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Greg didn’t read her nametag. His eyes were unfocused, and he forced himself to blink as he held the edge of the countertop. Packages of overpriced candy framed the wall behind the front desk like roosting bats. If he listened closely enough, he could hear Stephen crying in the van. There wasn’t anyone else in the lobby, thank goodness. It was getting dark out. This woman at the front desk tapped on her keyboard, then stopped, then glanced up at Greg. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. She sighed.
“You havin’ a long night?” she said. Her voice was as smooth as crushed nectarines.
“A... I mean, yeah, um, yes.”
“Drivin’ a ways?”
“Kind of.” Greg cleared his throat. “Just a little—it’s my kid, you know.”
“Oh? Hope they been behaved. I ain’t gonna do that cross-country stuff again.”
“Mm.”
“My ex, we took my daughter up on that, went all the way to the border, then through the north states gettin’ to the other ocean, and lemme tell you, that’s a lotta carsickness I had to scrub out of his upholst’ry.”
“He’s sick.”
She raised her eyebrows. Greg waved off the implications and grimaced.
“Not, um, puke. But he’s close to a fever. I think I just want to get him a little kid’s ibuprofen and lots of water. Lots...lots of water.”
“We charge for changin’ sheets.”
Greg didn’t respond.
The woman didn’t sigh again, but he could tell that she wanted to. She got back to typing. There shouldn’t have been that many details. Should there? It was expensive, but he knew what he needed to do. Possibly. All he needed was to get Steven somewhere for the night. The van was safest, but Stephen wasn’t going to sleep there. How could he? There was nowhere to park regardless. Greg tried not to grip the countertop. They needed A/C. They needed a tub.
He took a deep breath as she handed his cards back. There was enough to maybe stay another night, but he couldn’t stay here. Stephen would need a hospital if he couldn’t figure out what was wrong. First, the fever. Then, who could tell? Greg rubbed his aching head before putting all his information away. Then, the woman slid a card across the counter.
“How old’s your son?” she asked.
“He’s twelve. Give or take.”
“What, you don’t know?”
Greg chuckled. “Twelve and change? Guess that sounds better.”
She snorted in laughter. There, a lack of suspicion. Greg and Stephen looked almost nothing alike. It would make it easier for everyone if he could disguise the boy, but there was almost no room for it. A sweatshirt? Maybe. Or he could just fake it. Stephen would cling to him, that was for certain. Stephen wouldn’t have to pretend. All he would have to do is not make a scene. There would be other people. Suspicions meant calls. Calls meant questions. Questions meant separation.
“Y’all are down here on the first floor, end of the hall on the right, by the stairs.”
“Thanks.”
Greg nodded cordially as he pocketed the card. That was the end of things. She would forget him in a day, and she would remember, perhaps, the image of Greg and his son walking out, two odd-looking fellows, and then someone would come in with a giant dog, or ten kids all on an even bigger road trip, or a gun, or no money and a need for a warm room, and she would remember that even more so. Greg stepped out into the warm summer night and shuddered as he walked to the van.
He had parked it far away from the entrance and the other vehicles. While Greg had been driving across the bridge, Stephen had started to scream in between his wails. The piercing crescendo had made Greg almost pull over. But he couldn’t, it wasn’t safe, and he lurched and slammed Stephen’s body around the seat as cars were honking around them, and he had to speed up and control himself as he crossed over towards the hotel. Everything by the coast was pricey, even for a single night. A gaudy lighthouse that had long since gone out of use stood on the corner of the nearby cliff face, bright blue and white spirals twisting up to the top where tourists could get their pictures of the historic bay. Clouds were drifting in over them, not the kind that brought rain, but the kind that brought color when the sun had crossed over for the night. The sky made all the lights seem garish and piercing, as if they were staring at Greg as he opened the passenger side door.
Stephen’s wailing hit his face so hard that he shut the door on reflex, and the sound muted immediately. Nobody was coming. He ducked around the edges of the van, darting his eyes up to the darkened rooms to ensure that nobody was peeling back the curtains. Greg gulped and pressed himself against the side of the van as he crawled towards the door again.
He opened it slowly this time, and only whimpers escaped from the back. Stephen wasn’t making words, but Greg had heard the begging, the apologies, the little words that had come from a little mouth all the way up, and he wasn’t sure how much more he could handle. He crawled up and closed himself inside.
The fluorescent oranges and night-blues shining in from the outside cast Stephen in just the right light for his condition—half-burning, half-freezing, forced into the spotlight from a darkened state. Sweat stuck to the child’s forehead like gemstones. He had laid one arm across his eyes.
“M-m...m-muh...”
“Hush, buddy, it’s okay. We’re gonna get you inside. Mister Universe is here. Dad’s here.”
Stephen twitched. It was slower than a twitch. Greg didn’t want to think about it. He gathered up whatever he needed into his travel backpack, starting with a change of clothes for both of them, everything but extra pants; he could come back for that. There would be water from the sink, that would be fine. Greg shoved in his phone charger, patting his pockets, then looked at where he cast a shadow over Stephen’s body.
They could pass to the public as father and son. The waitress at Dip’s Diner had thought so without a second guess. At the concert, Greg knew that there wasn’t a single person who had seen them and doubted that they were related. In another life, they could have been, but for now, as Greg ran a finger down the young boy’s temple, he had to be content with this. Stephen had the same eyebrows that he did, and the same cheeks, a squat little face that reminded Greg of his adolescent years in some ways. He was more filled out, though, with a stronger jaw underneath his boyishness, a jaw that wobbled and whined as Stephen kicked his legs in slow-motion against the sheets. Even that didn’t seem to alleviate the pain. If they were in the garage, Greg could have heated up some soup, perhaps, and even though these were warm nights leading into summer, he could have given Stephen something to get his body back to baseline. He could do this. It was his job. He was supposed to do this.
“Don’ want... I-I wanna go, Mis’er Universe, it is...I do not...”
“There’s some cool A/C inside, we’ll get that on right away. And I’ll run you a nice cool bath, then we’ll have a big awesome bed we can sleep in tonight.”
Stephen sniffled, turning his head into his forearm.
“Did you hear me, kiddo? We’re gonna have a chill night out. No more concerts, I promise, it’s way too much—I get it! I-I get it, we can try again another time, with a smoother band! Oh, how about a little lounge music, you know, piano?”
But Stephen didn’t say anything again. Greg looked out the window, peering towards the distant street. It seemed too busy for this part of town, this late in the evening. He hated them, just for one second, hated the people who were making it hard for Stephen to understand what he was saying. He wanted silence. Stephen needed rest, to go in and rest, and they would take that away from him.
“Please. I... please .”
They would take Stephen away. They would take him back to the strange family, and he’d never see the boy again. Greg could feel the fury clouding his face, and he forced himself back to something neutral. He couldn’t smile right now, no, but he could make Stephen feel safe.
“So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll get my backpack on, and we’ll get you in a sweatshirt, and then I’ll just carry you in and we’ll pretend—I’m sorry, Stephen, you have to pretend right now. And we’ll be...safe! We’ll be safe.”
“Rrrh- h -hnnn...”
“You’re right. Forget the sweatshirt,” Greg murmured. “You just have to play like you’re asleep.” The man began to shoulder the bag with their supplies. “Easy enough, right? Close your eyes and just lemme get you up.”
Front-ways, that was the right direction. Stephen could put his face against Greg’s neck and they could walk in without anyone wanting to bother the boy. Greg put the keycard for the door in his back-left pocket; his right could be the one supporting Stephen, and the boy would be holding onto him for safety. That was the plan. Greg smiled as he moved himself around and got ready to hoist Stephen upwards. He knelt with a leg on either side of the boy and took a deep breath.
Hey, remember the belly bongos? Remember when I made you happy? When you could tell them how much you trusted me?
“Alright, upsie-daisies now—”
Greg planted one hand underneath each armpit, ready for Stephen to sit up. He pulled back, and Stephen’s arms flew out to either side like he had been struck by lightning.
He screamed, truly screamed, and Greg had never heard anything like it before. The cab of the van practically shook with the sound, or perhaps that was just his swimming vision. Stephen’s face was painted with agony, his eyes scrunched up as his open mouth showed the rows of perfect, jagged teeth with only one missing. The child’s scream was atonal and sudden, but somehow apologetic—no, pleading, that particular scream of pain that was more than fear but less than anger. Stephen kicked out, driving his heel hard into Greg’s thigh, his spine spasming as the lifting apparently tore through his body.
Greg’s response was almost reflexive. He couldn’t let them hear. In a flash, he put as much of his body weight as he dared down onto Stephen, one hand clamped over Stephen’s mouth as the other steadied him against the mattress. The screams became muffled, and almost instantly faded into wordless sobs again. Greg let the tears come.
This was the shame he hadn’t shown Dr. Maheswaran, that he never wanted to show anyone. There were ideas of what to do, things that he knew he should have taken care of. Now, his adoptive son, his kidnapped son, was twitching underneath him, grabbing weakly to get the man away so he could breathe. Greg didn’t want this. Nobody wanted this. What else was there to do, though? He couldn’t let Stephen go back to them. He couldn’t let him go.
Stephen started to shake, each movement causing him more pain, probably, but Greg knew he needed to rise. He let the hand go first, wet with Stephen’s saliva, and the boy began to cough and heave with fresh air. Greg couldn’t look at him.
“W-we gotta hide you,” he hissed after a moment. He could feel Stephen’s lungs and erratic heartbeat beneath him. “We can’t let them know, Stephen, we...”
Water. Greg turned his hazy vision upwards, and grabbed at a half-full bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap with his trembling fingers as he sat up. Stephen was looking at him; he had been crying, of course, and Greg couldn’t tell if Stephen could actually see him right now.
Either way, the man poured the tepid water over Stephen’s face. It was the only thing he could think to do. Stephen spluttered, but Greg ensured that it covered the boy’s forehead, nose, and cheeks, as much skin as he could. Stephen opened his mouth and croaked. The last dribble went straight down Stephen’s throat, and he swallowed greedily. He still didn’t seem like he was fully conscious. But he wasn’t screaming.
“Stephen,” Greg hissed, “buddy, when we go in there...you have to be silent. You have to be absolutely quiet. Not...not a sound. We can’t do that. I have to hold you. Do you understand?”
For the first time in the last couple hours, Greg actually got to see Stephen’s eyes. They were still trying to focus, but they were open. Stephen’s lips trembled.
“If you yell like that, they’re gonna know.”
Know what, exactly? Stephen nodded, and Greg felt his stomach grind with guilt. Despite the fact that Stephen had come to see him, despite the fact that he had enjoyed his breakfast and the concept of the concert and their little swim, despite all the good connection they had had before, Stephen knew that this was wrong, and that hurt Greg more than he could have thought possible. The boy reached up and wiped his cheeks, rubbing the water into his face and sniffling. Whatever physical pain he was going through was probably still coursing through him, but he was still hanging in there. They didn’t have time for mysteries.
“I need you to sit up, and to hold on, and to let me carry you in there,” Greg whispered, beckoning with his hands raised. “And I need you to pretend that you’re asleep. We’ll sleep for real when we get in there, I promise. A big comfy bed.”
His promises didn’t mean anything anymore. He had promised Stephen a fun night out, a little romp, nothing more and nothing less. The worst part, he thought as Stephen clenched his teeth and pushed his poor little body upwards, was that the kid probably blamed himself for part of this—for going too deep or for not knowing what was wrong, not being able to communicate it. After they had settled, Greg knew he would be forced to figure out some reasoning behind this.
Normal boys didn’t have sharp teeth, absent of filing and minimal grinding. Normal boys didn’t have fevers that came out of nowhere. Or maybe he had picked something up from the water and Greg would have to take him to—
No hospitals. No doctors. No strangers.
Greg clenched his teeth and cuddled Stephen a little too close as the boy righted himself. He would figure this out without external meddling. They’d take him away for experiments, for testing. Greg knew he was perfectly capable of being a good parent, and he had to prove it. He was gentle as he balanced Stephen in his arms now, holding him with one arm under his rear and one reaching back to the van doors. Stephen held on tightly, as he should, squeezing the man’s neck as the night air hit them.
What would his own father have done? Greg shut the back of the van before returning one hand to Stephen, careful not to adjust him too much. The boy was shivering. Greg didn’t get too sick, or at least he had learned to hide it. There was the winter of pneumonia, where half the school had gotten sick. His mother had berated him for not being able to eat, and he couldn’t leave the table until he had eaten a double portion of meatloaf while his father rattled off facts about nutrition and calorie counting until Greg had vomited all over the white heirloom tablecloth and passed out. They hadn’t taken him to the hospital. Greg remembered the blurred expression on his father’s face in the days afterwards, because it was one of the few times he had seen the man without glasses. He would lift water to Greg’s mouth in floral porcelain cups, and he wouldn’t look his son in the eyes. Greg remembered those eyes well, the setting of his dad’s mouth, the stoic refusal that someone might have when taking out the trash or putting back a bruised apple at a grocery store. His mother didn’t talk to him for a month. When Greg was allowed to be back in school, spring was starting to come back to the state, and his mother had looked him up and down the morning of as he crossed the threshold. “You’ve lost weight. Good.” After speaking, she closed the door and locked it, leaving Greg to walk away.
Maybe he had never stopped walking. Stephen’s face was wet as it pressed up against his shirt. Everything was warm around them, and Greg wished it was more comforting. At this point, he knew how comfort supposedly felt, but couldn’t manifest it, no matter how hard he tried, not even for himself. His footsteps seemed to echo around the lot. He took a deep breath and lowered his face to Stephen’s hair. There was still the faintest scent of campground shampoo.
Greg closed his eyes as they passed under the outside lights. His heart ached with some long-forgotten dream, where Stephen was weightless and nobody had to pretend and everyone was safe. The boy mumbled unintelligibly.
When they got to the doors, Greg bumped the button with his hip, putting on his best face as the smoky glass slid open. It was easy to keep calm when he had to. The change of atmosphere was enough to make Stephen’s grip tighten. He was small enough where Greg didn’t have to worry about looking suspicious carrying him, and yet big enough where people might pity Greg, as these were the last times he’d be able to carry his boy like this. The front-desk woman glanced up from a yellowing book of crossword puzzles and broke into a smile. Greg noticed she had reapplied her lipstick. He smiled back, raising one finger to tap his lips.
Stephen whimpered. In any other circumstance, Greg would have frozen, and he watched as the woman before them did freeze up. Some kind of instinct in her made her worry as well, the same impetus that had made Greg do everything he had done up to this point. She couldn’t take him. She wouldn’t.
She clicked her tongue quietly and nodded with pity at the pair. Greg smiled—sheepishly enough, he hoped—as he strode down. Stephen’s little hands dug into his back. There were enough cars in the lot that Greg knew anyone could come out of the doors they passed at any moment. The doors’ ocean-dark faces were like shadows, their little golden numeric eyes staring him down, counting up his various transgressions. Someone would come out and see. Someone would take his son away. Greg felt his back slicken with sweat, and his grip on Stephen tightened as much as Stephen tightened with him.
Who was coming? Those women that he talked about, Amelia and the others, they didn’t drive. They couldn’t be here. There was the case for Priyanka Maheswaran, the good doctor put out for a night and furious that she had to get a hotel room and jeopardize her job. Had they come here already? Had they ambushed him to take Stephen back?
Greg could hear Stephen crying, even though he knew it was in his mind’s eye. He could hear a phantasm in the shape of the silver-eyed boy screaming out as he was dragged underneath a torrent, a shadowed whirlpool, reaching out—for him.
The man’s eyes twitched as he fumbled in his back pocket for the key. The bed couldn’t come fast enough. Greg heard Stephen’s muffled noises—real-world noises this time, not just a nightmare—wet and horrible, filling his shirt. He swiped the card, swore under his breath, turned the card around, and swiped again. The door practically burst at the hinges as he opened it up and shoved his way inside before the hinge’s gravity pulled it back closed behind him. They were here, and for once, it was quiet again.
“Stephen! Okay! Okay, get down, get on down, buddy-boy—”
With the gingerness of anxiety guiding him, Greg lowered Stephen down to the nautical comforter. Little white anchors on a navy backdrop sunk underneath the boy’s body. Greg stood up straight and dropped the backpack to the ground with a thump. He hadn’t realized that his lungs had been heaving.
Stephen looked awful and adorable and so pitiable as he twisted. He crossed and uncrossed his arms, pulling at his shirt like a dog pulling at an ill-conceived costume. His sandals were the same way, dirty feet curling and uncurling against the plastic. Oddly enough, a stench came off of him, a little perspiration that wasn’t befitting of a child like him. Stress-sweat, perhaps, but more potent, and it stirred in Greg yet another kind of pity that he couldn’t ever have a word for. Stephen’s mouth opened and he sobbed once before his quivering lips came together. Greg could feel the fever coming off of his heated skin. It emanated from him like sea foam that hovered over the top of a crashing wave, spraying up in nauseating little particles.
“What’s happening?” he whispered. Greg knelt down shakily on the carpet and leaned against the mattress. “Oh, Stephen, I’m...I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I need you to talk to me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s...”
He stopped himself as Stephen turned his head. As far as Greg could perceive, he was the only object in the room that Stephen could recognize.
“I do not know,” Stephen croaked.
Greg put his hand on Stephen’s forehead and stroked, running his fingers calmly through his son’s hair. They knew what the touch meant, and how untrue it was, no matter how much Greg made them pretend. How much of it was pretending, really? How hard would it be to adopt him? Impossible, he knew—and he couldn’t even begin to let his errant thoughts continue when Stephen began to cry again.
“Nothing like this has ever happened before, huh.”
“M-mh...no. N-no.”
“That’s okay. It’s not your fault. You’re doing okay.” Greg forced a little smile. “But I’m gonna get you a nice bath, body temperature, and it’ll get that fever right down. Maybe I should look for some soup. Sorry, Stephen, I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
Stephen opened his eyes in exhausted incredulity. He blinked, sniffling once before his face squeezed up and his body shuddered. Greg watched the burning spasm travel through Stephen’s skin and muscles, and he had to look away before he started to cry too. Of course. This was exactly what Stephen had wanted: time away from his family, if they were his family, time away from bad dreams. Neither one of them could have foreseen this. Greg wondered if this was just a stress reaction, something so extreme and alien and traumatic that there was nothing to be done, nothing at all.
There was only one solution that came to mind, a temporary covering. Greg forced himself onto his feet and rubbed his hand over Stephen’s tummy.
“I’ll be right back, Stephen.”
As he walked to the bathroom and hit the lights, Greg tried to remember what he knew about fevers. He hit the lights, glanced in, and swore quietly.
Out of all the things he should have looked into, a standing shower was not on the card. When had hotels phased out good old tubs for these glass cases? It was pretty, and clean, and the frosted glass was certainly professional, but Greg needed a way to soak Stephen’s fever out. This would have to do. Grumbling to himself, the man pulled off a towel and set it on the sink. He would need coffee in the morning. He was exhausted. Greg looked at himself in the mirror.
In another life, he would have told himself how irresponsible all this was. Knowing what he knew, this was nothing but responsible, nothing but inevitable. He looked at the scraggly pricks of white and brown hair around his jawline, the unshaven sections around his beard. Greg stared deeply into his own eyes, glazed over and darkened. Whenever he tried to focus on himself, as if he was starting a pep talk or a chastising, all he could see was Stephen’s smiling face with a mouthful of pizza, the boy that giggled as he was rubbed with sunscreen, the belly that belied the swimming muscles underneath, the scared child that had nuzzled him in the van and the hospital. He saw Stephen in his own school clothes now, a potential past or future, some amalgam of time and memory. Stephen would get off the school bus and come home to a real house, with an apple and a sandwich and some cartoons before homework and dinner, and they’d play music on the weekends, and go see Connie at the beach, and Stephen would be happy, finally, he would be a happy son.
Greg fell. He didn’t know he was falling until his hand reflexively grabbed the marble edge where it was hurtling past. It slammed like a car hitting a telephone pole, flat and painful throughout Greg’s palm. The man barked in pain as he regained his footing; his feet had almost given up completely, and his eyes saw only gray and white pinpricks. Slowly, very slowly, Greg managed to get up and blink away the visions.
His shaking hands pulled him around, forcing him to look away from the mirror. Greg panted, sweat sticking his shirt to his shoulders. He was trembling, too, like Stephen, but nowhere near as painful, it couldn’t be the same. The man gulped and wiped his face, though his palms were equally slick. Buzzing from the lightbulbs echoed in his skull, broken only by the sound of Stephen’s quiet whimpers from the other room.
“Dammit,” Greg mumbled, heaving a breath between teeth. “Stephen! H-hold on.”
Stephen hadn’t moved, of course. The task at hand was going to be awful, but Greg knew there was no other choice. Stephen knew what was coming. The boy grit his teeth as Greg came over to the bed and leaned into him, pushing the child’s face into his shoulder. Stephen’s little scream was thus muffled as Greg scooped him up, hefting him over and into the bathroom.
The toilet was the easiest place to sit Stephen down for the moment. When Greg pulled away with a wordless murmur of encouragement, he told himself forcefully that the snot and tears could all be washed away. Poor kid. Stephen sat as upright as he could as Greg opened the glass door with a little pop.
As soon as Greg turned the knob and the water began to gush, Stephen jumped at the sound. His eyes locked onto the shower, and just for a moment, Greg saw concentration in the boy’s face.
Or maybe it was desperation, something primal that Greg simply didn’t want to acknowledge. He sighed and knelt in front of Stephen, patting the boy’s legs.
“You don’t have to...” Greg’s words faltered, and he closed his eyes. He took a deep sigh before he looked at Stephen again, who was still looking at the shower. “Okay. Okay, I know I wasn’t okay earlier, but you’re sick, so I’m just gonna do what I need to, because...alright. Sure.”
There were some lines he didn’t want to cross, and he wasn’t going to. Once Stephen had been taken care of, Greg would jump in the shower and get properly cleaned off. For now, he stood, and Stephen’s head turned towards him as the man emptied his pockets on the table. It was just like how it had been at the river, but different. Stephen was different. Sometimes, Greg felt he was more like a creature than a boy—not an animal, but more like an alien, someone whose body and mind were so close to humanity and were at the same time far beyond what Greg could ever know. He thought about the tooth and stayed silent. As he kicked his shoes off, he peeled away his shirt and tossed it for the second time that day.
Stephen raised no objections as Greg knelt to give him the same treatment. The only sounds were the little whines of pain as his arms moved up. There must have been muscle pain that was deeper than Greg could imagine, deeper than the growing pains Stephen was probably feeling at this point in his life. What was happening here? Greg studied the boy in front of him as Stephen closed his eyes and trembled. It was as if he could hear the things Stephen wasn’t saying or couldn’t say, like a radio signal. At least with the sweatpants, there was less movement as Greg gently removed them and set them aside.
The fact that there was no reaction was still a mystery to Greg, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was making Stephen better. Greg stood again, opening the door to check the shower temperature. It was warm enough.
“Stephen, can you stand?”
Stephen looked up and didn’t respond. His arms rested flatly in his lap, tiny hands rubbing back and forth along his inner thighs.
“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”
Based on his scant medical knowledge, Greg believed that Stephen’s stocky frame was packed with weighted musculature and not just baby fat, because as he hefted the kid, he grunted at how dense Stephen felt in his arms. Stephen raised his arms and clung obediently, but he couldn’t grip fully; perhaps it was that slack that increased the weight.
At least he was small for a tween. Greg hoisted Stephen against his bare chest, practically cradling him as he opened the shower and stepped in. For a brief moment, there was peace as he turned the spray along Stephen’s back.
Then the movements began, and Greg had to suppress a yell as Stephen’s sharp little fingers dug into his back. All the force that had been lost to pain returned tenfold in the water, like a bear trap. Greg staggered and forced himself to lean against the glass as Stephen bayed deeply into his neck. If the pain of the dry air was bad, the pain of water seemed to be even worse—no, Greg realized, it wasn’t the pain of being soaked, but the pain of coming back. Stephen’s energy had returned in some way, clawing from the inside out. The bends, that’s what it was, the old diving sickness where divers had to ensure they ascended slowly so as not to destroy their blood vessels or something. Stephen had his two extremes as well. He hissed and hiccoughed and bent his legs as if he was climbing Greg’s body, calves cycling against the man’s stomach as Greg tried to keep Stephen in control.
“You’re okay! It’s just water! Stephen, you’re okay—”
Stephen clenched in Greg’s arms, and that was about all the man could handle. He closed his eyes from the spray and knelt down against the wall.
“C’mon—easy!” Greg grunted. “Easy, kid, I got you, I got you.”
“N-no!”
“I promise, Stephen, it’s—look at me. Look at me!”
It took all of Greg’s strength to push on Stephen’s shoulders, and his gut plummeted as Stephen let out a tiny shriek. His heart thumped with panic in his chest as he regained his composure and steadied the whimpering boy.
“I-I...”
Steven trailed off, and panted, and stared through wild eyes. Greg pushed on the opposite wall, getting into a more secure seated position, as he stared right back. His denim shorts were soaked through once again. The tangle of his hair stuck to the glass behind him, and he could feel the knots already from the inadequate job he had done brushing earlier. There was that familiar soreness of driving along for however many hours and for walking in his own stress and jumping at the concert, all the things his age hated for him to do. And there was Stephen. Belly to belly, the two looked at and held each other. Greg kept the child steady on his lap as he rubbed Stephen’s shoulders, easing the tension as best he could as the water and steam hissed around them.
“Stephen, you trust me.”
The boy closed his mouth. Greg saw him run his tongue around the crowns of his sharp teeth, then into the single gap.
“You promise, you swear,” he continued, “that you’ve never felt this happen to you before?”
Those words were coming out of Greg’s mouth before he really knew what they were, but it didn’t matter. He had to know. Stephen was still breathing heavily. He gulped and blew air out his nose, releasing Greg momentarily to wipe his face.
“At the diner. You got all spaced out, and I—”
Greg looked up and away to the massive mirror on the wall, where he had stared at himself and almost collapsed, and he felt something prick at the back of his mind but he couldn’t deal with that. Not right now. He shook his head. “And you were quiet in the car, then we went swimming and you perked right up, and then after, you just—I don’t know what broke, but something did, and you’re here now, and your body—Stephen, you have to tell me what’s going on, I know you know.”
Secrets were the last barrier between him and Stephen, secrets that couldn’t be told outright, secrets that Greg knew less and less about by the moment. He moved his hands down to the child’s back, applying gentle pressure to Stephen’s body, keeping him from pulling away. It wasn’t as if Stephen wanted to, but the more Greg spoke, the more Stephen looked uncertain.
“You trust me,” Greg said again.
“I...am...wanting to trust, Mr. Universe.”
“I’m keeping you safe, Stephen, I-I care about you. The world’s a scary place for a kid and I need to be...I need to be like a dad to you, buddy, that’s where we are right now.”
Stephen’s lips twitched down, and Greg knew, even through the droplets, that quiet tears were beginning to run down the boy’s face. There was nothing they could do, was there. Greg didn’t believe it. Nothing could make him believe it.
“I won’t ever be, not really,” Greg said, choking on his words. “I-I’m just a guy with a van, and I’ve been around a long time, Stephen, and I’ve seen a lot of kids grow up, but there’s nobody like you. I don’t know what’s going on. There’s so much I don’t understand, please, I don’t understand...”
Maybe Stephen was just confused now, or maybe he just didn’t have anything to say. Greg pulled him back into a hug and rocked back and forth on the floor of the shower. He clenched his teeth together and shut his eyes and forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths. Stephen was limp against him now, but with that little tension of uncertainty that Greg could feel deep in the child’s core. It was a lot to take in for anyone, much less a child.
He was so small. Connie wasn’t the biggest kid either, and Greg hadn’t picked her up like this since she was seven or eight, and there had come a point where they had both simply understood that she didn’t need to be picked up any more. Stephen was denser, but shorter, and this was the second time that Greg had helped the exhausted boy into a place he really, really shouldn’t have. Was it immoral, or simply unreasonable, or just...bad? Greg felt Stephen shifting against him, completely unprotected. Infantilizing Stephen was easy, or at least it made the process easier; it made him think that Stephen needed him, of course. Stephen needed a hospital. He needed someone with a house and a bed and a steady income to tend to his needs as he recovered from this mystery illness. He needed to shower by himself and then change into pajamas. Then, a quiet room, perhaps after a story and song. Greg opened his watery eyes and looked down Stephen’s bare back. Freckles traveled down the boy’s shoulders, across his spine, trailing towards his waist until they stopped above the horizon of the hips. Stephen was full of constellations.
“Who are you, Stephen?” he whispered.
There, tension—a ripple down the spine, a hunch that just made Greg tighten his grip. The man felt his face twitch involuntarily.
“Why don’t you have a last name? Why are your teeth so sharp?” Greg said. “Why do your eyes look like that, Stephen, what’s your truth?”
“I cannot, Mr. Universe, p-please—”
“Why not, Stephen.”
“No...no, no, you are...I want, I-I... I want to be...”
He was crying again. Greg closed his eyes and shook his head. The water temperature must have helped him out enough; it was getting to the point where Greg was feeling chilly, even though the temperature hadn't changed at all.
“I am wanting to go,” the boy whispered.
“Go where, Stephen? I’ll take you there. I promise.”
“The sea. I-I am needing... Home.”
“Yeah. Yeah, this isn’t home, is it.”
An island, perhaps, a coastal shack, maybe a cave—where did those terrible women live, the allmothers? There were more Stephen had mentioned in passing, like Jasper, the guy who hunted, and there were maybe others Greg didn’t remember. Either way, they lived somewhere along the beach that Greg couldn’t find. He hadn’t looked as hard as he could have. Why would he, when it increased the chances that Stephen would be taken away from him if he was caught? It was best to wait, to take when he could. Anything to get Stephen out of there.
“You need to rest for now, Stephen. I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do, okay?” Greg murmured. “I’m going to wash you up, then we’ll get nice warm clothes on and rest for a little while, and then bright and early, we’ll go to the beach. Okay?”
“I-I’m scared.”
“Are you scared of them?”
“They will not trust you.”
The smallness with which Stephen spoke was enough to make Greg’s heart pound. Of course they didn’t trust him. Here he was, cuddling their little prisoner in a hotel shower, after a paternal kidnapping instinct. For all intents and purposes, he should be in jail. Oddly enough, the thought brought a sick smile to his face. It was like one of those dramatic movies where the child was removed from a family of wretched brutes and given a new life once everyone could see that they were happier. The only difference here was the fact that it wasn’t a movie or some turn-of-the-century book. Greg was holding a warm and probably-sick preteen to his chest like a baby. He wouldn’t trust himself, either.
Priyanka was going to kill him. Connie wouldn’t begin to understand. He felt that familiar pang in his chest, but guilt wasn’t going to move them anywhere, was it. Once Stephen was better, they would see. Everyone would see. They’d be happy, and the rest of Stephen’s family wouldn’t have a thing to say.
“Forget about ‘em. You’ve been soaking for a bit. Can you stand up?”
Stephen paused, then whined and pressed himself even more against Greg like a needy cat. The man did his best to hold back a noise that was—well, it was a chuckle or a sob, and he couldn’t tell at this point. There was hardly a difference.
“Come on, Stephen. We’re not gonna go to bed all smelly.”
“Yes’r.”
Clearly, it pained Stephen to stand up, but Greg held him and eased the boy backwards. There was a degree of begrudging helplessness—and Greg was once again reminded of a cat. Sometimes he wondered where Stephen got his animal-like tendencies. Considering how polite he was around other people, it wasn’t something too deeply ingrained. Then Greg thought about Stephen’s sharp teeth, and he decided to stop thinking about that before his brain made bad connections.
Before shampooing up his hands, Greg turned the temperature of the water up just a touch, and he pulled up his waterlogged shorts. It didn’t matter whether or not Stephen cared. The man sighed, uncapped the little bottle from its alcove in the wall, and nodded sagely to the boy.
“Look, lil’ man. I’m...here because you’re woozy, but this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence, alright?” he said as he began to massage Steven’s scalp. “You’re way, way too old for this. Do you wash up with your folks?”
Stephen couldn’t nod with his hair being washed, but he made a noncommittal noise, and Greg knew what that meant. He already knew that they were lenient. What was the point of asking? He sighed.
“But you clean yourself.”
“Mh- rfs .”
“Well that’s what you’re going to have to do tonight, bub. That’s the privilege of growing up. Are your muscles feeling any better?”
Stephen hesitated, but opened his eyes. Greg stopped massaging for a second, and Stephen shook his head softly. Greg frowned.
“But when you’re in the water, it’s a little less painful?” he asked.
A nod. Greg nodded back and continued to soap up the scalp. Stephen let out a noise somewhere between a grunt, thanks, and a squeaky purr. He really did have nice hair, even if it was messy. Once this was all over, Greg could consider getting himself down to Vidalia’s and having her run the business on his mane. It did feel better when someone else was doing it.
“Okay, compromise. I’ll wash your back, just like with the sunscreen, but the rest you have to do yourself. Legs and—all.”
Greg turned Stephen around before the boy could argue. His head was a whirlpool of thoughts that ran around and around again, absolute misery and absolute paternity, smacking like a branch’s wet leaves against glass. In any other allowance, he would have loved this kind of moment, a tenderness between father and son. He wasn’t a father. Stephen wasn’t his son. He had to consider the outside perspective, and he knew that if anyone tried to take Stephen away, he would fight until his dying breath. Fumbling the bar of soap out of the paper packaging, Greg began to wash.
They had talked a lot. Greg wanted to teach Stephen on this trip. When they were in the diner, there were questions about food and family, about the places they could go and the realities they had to deal with. The car wash meetups shone light on what Stephen wanted out of the world, what things he wanted to learn. It was obvious that Stephen wanted to learn so much.
For now, Greg just passed the soap over once he was done, tilting Stephen’s head back to get the shampoo rinsed without it sliding into the boy’s eyes. As the boy took care of his end of the deal, Greg merely waited for more thoughts to pass, for something else to come.
What else could there be? In his heart of hearts, he was just a man. Something inside him screamed that he could have been, should have been, should be Stephen’s father. He trembled, thankful that Stephen was turned, because the urge to let those thoughts run rampant was almost overwhelming and—what could he do with them but let them consume him? Yes, he could run away, take the van and the boy and find a life inland.
But a good dad wouldn’t do that when their child was sick. A good dad would already have a home. Greg bristled. He could hear his own father’s voice already, slurs and all. He put both hands on Stephen’s shoulders and gripped gently, taking a deep, steadying breath.
“Rinse off, Stephen. Let’s go to bed.”
It was earlier than they had bedded down last night, certainly earlier than Greg had been used to over the past few weeks. Stephen needed to lie down if he was going to recover. The boy looked up at the showerhead as the last bits of soap dribbled off his skin and down the drain. Greg heaved himself to his feet, adjusting his shorts again. Denim was fine for rivers, serviceable for showers, but probably not great for the ocean. He turned the knob, and Stephen whined almost inaudibly.
It was steamy enough as-is. Was that enough to help with a fever? He had been running some kind of fever, Greg was sure of it. The temperature now must have been somewhat close to baseline. Stephen stared through his bangs as Greg pushed the door open.
As Greg retrieved the towel, he could see the exhaustion on Stephen’s face. He was crossing over from tired to sleepy, to some combination that was adorable but also pulled at Greg’s heart in a way that made him feel guilty. Almost guilty, anyway. Sometimes kids were just out of it and there was nothing he could do but send them to sleep. Greg stepped back into the shower and wrapped the soft cotton around Stephen’s shoulders, pulling him step by step into the light.
Reluctantly, Stephen followed. He didn’t say anything as Greg softly dried off his back and chest. As Greg lifted the towel to Stephen’s hair, the boy took it and wrapped it around himself tightly, closing his eyes.
“Oh! Heh. You’ll like the comforter once we get there, too. Dad’s mattress got nothin’ on a good hotel spread.”
Stephen blew a little air out his nose, swaying on his feet as he stared forwards at nothing. The slip of the tongue wasn’t even acknowledged. Greg sighed, taking a towel of his own. Hotel carpets could get a little damp without anyone caring. He took Stephen back to the bed.
“Once you dry everything else, get something to wear and we’ll get rested as much as we can,” Greg said. “We’ll go to the ocean tomorrow, I promise.”
Outside of the water, Stephen was more wobbly, and he merely nodded as Greg got their backpack. Digging through, he tossed a shirt and underwear on the bed, one black and one white, easy enough for sleepwear. Stephen would enjoy pajamas. A long robe would be nice for him, perhaps.
Greg didn’t have time to think about that. He was starting to lose his focus as well. He traipsed back to the bathroom and wrapped the towel around his waist; there was no way he was closing a door between himself and Stephen right now. The feeling of wet jeans made Greg cringe as he pulled his bottoms off and wrung them into the sink. He slung his clothes over the rim of the door.
As he came back, Stephen was torso-down on the bed, leaning on the comforter with his towel slung across his back as he fumbled with his clothing. Greg took the opportunity to dry himself with a grimly set face. He fished out his own set of clean clothes, getting everything important covered before he tossed the towel aside and pulled on an a-shirt.
Considering where they had just been, Stephen wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t have cared if they had gone straight from soaking to bed without drying off. Greg resisted the urge to shake his head as he made his way over to the half-dressed Stephen.
“Get your shirt on, buddy. Not warm enough yet to be sleeping in the buff.”
Chances were that the order registered but the idiom didn’t. Even if it did, Stephen didn’t move. Greg paused, then lifted the boy onto the bed and turned him around. Stephen stayed still as Greg pulled the shirt over. He could tell that Stephen wasn’t genuinely as sullen as he might have seemed. There was a flexing of the brows, a twitching of the lips; Greg could feel the pain that was coming back to him now that they were out of the shower. More mysteries, more things that Stephen couldn’t say—or wouldn’t.
Stephen breathed something inaudible
“What?”
“I...am sorry.” The boy sniffled. “I am wanting to dress, t-to move, to—I am wanting but it... I burn, Mr. Universe.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You’re in a rough patch. I’m here to make it better however I can.”
Stephen didn’t say anything more. He looked down, silver eyes dull and swollen. Greg left him to plug in his phone and turn off the lights around the room, and he could hear Stephen falling onto the mattress as it went dark. The man turned on the A/C to its lowest reasonable setting and closed the curtains.
He was almost as exhausted as Stephen was, probably. It must have been terrible, to be so tired with so much pain. They were going to have a fitful night, Greg thought as he pulled the comforter off his side. As he climbed in, he reached over and pulled Stephen down with him. Here under the covers they could finally stop moving for once.
In Greg’s opinion, Stephen was a flexible sleeper, and he had witnessed the boy’s unconsciousness twisting and turning the other night in the van. Easy for both of them. Greg was a side sleeper most nights, but he laid on his back and rolled Stephen towards him, until he was snugly puzzle-pieced up around Greg’s chest, one arm and one leg resting on the man.
“Okay. Time to get all that out of your system. Comfortable?”
“Yes’r.”
In the quiet, Greg swore he could hear the ocean. The distant waves rolled in time to Stephen’s little breaths as he clearly got less and less comfortable. Even then, he clung to Greg. The man stared up at the dark ceiling.
The memory came back like an icicle being pushed into the back of his skull, steady and insidious. Greg’s chest seized for a moment, and he spoke without thinking.
“The last time I hugged my dad, I must’ve been nine, maybe ten,” Greg whispered, half to Stephen and half to himself. “He had signed me up for a baseball summer league, and we ended up winning that series. Wham, right out there, Marco swung for the fences. All the parents came out, and I ran up without thinking, and just...”
He swallowed. His voice was steady. A single tear traveled down his cheek and vanished into his hair.
“And everyone else went out together for a big dinner, a big barbecue, and we just went home. Meatloaf night. I tried to talk about the game, but he just wanted to know how I had done, like I was supposed to be keeping track. I had made a couple friends on that team, you know? And none of them talked to me after that night. I wanted him to be proud. I thought I’d be happy, because I thought he’d be happy. But all I was, was ‘good enough’ that night. Never touched him again.”
Stephen’s leg twitched against him, some kind of spasm. Greg briefly squeezed the boy and tried not to think. His eyes hurt. He wasn’t tired, but his eyes hurt so badly, maybe from the crying he hadn’t released yet, maybe from the crying he had already done.
Last night was the first good sleep he had taken since meeting Stephen for the first time on that beach. They had just collapsed together, utterly exhausted. It hadn’t been even a day. Or was it more? No, they had only been on the road for... What time was it? Greg forced himself to breathe. None of this. Not now. The longer they were away from water, the worse Stephen was going to get.
What was he? Greg couldn’t keep his brain from the truth any longer. There was too much mystery, too many doors that closed as soon as he turned to face them. Stephen was more than he said he was. He wasn’t anything Greg knew about. If anyone knew, they weren’t telling Greg, and he needed to know. Stephen couldn’t be safe otherwise. Stephen needed him.
Greg’s teeth clenched as his eyes squeezed out all their tears, silent sobs pushing through his stomach. He rested a hand behind Stephen’s head and pulled him in.
“You’re my boy,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I love you, Stephen, I’m s-so sorry.”
As the minutes ticked by, there was nothing more to say. Greg caught himself speaking, but it was so quiet that he might as well have been mouthing it—he couldn’t wake Stephen, after all. The boy sniffled against his clean shirt and shook in intervals as unimaginable pain crept through his tiny body like thistles in his veins, pain that Greg only felt in his heart as he repeated, until unconsciousness, I love you and I’m sorry , over and over, and once, I promise , though he did not know for what.
Doug had promised he would make something nice for Connie tonight since Priyanka had a sudden call-in. He balanced the plate of potato patties in one hand as he knocked gently on his daughter’s door.
“Room service?”
There was silence for a moment. Connie didn’t use headphones when studying, and there was no music playing, so this must’ve just been silence. Doug frowned. Connie was usually more prompt about this. He raised his hand to knock again when he heard a tiny, mumbled response that was as close to an invitation as he was going to get right now.
When he opened the door, he could practically hear the sad violin music as he saw Connie sitting in her nook like a widow. Her back was straight, her star-fairy-lights glowed around her, and she wasn’t looking at the book next to her. If her eyes were wells, Doug thought, he could’ve tossed a coin down there and never heard a splash. When she finally looked up, she didn’t bother to hide the misery. Doug forced a smile as he pulled over her desk chair and offered up the little plate. He had arranged the aloo in a circle, with a glass sauce dish right in the middle. Not bad for a quick dad appetizer.
“Made something from one of those cookbooks your grandma got us,” Doug said. “The mint sauce was jarred, but everything else is bona-fide.”
“Thanks, dad.”
She took the plate into her lap slowly. Doug glanced at the desk full of Connie’s schoolwork. Everything was organized how they had rehearsed, and he was familiar enough with the color-coded subject system, although that had mostly been Connie’s idea. She had gone through a sticker phase at the beginning of the school year—the second beginning, anyway. Doug nodded.
“So, how’s the studying?”
“As good as it can be.”
That was oddly sharp. He must have looked at her funny, because when Connie glanced up, she turned her gaze away, fingers tightening on the plate.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“It’s not too late to get a tutor or some extra help. First thing on Monday, I’ll call up the school and we’ll get you settled up with—”
“Dad, I’ve got ninety-five in my worst class. I’m fine.”
Doug said, “Well what’s the issue then?”
Connie stared down at the golden patties. Despite it all, Doug could hear her stomach grumbling a little. She reached down hesitantly and dipped one into the sauce, before a first bite seemed to release a smidgen of tension from her body. Score one for food. The girl swallowed.
“Finals are really, actually something this year, and—they’ve always been, dad, it’s always been bad, I’ve just taken it as a challenge, but it’s just not fair.”
“Um, I don’t know how to break this to you, Connie, but fair or not, finals are part of school. You’re going to be dealing with them—” Doug cleared his throat. “—and your mother and I are here to support you all the way.”
“Well, you didn’t have to move every school year,” Connie said. “And you didn’t have to deal with the American school system in the twenty-first century.”
“Okay, ye—”
“With an endless rotating system of standardization that doesn’t account for the various agreed-upon district differences which may or may not be the same if you travel just an hour out of that district.”
“Connie—”
“On top of variations in grading standards, grading systems, disciplinary measures, curriculum quality and expectations, the culture of your peers, and even time zones!”
“Connie.”
“And you had friends! ”
That one was true. Actually, Sayed had just sent a digital wedding thank-you, and Ross had emailed him about an address for holiday cards. The fact that Connie was stuck in this dilemma shamed him into silence for a moment. Well, no, he shouldn’t be feeling shame, but he wasn’t sure what else to call it. Guilt, possibly. Connie was a resourceful girl who could have collected emails like nobody’s business, but that wasn’t the issue. She was sweet. And she was exhausted. She was unique, and sometimes it made Doug sad knowing there was nobody as wonderful as her in the world; she knew her own wonder, too, deep inside.
The explosion hadn’t been angry so much as it had been from a place of exhaustion. Connie looked exhausted as she finished off another third of her patty, chewing slowly and miserably. When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the edge of her thumb, then reached past her father and put the plate on the desk.
“Sorry, dad,” she murmured.
“Oh, Connie, I...I understand, I’m sorry too.”
Doug made sure there was a bookmark in her book before he folded it up and put it aside. The nook was a little cramped, but he squeezed in next to her and put a hand around her shoulder.
“I know that moving is hard. You’ve done so much good work this year,” he said.
“It’s not...just that.”
Doug pulled Connie in with a little grimace. Yeah, he knew.
“Worrying about Stephen isn’t your job right now,” he said. “He’s... Well, I’m really sure he’ll be fine.”
“We don’t know. We have no idea.”
“How do you usually contact him when his folks don’t have electronics? I-I assume, I mean—”
“One of them has a phone,” she murmured. “Pretty much just got it so I could call them about Stephen.”
“Right. Okay. Connie, um...”
But he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Connie really was going through the thick of it. Priyanka had some kind of connection with her that Doug didn’t have, and while he couldn’t deny the envy of mother-daughter psychic alignment, whatever that was, he also couldn’t deny that their communication was useful for when he didn’t have the means to get through. Priyanka knew what to say and how to say it whenever Doug didn’t.
He had a lot of things to say about this Stephen kid. Priyanka was a little wobbly with the details, which was unusual for her. He was usually the tenuous one. Maybe Stephen really was just that enigmatic. Doug pictured some kind of sixteenth-century English ragamuffin character, except with squirrely cheeks and a sunshine demeanor. Well, he would see, apparently, if Stephen deigned to show his face again. He cringed internally; if it turned out that Stephen had moved away himself, Connie would be spending the summer in misery that he couldn’t begin to comprehend. It wasn’t just that she was finally making her only friend—everything had changed, small things, raising and quashing and amplifying his daughter’s emotions and mannerisms, and Doug truly was lost.
Maybe that was just part of puberty. Oh, they were ready for the really bad parts, weren’t they? At the very least, he knew that Priyanka had the slideshow all prepared and there was an opaque bag in the back of the bathroom closet all set to go. But that was for later. For now, Doug let the two of them sit there, just quiet for now.
“He’s homeschooled, right?”
“Mm-hm.”
“So that means, during the summer, you two will probably have a lot of time together? If he’s following the state’s education markers, then the summer should be a breeze.”
Connie leaned a fraction more against her father. Progress . Doug smiled.
“I’ll chat with your mom more about a sleepover. There’s stable work out here, so we’re not going out of Beach City for a long time, I promise,” he said. “Long enough for at least one full season together.”
The girl hesitated, then let out a long breath as her shoulders slumped. Doug rocked left and right, jostling the girl just enough for him to show her that he knew she was too tired to argue.
“I do want you to meet him,” Connie mumbled. “Just be nice. He’s a little weird.”
“What kinda weird?”
“He’ll ask a lot of questions, um, he’ll be polite, but also direct, and he can be a smarty-pants when he’s playing.”
“That just sounds like a normal tween to me, Connie,” Doug chuckled.
“Promise you’ll be nice, though?”
Was he usually that rude? No, Doug knew that wasn’t it. He sighed and rubbed Connie’s shoulder, getting all that anxiety out as best he could. She was just worried about losing a friend, the usual anxieties. Doug had met other parents before, and he had talked to other kids on occasion at school events. There was nothing truly to be worried about. Was he socially inept? Nah, he could hold his own, even if Connie did call him dorky sometimes. For now, she would only be calling him ‘dad.’ The man smirked. She was growing up, little by little, but she was still his Connie for now.
“I promise,” he said. “Now get those potaters before they get cold. It’s pretty late to be studying and you need a warm belly for bed.”
What would Stephen be like, really? Doug had read up before on how schools dealt with students from difficult backgrounds, and it wasn’t always positive. There was the chance for trauma, with the missing parental figures and all, and he recalled what Priyanka had said about there being some kind of matriarchy. Royal bodies, perhaps, one boy in a sea of not-boys. He didn’t quite understand it, but it wasn’t his job. Secretly, he grinned. Maybe he would be a secondary dad-like figure, with Greg Universe taking the top spot. Greg would’ve been a good dad to someone, maybe if he converted that back space of the wash into an apartment.
Doug took the plate and brought it between them, golden rings warming his leg and Connie’s alike. For all it was worth, he secretly bet that he was a better cook than Greg, even if Greg could work a grill. Stephen could judge that later. Doug knew that he’d always be Connie’s favorite, though, and that mattered more than anything.