{Cary}

Cary wiped his hands on his shirt before he touched the White's back door. His blood was caked under his fingernails and sticky between his fingers. He just needed to get across the kitchen and down the hall without being seen. The bathroom door was closed and Jon's voice came through it, low and angry:

"He's not like a dog you can just take back to the shelter because he's too much work."

He turned into Jon's room, shutting the door quickly before he could hear any more. He dropped his head against the door with a 'thump.' He did not in a million years deserve a friend like Jon. He went to the bed and grabbed his bag, wrenching it open to make sure all his stuff was there before he left. He had closed the last zipper when his phone rang.

He startled, digging it out of his pocket with cold fingers. It was his mother's cell number. He picked up: "Yeah?"

"Ciaran, get your things." It was his father's voice, the one you never argued with.

Cary froze, his mouth open, staring blankly at the wall of Jon's room.

"Are you there boy?"

He snapped his mouth shut. "Yes," Cary said.

"The car is outside. Whatever you told those people, you are my son and you belong with your mother and me. We will fix this. Get your things and leave. I'm waiting." His father hung up.

The impulse to obey his father was so strong that Cary picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, steadying himself against Jon's desk. His hands were sweating. Conall could do it. His father was strong-willed enough to pull them all back from the brink, make Child Protection believe his call had been a mistake, and put the pieces of their family back together again. Just like it had been before.

Cary threw the phone onto the bed like it was red-hot and shed the backpack to burrow into the back corner of Jon's closet. The phone rang again, over and over. He curled with his face in his knees, shaking.

The doorbell rang. Jon's house was so small that Cary could hear everything that happened in the hall from the bedrooms, even from the back of a closet.

The front door opened. "Mr. Douglas," Pete said. "We weren't expecting you."

"I'm looking for my son." His father's voice was more pleasant than it had been on the phone. "Perhaps he didn't tell you that he ran away from us some days ago. His mother has been sick with worry, trying to find him."

Cary barely breathed, sweat trickling down his ribs as he waited for Pete to come in here, drag him out, and throw him back.

There was a pause. "He's here," Pete said. "The boys had a sleepover last night and made plans for the day."

"This is terribly awkward, but I need him home," Conall said.

Pete's voice was cool. "I think he'll be staying with us a little longer."

There was a beat of silence. "I respect you, Peter, so I'm going to be honest. I don't feel comfortable leaving Ciaran here with your family. Whatever he's told you, you should know that Ciaran is a practiced liar. He can also be extremely violent. I can't count the number of times I've been called away from work or woken up in the middle of the night to retrieve him from the scene of some violent altercation, which he almost invariably started."

Cary put his fists against his mouth for silence. He saw Pete's face from the shelter last night, shadowed with anger, looking down on him. He saw Jon's cheek spattered with blood. That blood was still on his hands. He couldn't squeeze himself small enough to disappear.

Conall went on, sounding at once frustrated and regretful. "I have been humiliated by my son's regular appearance in juvenile court, and his mother and I are deeply concerned about his future after high school. I appreciate your impulse to offer Ciaran your hospitality, but I really think he is the last person you want staying in your home with your children."

"I look after the safety of my children, Mr. Douglas," Pete said.

Cary crawled out of the closet and got to his feet. He was heavy and aching. His father was right; he didn't belong here. He picked up his backpack and went into the hall. "I'm here Father."

Conall didn't spare him a look; he just started down the steps. "Then good day to you, Peter. Ciaran, your mother is waiting."

Pete put out his arm, catching Cary across the chest. "You've punished him enough."

Cary's father turned, a dangerous look in his eye.

"Mr. White—" Cary whispered, pushing against his grip.

"Stay where you are Cary," Pete said. Cary held still, his heart drumming against Pete's arm. He looked from Pete's face to his father. He didn't know whom to obey.

Conall drew himself up. "I'm not sure what you think you're doing here, Peter. Ciaran is fifteen. I am his father. If I say he's coming home, then I expect you to turn him over to me."

"I am a father." Pete said. "I don't think we agree on the meaning of the word."

Conall sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please. That self-righteous attitude wouldn't last two weeks with Ciaran in your house. He can tell you himself."

Cary dragged his eyes up to his father's face.

"Have I lied about the things you've done, boy?"

"No," Cary said hoarsely.

Conall shrugged, like that answer hurt him. "I wish I were lying to you, Peter. I wish I could say that you and your beautiful little daughters are safe with him. But you're not." His face was lined and heavy. "Violence is Ciaran's language. He demonstrated that from an alarmingly young age. The only way he can be reached is through his skin. If you plan to have him in your home, you can learn that the hard way."

Cary's ears rang and the edges of the room went dark. He hung onto a fistful of Pete's shirt between Pete's shoulders; Pete's arm was the only thing keeping him up.

Pete didn't move—he was solid as a rock. "You've said enough," he said quietly. "Get off my doorstep."

Conall drew himself up to his full height. His dark eyes bored into Cary. They said, You know what you've done now, boy. Cary made a noise with his mouth locked shut; even from three yards away, his father had him by the throat.

Pete stepped into the doorway, blocking the sight of Cary from his father. "Good day, Mr. Douglas."

Conall nodded stiffly. "Peter." He turned and marched down the walk without a backward look. Pete thumped the front door shut.

Cary's shoulders hit the wall and he stood pinned there, trying to breathe. He realized how big a lie he'd told Pete when he'd said he could be trusted.

Pete sighed. "Cary, what am I going to do with you."

Cary couldn't lift his eyes off the welcome mat on the floor. "I shouldn't have come here, Mr. White. I lied to you, and I'm sorry." He held still, waiting for Pete to come at him and hit him hard like he'd hit Jon, like he deserved.

Pete stayed where he was. "I knew or suspected those things about you already, Cary. Your father spoke openly about you the day we met with the principal about your suspension. I knew what I was signing up for when I picked you up last night." On the edge of his vision Cary could see Pete's arms crossed over his chest; the hairs on them glinted red and gold. There was a measuring silence.

"But I don't think you did," Pete said. He came closer and Cary dug in his heels to keep his legs from dropping him onto Pete White's floor. "Do you understand what your father meant when he said violence is your language?"

Cary had to think about it—about the things his father had drummed into his skin because he was too stupid to learn. "That it's the way I talk. And how he has to talk to me."

"Well, it's not a language I speak, and I do not permit it to be spoken in my house," Pete said.

There was a movement in the kitchen doorway and Cary looked up. Jon was standing there, his eyes fixed on his father. The bruise on his face was spreading purple under his eye. Cary twisted his hands behind his back like he was in cuffs, pressing them in place with his body. He could have cut them off at the wrists.

Pete let out his breath. "I'm going to give you a choice now, Cary. I think you've forgotten you have choices like anyone else. When the Child Protection worker comes, you can go with her and do whatever you like when you get angry. I think we both know how that will end for you."

Cary held still, his fingers closed over the cuts on his hand. He had to end it before he became his father. If it wasn't too late already.

"Or, you can stay with us and learn the rules of my house. I want to help you do that. It's your choice," Pete said.

Cary listened to that again in his head. You can stay with us. The words his father had just said buzzed faintly in his ears: I wish I could say that you and your beautiful little daughters are safe with him.

"There's more you don't know," he whispered.

"I'm sure there is," Pete said. "All I need to know is whether you are willing to obey my rules when you live in my house."

Pete's even patience was like a hand pressed against Cary's throat. If he could have done anything for Pete, he would have. But he didn't know how to do this.

"I'll go. When this is done today." He couldn't even show Pete his face like he was supposed to. "I won't make any more trouble for you, Mr. White. I'm sorry." The words were empty against everything he owed the Whites now. A bucketful of his own blood couldn't pay them back.

"I forgive you." Pete sounded tired. "Why don't you clean up before lunch." He went past, and since he wasn't looking, Cary could look in his face. Cary had never seen a face like Pete's up close: the face of a grown up man, tired and vulnerable. He couldn't tear his eyes away. He sucked in his breath.

"What are the rules?" he asked quickly, before he could change his mind.

Pete turned back, lifting his eyebrows. He considered a moment, then said, "If you stayed with us, I would expect you to behave like you were a member of this family. When you hurt my family, you hurt me." Cary shrank into himself, pinning his eyes to the button on the top of Pete's faded red and white flannel shirt.

"Please hear me Cary," Pete said. "You're allowed to be angry. You have good reasons to be. But your hurt doesn't make it okay to hurt others. In this family, we treat each other the way we want to be treated."

"What happens when I mess that up?" Cary asked in a pressed voice.

"I will not treat you any differently than I would treat my own children."

Cary's eyes went wide. "What will you do?"

"To you?" Pete asked.

Cary nodded. He pressed his trembling hands flat against the wall.

Pete looked over at his son. Jon was listening with his eyebrows drawn down. "That depends," Pete said. "Sometimes I think you want me to kick you out and prove all grown-ups are worthless. And other times..." He looked back at Cary, closing his mouth.

Cary waited, his eyes fixed on Pete's.

Pete's mouth tucked in at the corners. "Other times, I think you've been crying for mercy so long your voice is gone. So I guess I would do whichever of those two things you wanted me to, if I could figure that out."

Cary watched Pete go into the kitchen and saw him touch Jon's arm on the way by like he didn't even know he was doing it. He ducked his head. He felt like Pete had turned him upside down and shaken him; everything was tumbled about in his head. He couldn't imagine what it was like to be Jon. He couldn't imagine being a person who could live here, in the upside-down world of the Whites.

"There's blood on your shirt," Jon said.

Cary lifted his shoulders. His skin felt grimy and he couldn't tell if the shirt stank or he did. Probably both. "You got anything clean I can wear?"

Jon went into his room; Cary stayed by the door. Jon dragged a large black garbage bag out of the back of his closet, where Cary had been hiding. "These are hand-me-downs from my cousin. They're too big for me, so probably they'll work for you."

"I don't need all those," Cary said. "Just something while I wash my clothes before I go."

Jon straightened up, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in his hands. His mouth was a straight, angry line in his bruised face.

Cary didn't know where to look. Finally he asked, "Did you ice that?"

Jon glared at him. "No."

Cary closed his hands, keeping them tight at his sides. "You should have fought me back."

Jon snorted. "You have a really messed-up way of saying sorry, you know that?"

That stung. He knew how to say sorry. He just needed to get out of Jon's life before he fucked it up anymore. "We're not friends, Jon. Okay? In case you're too stupid to figure that out."

"Well screw that, because I say we are." Jon balled up the jeans and shirt and tossed them at Cary's feet. "There you go."

Cary bent stiffly and gathered them up. Jon was still glaring at him.

"We're friends because we're the same," Jon said. "In case you're too stupid to figure that out."

Cary was speechless a second. "We're nothing the same."

"You have scars," Jon said. "That's the only difference—how much it cost you to be a person who cares."

Cary held the clothes tightly against his chest like he could staunch the blood. "Shut up Jon."

"No. If your father gets to say that about you, then I get to say this. You're not a person who wants to hurt people. You covered for me when Todd made my life hell, and you covered for your mom all that time, and now you're losing everything because you're covering for your brother." Jon scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I don't know how you're so freaking strong that you can just keep loving people after all the shit that happened to you."

He was one step away from being crushed under everything he was trying to carry. "I'm not strong."

"Yeah, you are. Anybody else would have given up a long time ago."

The hair stood up on Cary's arms. "What if that's what I want to do."

"Then you should," Jon said. "You should give up and let someone else cover for you for a change." He looked levelly at Cary and Cary thought he knew exactly what he'd meant by "giving up." Jon tipped his head and his mouth softened. "Care, why do you think I want you to stay? I know you're done. I want... I want you not to have to be strong."

Cary drew in a slow breath and his eyes stung. He meant to say thanks for the clothes, but he was afraid to open his mouth. He got out before Jon could say anything else.