with the perpetual wet blanket that was Merlin.

Christian, unable to follow the progression of the conversation, finally interjected to ask, "But why would the Warren reputation plague you?"

"It's actually Halliwell now," Krissy explained at the exact same moment that Demon danced over and flung his arm around Christian's shoulders to report in a stage whisper, "Because I'm a demon. They call me"—he waggled his eyebrows—"Demon."

At the combination of disgust and horror that twisted Christian's face, Demon sighed, "I know, I know, woe is you, becoming a creature of the dark." With a quick glance cast in Chris's direction, he said, "You can say it. You won't"—he pouted playfully—"hurt my feelings."

Chris only snorted, a reaction that seemed to disappoint Demon, though he shook off that dissatisfaction with seeming ease.

Still standing off to the side, remaining stubbornly apart despite his (reluctant) nearness, Merlin insisted, "He's right about one thing—"

"Why, thank you for saying so," Demon interrupted. The glare shot his way made him grin. This time, Chris found himself tucking away a smile of his own.

Pressing on with determination, Merlin continued, "And that's that this heritage is a curse."

Stunned, it took a moment for Christian to formulate words. "But the Warrens are a line of utmost light and goodness in this world," he protested at last. "To be of that line…"

Merlin scoffed. "Yeah," he added acidly, "And the only thing worse than a magical is a magic groupie."

"Ignore them," Krissy said. Shoving Demon's arm off Christian's shoulder, she guided him back toward where Ian sat calmly off to the side, observing the interactions. "Some of us," and here she shot Merlin a dirty look, which he more than returned, "are proud to be descended from Melinda Warren."

Christian turned slowly in place to cast his roving, curious gaze over those who surrounded him, darting only briefly over Demon, who blew him a kiss, but lingering on Perry, Mutt, Ian, Krissy, even Merlin, with something akin to awe. Finally, he landed and paused on Chris.

Barely audible, he whispered, "My future incarnations," and offered Chris a solemn nod. "Truly, I must have succeeded in my life's mission, to be so handsomely rewarded after death." He didn't explain further but looked past Chris as if watching a memory play out just over his shoulder. Eyes softening, he murmured, "She whom I loved silently all my days, to be forever intertwined with her future is too much to have hoped for."

Chris winced. "Friend-zoned in the sixteen hundreds, dude. Ouch." Demon cackled with delight.

In the middle of a dense cluster of trees was a small clearing, concealed from view of all except those who knew to look for it. The grass was kept short by deer who came often to graze, the air kept sweet by the breeze that rustled aromatic leaves on their branches. There, unseen by others, stood Chris and a woman with blond hair and compassionate brown eyes. The woman wore a shift beneath a laced-up brown waistcoat and a linen apron that covered a dark petticoat.

Chris cradled one of her hands in his as he pleaded, "Melinda, I beg that you heed me. If my concerns prove true, he will kill you."

Melinda smiled warmly, loosening Chris's hold on her and instead placing her hand on his chest. "Christian, you know I hold your opinions in high esteem. But you must trust that I know him. Matthew Tate is a good man. I can see that in him. I love him."

She saw the good in all, a benevolent nature, and Chris feared that one day it would tear her apart. She could not see the the sinister possibilities lurking in humanity's darker urges. Now, Chris could do nothing but avert his eyes, tense with despair.

It was not the last time he pleaded with her. The next time was behind the iron door of a cell, after Matthew had betrayed her to the town counsel as a witch, condemning her to burn at the stake.

She rose from the straw-covered floor the moment Chris entered. Something had changed in her eyes, now sunken with exhaustion; inside them lingered a bitter grief. Matthew's treachery had not just devastated her relationship and her life; it had obliterated her munificent worldview. But when she saw Chris standing there, the pain, if not the exhaustion, melted away, though she had to force her smile forward. "I should have heeded your advice, dear friend."

He shook away her remorse. "Where is Matthew now?" he asked.

Melinda brushed her fingers over a silver locket encrusted with a single, diamond-shaped ruby dangling from a thick chain around her neck. Voice tight with resolve, she replied, "He shall not harm another witch."

Chris rushed toward her then, raising his open palms, and she slipped her hands into his. "Then you can leave," he insisted. "Free yourself and flee from Salem. Find someplace else to settle." He spoke softly but urgently so the guards would not overhear. But once again his pleas fell on deaf ears.

"And what of Prudence, Christian?" she countered gently, running a soothing finger over the creases in his palm. "I cannot subject my daughter to such a life. Right now, they believe her innocent. If they found us, they would burn her, too." Chris squeezed her fingers in his, but she closed her eyes, turning her face away. "No, I shall accept this death with dignity in the hopes that this crusade will die with me." More softly, she added, "I only pray some kind soul will take pity on my daughter and raise her in a safe home. Only then can the Warren line continue."

Resolve solidified in Chris's chest, a physical entity. Past the tightness in his throat, he murmured her name and, when she met his gaze, her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, said, "Prudence will know of your sacrifice; I promise you this. I do not know the secrets of the witches, but I will raise her as my own and protect her with my life. And I will find those who can teach her about her heritage."

Melinda touched a trembling hand against Chris's cheek as her first tear escaped, tracking a thin, clean line down her dirt-streaked cheek. "Thank you, Christian," she whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. "With the word of a man of your integrity, I can die with peace in my heart."

When she pulled him toward her, he leaned down to fit into her embrace. They stood silently for long enough that a guard, suspicious of the silence, peered through the narrow, barred-up window in the door to check on them. He rattled his pistol between two bars. "Unhand him, devil's harlot!"

Quickly, Melinda released Chris, but before she stepped back she whispered, "Take her to Virginia. My once-nursemaid Ava has a coven there. She will teach her."

"I will," Chris swore.

"And, Christian…" Pain and regret returned to her eyes. He anticipated the words before she uttered them: "Tell Prudence my heart is with her always. Please."

Chris swallowed around the lump in his throat. "I will remind her every day."

Tears began to stream down her cheeks in thick rivulets, dripping from her chin to dot the straw on the floor. The guards decided their generosity had run its course. As one fumbled for the keys to unlock the door, Chris forced himself to turn away from Melinda for the last time. He felt her eyes follow him as he exited the cell, hungry for his freedom but resigned to her fate.

That coming Monday was Jake's tenth birthday. Remembering how animated the boy had become when talking about the handheld game player, Chris picked one up at a local electronics store that weekend. He even took the time to find an old roll of wrapping paper on the floor in the back of the linen closet, which he did his best to make use of. The end result didn't look exactly neat with its crumpled corners and the extra patches of paper he had to add after misjudging the dimensions and not cutting the original piece large enough, but it conveyed a vague sense of festivity, which he counted as a success.

The day of the birthday, Chris orbed straight to Jake's house after school. The boy appeared to be waiting for him. That he now took for granted his whitelighter would come to celebrate with him left Chris with a pleasant warmth in his chest, like bubbles that popped and fizzed.

Jake was wearing a stapled-together cardboard crown signed by each of his classmates. A fun treat his teacher made for every student's birthday, he explained when Chris asked about it. His hair, which had started to grow into his eyes, flopped over the top of the crown plastered to his forehead.

"Best of all," Jake added, "Birthday kids don't get homework."

Chris gave an appropriately enthusiastic response and then rummaged through his knapsack to retrieve the gift. After a day stuck at the bottom of the pouch, the wrapping had torn in a few places, exposing pieces of the image on the box, so when he handed it over Jake already had an idea of what might be inside. His eyes widened in excitement as he accepted the gift and carefully dissected the wrapping, unfolding flaps one at a time.

He prattled on with his thank yous, throwing his arms around Chris, who happily hugged him back. Much of the afternoon they spent setting up and trying out the new toy. After plugging in the machine to charge, Jake peeled through the instruction manual for setup. With Chris's help he assembled the device, connected it to the internet, created an account, and got started. Chris watched from the desk chair as Jake tried the game cartridge he had bought with the player. The boy sat cross-legged on his mattress, quickly picking up use of the controls.

Eventually, Chris popped out to bring back dinner from Jake's favorite pizza shop. Jake paused his game to join Chris in the kitchen and help set out plates, cups, and napkins. The two feasted on pizza, fries, and soda, their fingers shiny with grease. Afterwards, Chris shooed Jake back to the new game while he washed the dishes in the sink, dried them, and returned them to the cupboard. He went home soon after, having collected another grateful hug.

Carmen had tried to get out of work that day, or at least get off early so she could spend some time with her son on his birthday. It would take her forty minutes to walk home. If she waited until the end of her shift, she would get home nearly at Jake's bedtime. But the day shift manager, a dweeb of a kid—almost a decade younger than Carmen and still so smugly superior!—had barely even looked at her when she'd asked.

"You have to make all requests at least two weeks in advance," he had intoned, picking at one of several pimples on his chin. It wasn't as if they supplied a handbook for employees. How could she have known that?

"Can't you make an exception?" she asked desperately.

The teen blinked at her, expressionless, until, face pink with embarrassment, she slunk back to her station to finish stacking soup cans. After that, she didn't dare ask for her check a few days early to afford a gift, so when she finally got off work, the sun already long gone, she had only whatever handful of bills she already had in her purse. A crisp five and four singles.

Truthfully, even if she'd had enough for a real gift, did she even know what her son would like? Not to mention, she didn't have time to find another store, which made her limited to what her own employer stocked. A couple of pitiful stuffed bears, some water guns, school supplies.

With a demoralizing sinking in the pit of her stomach, Carmen found herself instead standing in the refrigerated aisle in front of a row of six-packs of beer. Her hand, tucked inside her purse, crumpled two of the bills in her fist.

Closing her eyes, she thought, If what I take out isn't enough to pay for the beers, I won't buy them. If there were two singles enclosed in her grip, she would leave the store empty-handed. She felt her heart thrum in her chest a hopeful beat; she wasn't sure, though, what she hoped for. That she walked home tonight with a six-pack? That she came home to Jake sober enough to see the look of disappointment on his face when she arrived without a present?

Withdrawing her hand from her purse, she stared down at the bills: a five and a one. The six-pack cost $5.79 with tax. She opened the fridge door.

When Jake heard the front door open, he had already changed into pajamas and was leaning against his headboard with his knees up as he played his new game. Though he had gotten out of his school clothes, he still wore the paper crown with his classmates' signatures. He liked the feel of it plastered to his forehead, liked the way it reminded him of everyone crowding around him as Mrs. Apostle measured the circumference of his head, stapled the ends of the crown together, and set it over his hair. They had sung him happy birthday.

But then, in the distance, he heard scuffling. Experience told him it was the sound of his mother stumbling as she came down the hallway. His stomach clenched; his heart began to race. Holding his breath, he rested the device on his knees as he stared at his bedroom door. Please don't come inside, please don't come inside.

But the door was thrust open, slamming hard against the wall, and framed in the threshold was a woman with stormy eyes and half a grimace. She held the last can of a six-pack in one limp hand.

"Happy birthday," she announced, as if it were a challenge issued.

Wanting to tread carefully but not knowing yet how, he cautiously replied, "Thank you." Sometimes, calling her "Mommy" cut through her anger and softened her hard expression, but sometimes it sent her into a rage. He didn't dare risk using the term now.

Carmen's eyes narrowed. "What is that?" she demanded, swinging the hand with the beer can up to gesture toward the device balanced on Jake's knee.

Instantly, Jake felt his chest constrict. "Oh, it was, uh, a birthday present," he mumbled, too afraid to break eye contact. Afraid he wouldn't see her coming.

"Oh, at least someone could afford to get you one," she snapped bitterly. "You want a birthday present?"

Eyes wide, Jake held up his hands in immediate surrender. The game slipped off his knees and landed in his lap. "No, I don't need—"

"No, no, let's give you a present." She spat the word. Stalking forward, she slammed her drink down onto Jake's desk, ignoring the liquid that sloshed out of the opening. From the cup of pens and pencils on the desk, she snatched up a pair of safety scissors. "What you really need is a haircut."

As she came menacingly toward him, he pushed himself as far back into the headboard as he could, but he didn't dare outright run from her. Doing so, he knew, would only rile her up further.

Grabbing him by the forearm, she dragged him to the edge of the bed. The game player bounced onto the mattress beside him. "How's that for a present?"

She yanked up his bangs with a hand sticky with dried beer and snipped viciously with the scissors in every direction. One cut sliced through the paper crown, which slid down his nose before fluttering off his head entirely. Jake sat very, very still, hoping his mother's sloppy[SF7] hand would not slip and break skin.

By the time she had finished, clumps of hair stuck up in every direction. Tossing the scissors down onto the mattress, Carmen sneered, "Happy birthday. Enjoy the 'real' gifts everyone else gave you," and stormed out of the room.

Jake cradled the torn crown in both hands, biting his lip. He glanced up at the beer can his mother had forgotten on his desk, then back at the crown, his vision growing blurry. With a stubborn sniffle while blinking back tears, he stood up, shuffled over to the bin beside his desk, and tossed his crown into the trash.

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PinkPhoenix - Not sure my reply went through. Please let me know if it didn't.

Guest 1 - I think the safest assumption is that Jake's teachers are unaware of his circumstances. Teachers are mandated reporters, which means if they suspect abuse, they are legally obligated to call the relevant authorities. This is actually something I struggled with because it felt - and still to a degree feels, although I tried to take steps to mitigate it - immoral for Chris to leave him in the care of his mother, although he isn't technically a mandated reporter.

Guest 2 - Glad you're enjoying the versions of Chris that keep appearing. Hopefully they'll continue to tickle your fancy. I love building up Chris's relationship with his siblings, the dynamic that comes into play. In a couple of chapters the three siblings will get a chance to really bond in a meaningful way. I'm excited to share it with you. I hope you enjoy it.