they'd need to know how much time they were putting in, but as far as
Ethan knew, Phillip was the only one who bothered to mark down the time.
It was nearly one, which meant Grace would be finishing up at the pub in
about an hour. It wouldn't hurt to load Seth in the truck and do a quick
swing by Shiney's. Just toa check on things.
Even as he started to rise, he heard the boy whimper in his sleep.
Pizza's finally getting to him, Ethan thought with a shake of the head.
But he supposed childhood wouldn't be complete without its quota of
bellyaches. He climbed down, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks
as he approached the sleeping boy.
He crouched beside Seth, laid a hand on his shoulders, and gave a gentle
shake.
And the boy came up swinging.
The bunched fist caught Ethan squarely on the mouth and knocked his head
back. The shock, more than the quick and bright pain, had him swearing.
He blocked the next blow, then took Seth's arm firmly. "Hold it."
"Get your hands off me." Wild, desperate, and still caught in the sticky
grip of the dream, Seth flailed at the air. "Get your fucking hands off
me."
Understanding came quickly. It was the look in Seth's eyes--stark terror
and vicious fury. He'd once felt both himself, along with a shuddering
helplessness. He let go, lifted both of his hands palms out. "You were
dreaming." He said it quietly, without inflection, and listened to
Seth's ragged breathing echo on the air. "You fell asleep."
Seth kept his fists bunched. He didn't remember falling asleep. He
remembered curling up, listening to Ethan work. And the next thing he
knew, he was back in one of those dark rooms, where the smells were sour
and too human and the noises from the next room were too loud and too
animal.
And one of the faceless men who used his mother's bed had crept out and
put hands on him again.
But it was Ethan who was watching him, patiently, with too much
knowledge in his serious eyes. Seth's stomach twisted not only at what
had been, but that Ethan should now know.
Because he couldn't think of words or excuses, Seth simply closed his
eyes.
It was that which tilted the scales for Ethan. The surrender to
helplessness, the slide into shame. He'd left this wound alone, but now
it seemed he would need to treat it after all.
"You don't have to be afraid of what was."
"I'm not afraid of anything." Seth's eyes snapped open. The anger in
them was adult and bitter, but his voice jerked like the child he was.
"I'm not afraid of some stupid dream."
"You don't have to be ashamed of it, either."
Because he was, hideously, Seth sprang to his feet. His fists were
bunched again, ready. "I'm not ashamed of anything. And you don't know a
damn thing about it."
"I know every damn thing about it." Because he did, he hated to speak of
it. But despite the defiant stance, the boy was trembling, and Ethan
knew just how alone he felt. Speaking of it was the only thing left for