{Pete}

Pete was padding to the kitchen to make his first pot of coffee when the scene in the family room stopped him short. His girls were absorbed in their cartoons like they usually were before he got up to make breakfast—what was unusual was Cary's presence with them on the couch. The boy was curled on his side with his hand over his face. Bea was wrapped in her blanket, leaning against his stomach. Tabby was sitting beside his feet, crowded against the couch arm.

"Is Cary asleep?" Pete asked.

Tabitha frowned over at Cary's face. "Yeah. He's taking up the whole couch."

Bea patted Cary's hair gently, like he was a particularly large dog she had adopted. "Cary had bad dreams."

"Ah." Pete studied them a moment longer, checking where Cary had his hands and whether his girls were relaxed with him there. Cary had his free arm crossed against his chest and that hand tucked under his body. It looked like the girls had just fit themselves onto the couch wherever they could find space while he slept. Bea gave her dad a smile over her shoulder, and he smiled back and left them undisturbed.

Jon came in while Pete was waiting for the coffee to percolate. He gave his father a tired "Hey."

"How'd you sleep?" Pete asked.

Jon shrugged, not looking at him as he poured his cereal. "Good. I thought when I woke up that meant Cary didn't have any more bad dreams after the first one."

Pete pulled the girls' toast out of the toaster, and then spread honey and peanut butter on each slice. "He wakes you up?"

Jon's laugh had no humour in it. "Oh, yeah. Then I wake him up. You seriously didn't hear him?"

"I heard him," Pete said. Eighteen years of being a father had made him a light sleeper, attuned to every shift and sound in his children's rooms. Cary's cries had woken him from a sound sleep. He had lain awake in bed, praying into the dark because he was afraid to go near Cary when the nightmares had their claws in. He didn't want to be one more scary thing in the room. "I'm glad you were there for him."

"I thought he would be better," Jon said into his bowl of milk and o's. "Once he got safe with us."

"It's only been two weeks," Pete said. "You can't erase the years Cary had before this in just a couple days."

"You think they can be erased?" Jon met his eyes. He looked older than his 15 years.

"I think they can be healed," Pete said.

Jon closed his eyes, letting out his breath. "Right. I just thought—Jesus would heal them faster."

Pete's laugh was short and soft. He still felt the ache where the seams of his own scars lay, under his skin. "That's not really how it works, Jon."

"It's completely unfair—you know that, right?" Jon asked evenly. "That he got what he got, and I got you."

Pete could have looked for hours at his son the way he seemed now, whole and strong, with a light coming off his face even in the midst of all this heaviness. "I know," Pete said.

Jon nodded and got up to put his bowl in the sink. "We just have math and choir this morning. Can you call the school? This is the third night he didn't sleep."

So Pete made the call and got his children fed, dressed, and off to school with lunches and snacks in their backpacks. Bea carefully tucked the blankets back around Cary before she left. Cary didn't stir, and his deep, even breaths made Pete hope he was sleeping dreamlessly.

When the house was quiet again, Pete went to his study to call the number scribbled on the back of the card the Social Services woman had left with him.

Sharon was as blunt on the phone as she had been during her last visit. "Let me get this straight: You have been providing for Cary for ..." Her voice trailed off, and Pete heard the sound of rustling papers. "Fifteen days since my visit, and his mother has not contacted you at all?"

Pete thought of the words on the glowing face of Cary's phone: Don't call, don't come home. "That's right. What are our options here, Sharon?"

"Well, Cary is not your responsibility. His mother retains his guardianship, and she needs to provide for him. There is no reason for him to not be home. I can send someone today to pick Cary up and take him back."

That took Pete's breath away. "What if he doesn't want to go?"

She sounded impatient now. "He has a parent who is more than able to provide him with food, shelter and safety. Fifteen-year-olds don't get to run the world, Peter. If you keep him without his mother's permission, the word for that is kidnapping."

That rang faintly in his ears. Pete turned his face to the side, looking blindly at the wall full of books. "I understand. You don't need to send anyone. I can drop him off myself."

He didn't hear what she said to ring off. He sat for a long time with the phone in his hand, until the dial tone sounded from the receiver.

Melanie tapped lightly on his opened door. "Who was that?"

"Sharon from Social Services," Pete said dully. "I need to take Cary back to his mother's today."

She came in to lean against his desk. Her face was washed, bright and clear of makeup. They'd been together so long she didn't have to ask the question—just look at him with that face, waiting for him to tell her what was wrong.

When he stripped back his anger, he realized it was simple. "I'm afraid for him. He just seems so ... broken still. And that house is where it happened. And that woman ... Mel, how could she not know her own son was trapped under her feet in the basement? How could she not know when he was hurt? If Jon could hardly move because he had stripes and bruises all over him, wouldn't you notice?"

She took his hand, squeezing it tight between her own. "Maybe she was trapped. Maybe she didn't want to look because she couldn't afford to see," she said.

Pete put his forehead on their joined hands. His voice came out muffled. "What if she still doesn't? And I send him back there where nobody cares about him?"

"Peter," she said reproachfully. "You're not the only person in the world who cares about Cary. God's got this. You have to trust that."

He kissed her hand and got to his feet. He felt 20 pounds heavier than he had when he sat down. "That doesn't mean Cary won't get hurt. Again. This doesn't feel right to me at all."

///

It was a home day for Pete, a day to reflect, pray and prepare his sermon for Sunday. Mel went off to the grocery store mid-morning. Pete went restlessly from the study to the kitchen to his bedroom, and each time he passed the family room, he looked in on Cary. He had chosen his passage weeks ago, when Cary was just a friend of Jon's who came over after school, never talked, and never took off his jacket. The words ran through his head like water running over stones.

Isn't this the kind of fasting I have chosen?

To loose the chains of injustice and untie every yoke?

When you see the poor wanderer to give him shelter,

and the naked to clothe him

and not turn away from your own flesh and blood?

(Isaiah 58)

They seemed painfully relevant now. "What does that mean for me, Lord?" Pete asked. "Cary isn't my flesh and blood. I'm not the police, I'm not Social Services—I'm just a ... just a neighbour. Just somebody who sees Cary and knows this situation. What am I supposed to do with that knowledge? Do I have a right to take him out of his family as if I can do a better job than they can?"

Pete stood in the hallway looking into the family room, as if the shape of Cary's sleeping form would spell the answer to his question. Bea's blanket was stretched over the boy's shoulders, too small to cover him. Below it, the curve of his lower back was shadowed with bruises, divided into ugly shapes by lines of scars.

Pete turned aside, rigid with anger. Well, I can do a better job. You want me to send him back to his mother to make a point—that it's her job to care for him? The only person who suffers when she fails is Cary. That's not fair.

He felt like Jesus was standing in front of him, and though he pushed with all his strength, he couldn't move the Lord an inch. He went to his study and threw himself on his couch, shutting his eyes. They needed to have it out, right now.

With his eyes closed, Pete's awareness of Jesus' presence blocking his way sharpened. What? Pete asked sharply. What is the problem?

Does Cary belong to you? Jesus asked.

Have you seen what they did to him? Pete held up the pictures in his head, like Jesus needed reminding.

Does. He. Belong. To. You? Jesus asked again, more slowly.

If Pete could have shoved him, he would have. As it was, he sat up and faced Jesus down. You're seriously going to send him back there? Those people have no right to him. None. If I keep him, he has a chance. I can give him the care he needs. I know I can. You made me this way—you know I can too.

Pete saw his family, grouped together like they were taking a family photo: Bea and Tabitha and Jon and Melanie. Jesus said, I already gave you ones to care for. Would you do this at a cost to them?

That undid him a little, and Pete spread his hands over his face. If you helped us, we could do it. You could give me enough for them and him too. Please don't set yourself against me, or I won't be able to stand.

It was silent, and Pete realized maybe he had set himself against Jesus and not the other way around. He wanted this, though. He wanted it more than he'd wanted anything in a lot of years. Please give Cary to us. We can take one more. He could belong to us if you gave him to us.

Give Cary to me. Jesus said. He belongs to me.

Pete caught his breath. "No," he whispered. "We did this before. Jesus, no." The memory of his other son tore his heart wide open, and he pressed his palms against the heat of tears. I gave Judah to you, and you took him. You let him suffer, and you took him. The memory of his son, vomiting and wasted from the poison that was supposed to cure him and kill the cancer, turned Pete's stomach. He curled around the hurt of that, and his prayer didn't have words anymore—just a long cry of pain and grief that came right from his core.

Jesus crouched down in front of Pete so that he wouldn't miss the smallest note or breath of Pete's cry. When Pete was done, Jesus set his scarred hand on Pete's chest, the place where it hurt. Pete put his hands on Jesus' own, trying to hold still. I'm sorry I'm so broken still.

I love you, Peter. Jesus said.

If I give Cary to you, can you promise he won't be hurt?

No.

"Jesus," Pete pleaded.

I love him. Jesus said. I promise I will love him and carry him—just like his name says.

Pete sat up, his head hanging. He had a headache from crying, and he still hated this. Take him, then. He held out his arm with his palm away from him, like he was shoving Cary into Jesus' chest. He belongs to you. Like I can tell you how to do your job. I'm sorry for trying.

He waited, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Anything else you want?

Jesus smiled. Just you. The usual.

Pete opened his fingers, prying open all the parts of his heart that he had clenched tightly shut in his anger. Here you go. It felt like a particularly broken and worthless offering this morning.

But then Jesus filled him up and took his breath away. Pete tipped back against the couch, just breathing Jesus in until he didn't feel his scars and holes—just the warmth of Jesus' light on every part of him.

He rested there a long time. Thank you. He got to his feet. I'm going to call Cary's mom right now. He knew it was too much to hope that she would just sign Cary over to them. I don't want to do this without you.

Jesus' voice was softer now, but still audible in his thoughts. You're not.

Pete went to Jon's room. Cary's phone was lying on the desk, and Pete picked it up and slid his finger across its face to unlock it. There was no password. In one tap, he had opened the message thread between Cary and his mother, and Beverly's number was there on the display. He punched it into his home phone and did what he should have done a week ago.

He was almost surprised when Cary's mother picked up. "Hello. This is Beverly."

He made his voice warm. "Beverly, it's Pete White calling. Your son Cary is currently staying with us."

There was a startled silence. "I understood he was staying at the youth emergency shelter," she said.

Pete frowned. "No, he's been staying with our family for over two weeks now."

Her laugh sounded forced. "Oh my. I can't believe Ciaran never told me he was no longer with the shelter."

He tried to believe her; if he began with suspicion, he wouldn't be able to hear her at all. "Well, I'm surprised that Social Services at least didn't tell you he was staying with us."

"Oh, I won't be having anything more to do with Social Services," she said lightly, like they were discussing a change in Wi-Fi providers. "Ciaran told them quite a story about our home and his father. I can't begin to tell you how damaging this all has been to us."

Pete's mouth opened, but all he could see was Cary's battered body slumped on the edge of Jon's bed the first night he arrived. He finally managed to speak. "Well, perhaps you can begin to imagine that it's been damaging for Cary as well."

"I'm sure he would like you to believe that, Mr. White." Her voice was cold. "Cary is a very convincing liar. There are two sides to every story, as I'm sure you know."

Pete rubbed a hand against the beard on his cheek, trying to hold his temper so he could hear what Jesus wanted him to do here. "Well, I'm not calling to take sides, or stir things up, I'm just ... concerned. It's not free to have Cary stay with us, and I thought, given the circumstances, that permanent arrangements should be made. Either to return to live with you or ..."

There was a frosty silence.

"I think Cary wants to come home," Pete said, tension vibrating in his stomach as he waited for her to respond.

"If he wants to come back, nothing's stopping him," she said sharply. "You should have called me immediately. Ciaran is my son, and whatever he's done, I won't have him relying on strangers."

That stung. It felt like she expected Pete to apologize to her for caring for her son when she had kicked him out. "We saw a young man in trouble, and were just trying to help."

"Of course. I appreciate your concern." She was smooth again. "I can come by to pick him up this afternoon."

He gave her the address and she hung up. Pete gripped the phone so hard it beeped. Then he tossed it across the surface of his desk. God, she sounds even worse than I feared. Was that what You wanted?

When he turned, Cary was standing outside his door, holding the blankets in front of him like a shield. "Was that my mom?" Cary asked.

Pete nodded. "She's coming to pick you up." He looked up at the clock. "In an hour and a half." When he looked back, he caught Cary's unguarded expression: stunned and white, like Pete had just broken his bones.

"She wants me?" Cary asked. "She wants me back?"

"She doesn't want you to be relying on strangers." The words snapped like they had when Beverly said them, and Pete realized he hadn't managed to keep his temper as well as he would have liked.

Cary turned his face to the side. "Shit, she's still angry," he whispered.

That got Pete's attention. "Are you safe there with her? Will she punish you for going to Social Services?"

Cary's chest barely rose, and he looked down the hall like he was seeing something other than Pete's house.

"Cary, will she hurt you?"

Cary drew a breath. "No." His normal voice was back. "She won't hit me, or anything like that."

"She won't let you go hungry or lock you out?"

Cary met his eyes, and Pete wondered at his steadiness. "I'll be fine, Mr. White. Please don't worry about me."

He turned to go and faltered a little. "Do you want me to go to school and then from there ...?"

"I called you in sick," Pete said. "You have time to pack your things and have some lunch, then ..." He needed to make himself say it, since this was the right thing to do, and he was the adult. "Your mom will pick you up from here."

Cary nodded, and in spite of his apparent steadiness, Pete saw his skin twitch and shiver across his shoulders. "'Kay."

Pete kept his hands closed at his sides, watching him go. Jesus, you promised. Carry him.

*Oh gosh, Beverly Douglas is just awful, sorry about that.

So about Pete's prayer: I'm trying not to write Jon's dad as this Christian cliche, but people like him really do exist in the world and it wouldn't be fair to pretend otherwise. Pete's had this listening prayer practice a long time, so he 'hears and sees' Jesus more vividly than either Jon or Cary. I don't want to portray Pete as someone who has it all figured out, or turn off readers who don't share his belief system, but my experience is that prayer really can be like this direct conversation back and forth with Jesus, especially after years of practice. If it helps you to give a different name to Jesus here, like Divine Love or Spirit, just go ahead and do that, lovelies.*