{Cary}

Cary fell asleep curled in Jon's bed with his forehead against the wall. He woke up on the floor in his own bedroom. He got to his feet, looking at the sun going down in the window. He had been dreaming that he was in Jon's house, that he lived there. The dream fled, and Cary made a sound as it went, taking all the warmth with it.

There was something wet on his face: he was crying. He never cried at this house anymore. If he was back here without his jacket... Jesus-God, I'm fucked. He slapped the tears out of his eyes and dried his face on the hem of his shirt.

His room was completely empty, and the carpets were torn up. The floor was obscured by a layer of sand, and the walls were smudged and grimy up to eye level. Cary hunched his shoulders and went to look for Liam.

Liam's nursery was bare except for his crib, standing in the middle of the room with a naked plastic mattress behind the bars. Cary's heart jumped into his mouth. He turned from the doorway and went from room to room, panic rising. There was no furniture anywhere and nothing on the walls. His mother's closet was bare except for a tangle of hangers. The chandelier was missing in the front entrance. The rooms were all empty, and the silence pressed on his ears like water.

Cary stood in the hallway, short of breath. There was one place left to look. He went to the end of the hall and opened the door to the basement.

In this house, there were no stairs. The basement was a finished room, with another room inside it. There were no windows. The hall light made a rectangle of light on the bare floor, and there was a thread of light where the drywall of that other room didn't meet the ceiling.

"Liam?" Cary stepped through the doorway and to the side, putting his shoulders against the wall. His fingers felt how smooth and cool the painted surface was. Red. The room, the floor, and the ceiling were all painted red. Cary's head buzzed.

The room inside the red room had a white door, which was startlingly clean and bright in the dark. Cary crossed the room and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Cary threw his shoulder against the door, yelling, "Liam!" He heard a sound and held his breath. On the other side of the door, a child was crying in short gasps like he was trying to be quiet. Panic beat its wings inside his chest. Was the light on? Was Liam in there in the dark? His brother was too small to reach the cord.

Cary swore and hammered on the door until his knuckles broke and bled. He leaned his shoulders against it, breathing hard. He lifted his face.

"JESUS!" he hollered. "WHERE ARE YOU? GET HIM OUT!"

"You locked him in," a soft voice said. Jon was sitting cross-legged next to the door. He lifted his face to Cary, and his mouth pulled up in an unhappy smile. "That's not Liam in there, Cary."

Cary started away from the door like it was red-hot. Jon's eyes followed him, and there were whispers in the shadowed corners of the room. Cary drew his hands against his chest. They were freezing cold. "I need to get out of here."

The child's sobs rasped in Cary's ears. In every break, he hoped he was done—that he had finally curled up in the corner and died. Jon blinked, and two tears dropped, shining on his cheeks. "You have the key to this door. You can open it."

"No," Cary said. "He needs to stay in there."

"Why?" Jon asked. "Why is he different than Liam?"

The shadows in the room gathered thickly, a deeper darkness high in the corners. Cary whispered, "Liam never did anything wrong."

Jon spread his hand over the white door. "What about you?"

That was right; he couldn't leave either. This was his room, where everything was red. The shadows fell down from the ceiling. Cary could feel how cold they were, sliding over his shoulders and pressing him down. Cary was heavy as stone, bent almost to the floor. "Get out of here, Jon."

Jon said, "I just want you to look at him."

He couldn't open his mouth or move any direction except down. Cary sank to his knees and put his forehead against the floor. The weight of the dark held him there, slowly crushing him. "Help me," he whispered.

Jon's arms wrapped around his chest and lifted him to his feet. He was stronger than Cary would have guessed. He got Cary to the door and propped him against it.

Something burned Cary's skin, right over his heart. He reached under his shirt and tugged out a key on a shoelace. His hands were clumsy and numb and he could hardly see for the dark. Jon plucked the key out of his fingers and put it in the lock.

When the door opened, Cary fell into the room. It was warm. There was a window, and the room was full of light. He toppled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling in a daze.

There were model rockets and airplanes suspended above him. He turned his head: the room was larger than it had looked from the outside. There was a bed with a comforter covered with stars and planets and rocket ships, just like the one Cary had picked out of a catalogue when he was six—when Renae was going to have a matching one.

He rolled to his hands and knees, letting his head rest against the floor a moment. When he could lift his head, he found a boy looking back at him. He had dark hair, and he was wiping tears off his face.

"Ciaran," Cary said.

The boy nodded.

Cary looked for bruises. All the skin he could see was smooth and unmarked. "Are you hurt?"

Little Ciaran shook his head. "I've been in here. Where you put me. You told me I should keep the door locked and never come out." He came closer, his face full of concern. "How long have you been out there?"

Cary tried to pull himself together. He got to his feet and staggered to the bed to sit down. "I don't know."

The boy drew near, frowning. He put out his hands, then checked himself. "What is this?" He folded his hands over his chest rather than touching Cary.

Cary looked down at himself. There was a wide stain on the front of his t-shirt, black-red and sticky, where the hole was. "It's always like that." He ran his hands over the crisp softness of the coverlet, blinking around the room. The window's brightness made his eyes sting and water. There was a star chart on the wall. There was a telescope. It was exactly the room he'd wanted when he was six.

Cary slid a sideways look at the boy, afraid. Little Ciaran was smaller than he remembered, and his face was so open Cary knew he didn't know the first thing about protecting himself. "Show me your hands."

The child held out his hands, slowly opening them. Cary touched the smooth, damp palms with his fingers. Nothing. He put his own scarred hands, closed, beside him and laughed softly. "He never touched you. I hid you safe in here."

Little Ciaran put a finger, one light touch, on the scar on Cary's wrist. He withdrew his hand. "I could hear you out there sometimes," he said in a small voice. He set his face, but his eyes filled with tears. "I wasn't afraid. I—wanted to help. But I stayed in here because you told me to. I did what you said." The child stood trembling in front of him. "I have something I want to give you. Can I?"

Cary nodded, still smiling.

The boy came close and slipped his arms around Cary's ribcage. He put his head on Cary's chest. He sighed a deep, shaky sigh, like he'd come home, and then he was gone.

Cary put his hands flat against his chest. Something in that broken mess was set back in place to heal. He stood up to go, feeling stiff and old compared to that unmarked child. The red room looked black compared to the light of the child's bedroom.

He didn't make it over the threshold. He remembered abruptly how small he had been, how thin his skin had been. His breath caught like there was a hook sunk into that hole in his chest, yanking on him hard.

He woke up because he couldn't breathe. He curled, turning his face into Jon's pillow, tears scalding his eyes. He had cried so little over the years he couldn't remember how to stop. He kicked free of the blankets and fell out of Jon's bed, dragging a breath in, then another. He crawled across the floor and buried himself in the back of Jon's closet, grief pounding him like ocean breakers.

He had been that small and his face had been that open and defenseless. Cary clenched his fists over his head, going under, coming apart.

The door to Jon's room clicked open, and a light voice said, "Hello? Is somebody here?"

Cary couldn't make himself silent. He pressed his face into his legs, swearing frantically under his breath.

The closet door swung open and he shut up, but his breathing was still crooked and tears kept streaming out of his eyes. Jon's littlest sister hung onto the closet door handle, tipping her head. "Whatcha doing in here? Can I hide too?"

She squeezed into the small space without an invitation and worked her way under Cary's arm. Her bony shoulder dug into his ribs, the side that didn't have the shit kicked out of it. Cary turned his face away, trying to hold his body still except for the catch and gasp of his breathing.

Bea stretched to look into his face. "Cary, you're hurt? You're sad?"

"Go away."

Bea put her arms around his body. Her hands met on the worst of his bruises, where his ribs were broken, and Cary swallowed a cry. His hands went up, pressing flat against the walls on either side, and he would have nailed them there if he could to keep them from hurting her. She held him feather-light, her face buried under his arm. Cary's breathing smoothed out and slowed. He wiped his face on his sleeve and let out a long, shaky sigh.

Bea hugged him tighter. "All better?"

The tiny space tightened around him like a screw and a red explosion went off in his brain. He threw her off, pinning her in the corner with his thumb against her throat. The narrow ridge of her collarbone was under his hand; he knew exactly how much more pressure would break her.

She lifted her hands and stroked his arm. He could feel her trembling. "I forgot you're hurt. Sorry, Cary, sorry."

He snatched his hands back, scrambling to get away from her. "Get out of here Bea."

She came after him, her face full of concern. "Are you okay?"

He hit the wall of the bedroom and curled around his ribs. Pain beat red on the edges of his vision in time with his drumming heart. He said through his teeth, "Get away from me."

"I said I'm sorry." She put out her hands, and Cary balled up, locking his arms over his head. He did the only thing he could think of.

"Jon!" He yelled so hard it felt like his rib poked out through the muscle in his side.

Running footsteps came down the hall. "What is it? What's wrong?" Jon's voice buzzed. In between red-black slides, Cary saw him catch his little sister around her chest and turn her toward himself. "Bea, are you okay?"

"I hurt Cary when I hugged him tight." Bea was crying now. "He won't take my sorry."

Jon smoothed the hair back from her flushed, tearful face. "Okay, that's okay Honey Bee. You didn't mean to. Cary knows that. You go on. Mom wants you for bedtime stories."

Bea went, sobbing. The sound of her crying caught in Cary's chest. He'd already cried so hard his head ached—and there was more inside him. He pressed hard on his temples, trying to find a way to breathe that didn't hurt.

Jon crouched in front of him. "Are you okay?"

"I almost hurt her." He could still feel the soft skin of her throat under his fingers. "I could have snapped her in two."

It was quiet a moment. "But you didn't," Jon said.

Cary put his hands down and looked Jon in the face.

Jon startled. "You've been crying."

"No shit." Cary's voice cracked. He pulled himself painfully to his feet. He felt as if his skin were made of glass and any amount of pressure would break him. How was he going to talk about the shit his father had done to him, at the police station tomorrow? How was he going to do anything like this? He went out of Jon's room and down the hall, steadying himself against the wall.

It was dark outside. The cool night air stroked his skin and Cary took a full breath, straightening in spite of the pain. The porch light illuminated the bones of the garage, standing tall in the yard. Cary went toward it, seeing the way the corners joined neat and tight where he had hammered them into place while Pete held them steady. That was a thing he had done with his hands and he was proud of it.

He tripped a little on the edge of the concrete pad and crawled to the middle. He stretched out on his back, looking up at the night sky framed by the ribs of the garage roof. When the porch light blinked off, the stars sprung out against the dark, piercing him.

Could there be something—someone—big enough to hold all this inside his hands? If Jon was right, could the maker of something as large and dark as outer space make himself small enough to fit inside the dark of Cary's basement?

Not that He ever would. Cary shut his eyes and held his breath while that pain pulled steadily on him. No one innocent and clean like Jesus would ever come for him. That was why it was so stupid to hurt for that child who had cried down there; that was why it was so fucking stupid to want someone to care.

Someone's feet rustled across the grass. Jon hesitated in the middle of the dark backyard. "Cary?"

"Here," Cary said.

Jon joined him on the concrete pad, sitting with his knees drawn up. He tipped his head back and Cary could see his smile gleam in the dark. "Wow. Beautiful sky."

"Yeah." They were quiet, then Cary said, "I used to climb out my window and lie on the roof at night. To get away for a bit. To get cold, like space." His chest was hot inside, glowing like a space heater, pulsing in time with his heart like a beacon. He put his hand over that heat, to hide its SOS.

"I found him. The boy that was me," Cary said. Jon turned his face towards him. "I remember stuff I didn't used to. About... about the way I was."

"Are you okay?" Jon asked again.

Cary closed his eyes. "No."

After a moment of quiet, Jon put his feet towards the back of the garage and his hands behind his head. He tipped his face to the stars. His presence anchored Cary in the dark.

There was something Cary needed to get out, and talking was the only way he had left now. "I had a sister—did you know that?" His voice was soft and rough. He didn't think he would cry again, but it might be close.

"No." Jon sounded surprised.

"She died when I was six." He held still, measuring what he could say out loud. He hadn't told this part to the social worker—or to anyone, ever. "After..." After the wailing sirens and the funeral and the house full of strangers, his mother never got out of her bed. His father stalked about the empty house, silent, huge and terrifying. Little Ciaran stayed invisible a long time; so long his father forgot he was there—forgot he had a son who was still alive and needed the things living children need: food and words and touch.

"I wanted my mom to wake up," Cary said. "I went to try and wake her up and he caught me. He never hit me before that, not even with his hand." Cary's fists closed against his chest. "I didn't have any scars. I didn't know how not to cry. I couldn't—I couldn't hold still. He put me in the basement." He shivered all over and shut his mouth.

"Jesus," Jon said brokenly.

Cary thought about Jesus, about what Jon said about God being like Pete. The physical memory of Pete's arm catching him across his chest steadied him, so that his voice sounded even when he asked, "You think he was there? You think Jesus was there for that?"

Jon took a breath. "Yeah, I do."

Cary frowned into the dark. "I don't see where he could be."

Jon turned his face to him. "What if you... Cary what if you asked him?"

Cary looked back at him. "What?"

"Where he was. Do you think you could ask Jesus?"

Jon's question was so simple Cary didn't think it could work. He wanted it to work. He thought of the man with the blood on his face and the bare light bulb making a halo of fractured light around his hair. Where were you? Cary asked him.

He expected Jesus' face to dissolve like water between his fingers as soon as he grabbed too hard. Instead, the picture got so bright that Cary's eyes watered with tears. When his vision cleared, he was in the basement.

Turn around. The words whispered in his ear.

Behind him, the unfinished room in his basement was bright with daylight. This wasn't the dream basement; there was no door. Cary stepped to the opening. The drywall was pocked with nails holding the sheets to the studs. There was a window, and the drywall around the frame was cut jaggedly, exposing the white chalk core. Cary knew every detail of this room. It had been his hiding place to wait for his mother to open the door at the top of the stairs. He steadied himself against the doorframe and made himself look at the boy propped in the corner.

Little Ciaran had his skinny legs drawn up against his body. He was watching the light from the window where it fell against the wall. Tears kept filling his eyes and he shook his head hard to clear them. He wanted to see.

Cary's hand tightened on the frame, and he put his eyes on the other person in the room. Jesus was sitting against the wall beside the boy, talking softly to him. He was tracing the shapes with his finger in the air, so the boy could see them framed by the rectangle of light on the wall. Little Ciaran had his head tipped toward Jesus and his fingers moved in his lap, planning the drawing he would make when he could go upstairs again.

Cary's breath caught, and he closed his eyes. Just like that, he had slipped inside the skin of that boy, watching the light cross the wall while the blood beat in his bruises. The light turned the corner and the room darkened. He was afraid again. There was a naked bulb in the ceiling, but he wasn't tall enough to reach the string. His mother always left a nightlight on for him when she tucked him in.

He crawled to the pile of drop-cloths and plastic and burrowed into them, curling up small. Night came down like a shade over the window.

The basement room did not get dark. Light came off Jesus, rippling like he had a fire lit in his chest. Little Ciaran didn't wonder about that. He went to sleep and Cary watched him from the door. Jesus dropped his hand on the sleeping boy's hair, his eyes on Cary's face.

Jesus didn't look angry; his scarred hand was stroking the boy's hair the way Cary's mother used to.

Cary took courage from that and crept to Jesus's feet. "I remember this," Cary said. He watched the boy; even in sleep he had a deep furrow in his forehead. Cary knew he was as battered on the inside as he looked on the outside. He still had the scars from this day. "You were here, after."

Jesus nodded.

"You made it light," Cary said. "You showed me how to look at the light."

Jesus mouth lifted. "Your mother got up and bought you a drawing book and pencils the next day. You were a natural."

Cary put the heels of his hands on his eyes, holding that inside him. "Were you there for the before?" he asked in the dark.

"Yes," Jesus said.

"Show me," Cary whispered.

He was the boy again, his face full of the blankets on his parents' bed. Jesus was holding him as tight as he had held Liam under the countertop. Conall's belt caught them both and Cary felt Jesus' breath shaking against his cheek. In the skin of this boy, Cary was defenseless. His cry made Jesus curl more closely around him, turning his face so his eyelashes brushed against the skin on his temple. Here I am.

Cary's hands on his face were wet. He drew in his breath and sat up. Apparently he could cry again.

Jon sat up with him. "What happened? Did Jesus answer your question?"

Cary turned his face to Jon. He couldn't speak. His eyelashes were heavy with tears; he blinked and more slid down his face. He nodded and got to his feet to go into Jon's house.

Bea was at the kitchen table eating cereal. Cary hesitated, looking for a way through the kitchen that would keep him away from her. She looked up, trying to smile. "Hi Cary. Are you better now?"

He nodded once and touched his fingers to his collarbone, where he had grabbed her. "Did I hurt you?"

She nodded solemnly, and something froze in his chest.

"Right here." She put her hand over her heart. "I said sorry for hurting you, and you didn't take it."

He let out his breath, a soft 'ha.' "I take your sorry, Bea."

She clasped her hands against her chest, still anxious. "Do you forgive me?"

He tucked his elbow against his ribs. The pain of her embrace had dulled to a steady throb. "I forgive you." The words felt awkward in his mouth, but important. He'd never said them or had anyone say them to him before today. "Can you c'mere, Bea?"

She climbed down from her chair and came toward him, her face bright with hope. He went down on one knee and drew the collar of her pyjamas to the side. The skin on her shoulder was peach-soft—no marks left by his fingers.

She held still, unflinching, looking into his face with a puzzled crease between her eyebrows. He withdrew his hands and made a smile with his mouth. That felt almost like the right thing on his face.

She smiled back. "Are you living with us again tomorrow?"

He looked around the kitchen, at the cluttered counter and chipped cupboards. There was something pressing in his chest, filling him up until it hurt. He nodded.

"And the next day and the next day?"

Cary closed his eyes, feeling Jon's house around him like a protective shell. "Yeah. I live here now."

Something light and warm touched his face, and his eyes flew open. Bea had her hand on his cheek, trying to cover his bruise, and her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. "Why was your family mean to you? Why don't they want you anymore?"

That went into the broken mess in his chest like an arrow and stuck there, quivering. "I don't know," Cary said. That hurt as much as thinking he knew what was wrong with him.

Bea took his shoulders, rocking him off balance. She kissed the bruise on his cheek, knocking him flat on his butt. "Get better soon, okay?"

It took a second to catch his breath. He nodded. "'Kay."