I Loved You at Your Darkest

For Thomas--It's not much, but I've given you an owl. Rest in peace, old friend. --KV

Black Hallows, Colorado; 1990

It was a partly cloudy night. Moonlight shone into Patrick Jepson's bedroom from tightly secured windows that withheld the mid-January winter air. Toys from a previous life filled the twelve-year-old's room, toys he had played with before everything had changed, before events that had drastically altered his home life had forced him into a stale state of being. The toys were reminders of a better time. Train sets, Hungry-Hungry Hippos, Legos and remote-control cars didn't matter much anymore.

The days that once brought the excitement one feels from setting up a board game, unwrapping a brand-new action figure or loading up Super Mario Land on his Nintendo Game Boy were pretty much gone. But Thomas, the white cotton-filled owl that went everywhere with the boy, was different. He was the toy Patrick loved more than he loved himself.

However, Thomas wasn't your average run-of-the-mill stuffed animal. His manufacturer, Shoreside Toys Inc., designed his elegant features to mimic that of a real owl. He stood approximately twenty-two inches tall with a wingspan of forty-two inches, tip to tip. His smooth polyester feathers enveloped him like a silk sheet, covering even his feet, which were anisodactyl, meaning three toes forward and one back. His talons were a deep-black plastic, not too sharp but sturdy.

"Do you believe in angels?" Patrick asked, as he stared up at the ceiling.

"I don't know," Thomas said in a tired, strained voice, like that of a man who had lived a lifetime. He sat perched at the edge of the mattress and ruffled his synthetic feathers. "If they exist, wouldn't that mean the devil exists too? I don't want to believe in Satan."

Patrick shifted to his side and examined the bird. "What kind of owl are you?"

Thomas lifted his left foot to his beak and nibbled on a small displaced bit of plastic that had strayed from his talon. After yanking the piece free, he stood once again on both feet.

"You've never asked me that before." He cocked his head to one side. "Do you know any types of owls?"

Patrick thought for a couple seconds. "Only the barn owl. I don't know what they look like though. I remember Mrs. Phillips, my old teacher, read us a story about that particular breed," Patrick said.

Thomas shook his head and scoffed. "They're eerie creatures; their faces, well, one name comes to mind... Mothman."

"Mothman?" Patrick giggled. "Who's that? Is he attracted to porch lights?"

"No," Thomas said, his quick response drawing in the child's gaze. "He was attracted to death, Patrick."

The boy's smile faded.

"I'm a snowy owl. I blend with the winter accumulation and am known for my speed. I'm a twilight predator, a raptor,... a bird of prey."

"Your eyes are so blue. They remind me of the diamond my mother used to wear around her neck," the boy remarked.

"Do you miss her?"

"Every day."

"I wish I could have known her before..." The owl's voice trailed off for a moment. "Does your father miss her too?"

"He doesn't talk about her. Neither of us do. I know he's sad though. I can see it in his eyes. Before my mom died, he worked at a testing facility up in the mountains, preparing astronauts for long-term isolation. He was on his way to becoming one of those astronauts."

"What stopped him?"

Patrick looked into Thomas's blue eyes. "The grief."

A burst of broken glass, deafening bangs and thuds called out from a disturbing commotion downstairs, muted through Patrick's closed door. Patrick sat up, and Thomas whipped his head 180 degrees to face the door. The violent struggle accompanied panicked cries, as if the screams were forcing their way through a chloroformed rag or the beefy palm of someone much bigger.

"That's my dad," Patrick whispered through heavy breaths.

"Someone's in the house. Someone's hurting him," Thomas said. "Get under the covers, Patrick."

As the thrashing, clanging and shrieking sounds worked their way from one end of the house to the other, Thomas spread his long wings, revealing the beautiful spatter pattern of hundreds of speckled black flecks that trailed across them. He dove from the bed, jumping with all his might until his wings picked up the room's warm air and balanced in a steady, swift flight.

The predator sailed past the dusty bookshelves, the beanbag chair and the sky-blue kite that dangled from the ceiling on a string, whipping it around violently in the sudden gust. Thomas flew to the door and hovered near its handle, flapping his wings with such force that the tacked-up posters and track ribbons on the surrounding walls waved and shook in the tremendous wind.

The bird's plastic beak bit and jabbed at the lock until it clicked into place, securing the boy in his room. Thomas returned to find Patrick buried in blankets, the boy's eyes peering out from a gap in the wool covers. The owl took one last look at the door, then dipped his head under the covers and joined his friend.

Patrick clicked on a plastic flashlight, and the two huddled together in the heat from the boy's trapped breath.

"It'll be over soon. We just have to wait it out," Thomas said.

A loud drawn-out holler that sent an icy chill over Patrick's body interrupted the chaos downstairs, but only for a moment. A series of scrapes and thumps followed.

"What if we're next?" Patrick asked, as tears streamed down his face.

"If they come in here, I'll stop them. I won't let them harm you," Thomas said.

As the violent sounds died out, Thomas rubbed and nudged his head against Patrick's shaking hands. "It's over. They'll either leave or... they'll find us," Thomas said.

The boy removed the blankets and clicked off the flashlight but remained in the bed. Thomas crawled onto Patrick's chest.

"What about the window? Can we get on the roof?" Patrick asked.

Thomas hopped to the foot of the bed and stepped onto the windowsill. He cocked his neck at the window. "It's too icy. You'll fall."

"I wish I could fly."

Thomas reconvened with the boy and snuggled into his arms.

"I won't leave you. I'll peck out their eyes before I let them get to you."

* * *

Patrick lay in bed, staring out the window, watching the sky as dark gray clouds moved in front of a giant moon. Snow had been coming down for the last ten minutes, and it had been about twelve minutes since the commotion downstairs had stopped. Patrick and Thomas hadn't said much; they had used that time to listen for more danger, but the quiet in the house calmed their nerves, and each passing second reassured them that they were now alone. Patrick closed his eyes, the exhaustion of the fading shock nearly had him drifting to sleep.

"Is my dad dead?" Patrick asked his feathered friend, who stood on the wooden nightstand next to the bed.

"I will never lie to you, Patrick. I'm not sure of the fate of your father. Why don't I go check?"

The boy sat up and placed his feet on the hardwood floor, then slid them into his slippers neatly placed for easy access. "I'm coming with you."

"I'm not sure that's best. If the attackers are still down there--"

"What if my dad's hurt really bad and is in need of an ambulance? What if he only has minutes to live? You can't use the phone. You're a bird. We're already wasting time. I'm coming with you." Patrick clicked on the flashlight and made his way across the room.

The boy pressed his ear against his bedroom door. He heard nothing, not even the downstairs TV or the annoying electrical hum from the living room space heater. His fingers twisted the lock, and he slowly pulled open the door. When a rush of cool air flowed over him from behind and jostled his shaggy hair, chilling his shoulders and rushing his heartbeat, Patrick looked up in time to see Thomas's glorious wingspan silently sailing overhead.

Thomas tucked in his wings to avoid the doorjamb, a well-timed maneuver that was a bit too close for comfort and, in turn, made Patrick gasp as he watched with wide eyes. The owl disappeared down the long hall lit with a multicolored shifting night-light.

Patrick clicked off the flashlight, not wanting to alert anyone to his presence, and then crept down the hall, hugging the right side while simultaneously avoiding the known creaky spots in the hardwood. He reached the staircase and peered down, spotting all the broken glass and the sharp ceramic shards spilled out over the floor. Patrick scampered down the stairs and stopped at the bottom; his weight crunched the debris, digging the glass slivers into the laminate floor and up into his slippers' outsoles.

Thomas sat perched on the only upright kitchen chair, examining the mess. His wide bright-blue eyes held a stern gaze that went from the greasy hash browns--spilling from the electric skillet now upside down in the corner by the pantry--to the apples, oranges and bananas crushed on the floor next to the center island. The bird eyed the purified water dispenser; its cracked base lay on its side in a puddle of water, as its tank had separated in the chaos and had rolled its way to the staircase, leaving a trail of liquid behind.

Thomas hooted twice and then let out a succession of grating chirps. He looked back at the boy and shook his head. "I don't know, Patrick." The bird hopped onto the center island and studied the open back door that swayed back and forth in the breeze, while the worsening weather spit snowflakes onto the kitchen's linoleum. "Your father's gone."

When a gust of wind pushed the door into the wall, the cracked glass above the handle shattered and spilled to the floor, the pieces resting in a spatter of blood that ran across the linoleum and out into the snow.

Patrick walked to the fridge, sidestepping the toppled trash can and a half-empty liter bottle of cola. He focused on a magnetic notepad that towered above him, stuck to the upper freezer door.

"Pay Larson... ASAP!" Patrick read aloud. "Ugh, Larson."

"You know him? I've never encountered him." Thomas raised his left foot to his beak and pulled a small shard of glass from the plastic toe, then spit it onto the table. "That will not buff out," he said, examining the cut.

"The first time I met Larson was at the bowling alley. He drank a pitcher of beer in a matter of minutes. He called me Patty the whole night."

Patrick knelt down low, examining the dozen or so tiny blood droplets that had splattered onto the floor. He ran his index finger through one of the smudges, studied it for a moment and then wiped his finger clean with a nearby clump of wadded-up paper towels. "Could my dad have snapped?"

"Snapped?" Thomas asked.

"Yeah. You know? Gone crazy. Do you think he did all this himself?"

"Has he ever been violent before?"

"Not toward me. He has a temper though. He yells at the TV whenever the news is on." Patrick stood on his tiptoes until his fingers reached another piece of paper, stuck magnetically to the fridge.

It read *Patrick, open in case of emergency!*

"I forgot about this," the boy said, now holding the note. "My dad put this up a few months ago." He examined the handwriting and then showed it to Thomas.

Thomas read the words and then looked around at the disaster. "I think this applies."

Patrick pried open the seal, unfolded the note and read aloud, "P, call 9-1-1 for police, medic or fire. No matter the circumstance, be sure to contact Dr. Thrasher. He can always help." The boy skimmed over the rest.

Dr. Thrasher's phone number: 303-555-0973

Dr. Thrasher's address: 317 Old Mill Road

Our phone number: 303-555-9630

Our address: 001 Apollo Drive

Patrick glanced across the kitchen near the wall clock to find stripped wires dangling from a dime-size hole. He scanned the room until he located the telephone; it lay in a heap of garbage near the kitchen's center island. The base's circular dial had broken off, and the receiver was cracked and smashed. Patrick walked to the damaged telephone and picked it up. "The phone's done for."

"Yes. No dialing out on that." The bird hopped to the other side of the island, navigating through a mess of spilled salt, pieces of broken dishes and sopped dishrags. "Look here," Thomas said, craning his neck to examine a sheet of paper. "Most of the text is smeared."

Patrick picked up an overturned chair and stood it properly, then crawled onto it to get a better look at what Thomas had found. "This is from Dr. Thrasher's office," he said. "This paper is soaked in"--the boy leaned in close and smelled the liquid--"bleach."

"Odd." Thomas looked around. "Was your father cleaning?"

"The only words I can make out are... It seems Patrick... diagnose... lifetime." Patrick leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. "Well, that's useless," he muttered.

"Maybe it was bad news? Maybe that's what sent your dad into a rage?" Thomas lifted his head and stretched his feet to elevate his height. "Patrick?"

"Yes?"

"Do you smell something burning?" Thomas asked, glancing around the place.

Patrick opened his eyes and nodded. "Smells like melted plastic. I know because I used to melt my G. I. Joes in the backyard."

"We'd better find it," Thomas said. The bird hopped up onto the chair's back and then opened his wings and glided over to the tipped trash can. He landed on its smooth front, then hopped onto the floor and searched the adjacent room from which they'd come.

"Watch the glass," Patrick said, following close behind his friend.

The two neared the staircase, getting a look at the nearby living room, which seemed to be less of a disaster than the rest of the place. Upon entering the room, they found the source of the glass.

"It's my dad's glass trophy case. The shards are everywhere," Patrick said.

Thomas nodded. "I can't walk on that."

"Come on." Patrick lifted his arm, and the bird flew up and perched on the boy's forearm. Patrick struggled with the owl's weight. "You're heavier than I remember."

"Maybe you should start working out," Thomas suggested. "It's not like I'm gaining weight."

"All right, I'm sorry. Jeez."

The living room held two matching leather love seats that surrounded an intact glass coffee table. A dated but well-kept console television looked out over the space. Toward the back wall, three sets of cracked wooden shutters dangled from the fogged-up windows.

A flicker of a light caught the bird's attention. "Patrick, the lamp. It's burning the carpet!"

Patrick turned to see the fallen lamp in the far corner of the room, its illuminated bulb resting in a gooey mess of burned carpet, all of it surrounded by a displaced white burlap shade. The bulb flickered, then burst, as flames quickly blackened the surrounding carpet and ate up the shade.

Thomas leaped from Patrick's arm, the force sending the boy spinning, then circled the room with his gaze on the rising inferno. He swooped down to the flames and flapped his long wings in full motion. The majestic feathered forelimbs created a whirlwind so fierce that the fire died down to half its size.

Thomas kept pumping his wings while Patrick crossed the room and unplugged the broken lamp from the outlet. The owl lowered his altitude as the fire died out, inching closer and closer to the lamp until the carpet merely smoldered and smoked.

Patrick tried to clear the thick smoke in the air with a wave of his hand. It forced them to back out of the room, and the two quickly retreated to the fresh air of the kitchen.

"Just think," Thomas said, as he landed on the kitchen table. "If we hadn't decided to leave your bedroom to come check out the situation, that fire would probably be raging through the entire living room right now, maybe even making its way up the stairs... to us."

"We're doing the right thing, Thomas." Patrick, cautious of the broken glass, kicked off his slippers and grabbed his snow boots and winter coat from behind the rear kitchen door, then put them on. "We should follow this blood." As he turned to leave, Patrick focused on a small torn piece of thick polyester, nearly covered by the snow. He reached down and pulled it from the drift that covered the linoleum, then read the words embroidered around its edges.

"The sky used..." Patrick lowered the curious clue from his face and looked at Thomas. "It's torn. I don't see the other half anywhere."

"What do you think it means?" Thomas asked.

"I don't know." Patrick folded the torn piece and put it in the pocket of his pajama bottoms.

"Let's get moving." Thomas jumped from the table and flew over Patrick's head, out the door and into the storm.

Outside, the snow came down like a never-ending sheet that twisted and whipped in the chilling wind. Heaps of the drifted white precipitation surrounded the rear porch stoop, and Patrick's boots sank into it nearly three-quarters of the way to their tops. Despite the dull yellow of the aged porch light's cover, its glow illuminated most of the small backyard. A child's play set--complete with a few swings, monkey bars and a slide--teetered a bit in the heavy gusts; the boy's father had never gotten around to securing its posts with cement, not that it mattered. Patrick hardly noticed it these days.

At the opposite end of the yard, where the ratty chain-link fence met the unfinished and splintery privacy fence to the north, a heaping mound of snow rose above the rest, a result of the overfilled sand box beneath it. The fresh snow did its best to cover the iced-over sidewalk leading out to the yard's swinging gate, hanging by only one hinge. Due to the packed ice underneath and the continued snowfall atop it, no tracks were visible, but the long line of freshly spilled blood guided the boy away from the safety of his home.

The house was located on a secluded piece of land nestled behind the town's Government District and adjacent to its Industrial Zone. Patrick's father had chosen the place specifically due to the privacy; after all, a house surrounded by businesses has no neighbors after 5:00 p. m.

Thomas circled the yard, high above, belting out a few healthy screeches while getting a good look around. He landed on the fence near the street, and, when the wind whipped the gate around and slammed it into the fence's wooden slabs, he outstretched his wings to catch his balance.

A black two-door 1987 Buick Regal with chrome bumpers, a mesh grill and heavily treaded tires sat alone on the street; the heavy snowfall had covered its hood, roof and trunk, and even sloped halfway up the windshield.

"Your father's Buick is here," Thomas said. "Parked at the curb, like usual. However, I can see an entirely different set of tire tracks in front of it. They're new."

Patrick approached the gate and held out his arm. Thomas jumped from the fence to the boy's forearm. "Maybe he was hurt and couldn't drive? Maybe he called a cab?" Patrick said.

"Before or after he smashed the phone to bits?"

Patrick shrugged, a bit frustrated. "The blood stops here," he said, as he crossed through the gate. A blue strip of paper resting in a puddle of slush caught his eye. He knelt and retrieved it. "Dr. Randall Thrasher, Psychiatrist," he read. "On 317 Old Mill Road."

"The note on the fridge did say he could help. We could find a pay phone," the bird suggested.

"I don't have any quarters. Also, who knows where a pay phone is located?" Patrick put the card in his coat pocket and tried the coupe's passenger side handle. It lifted easily, and the boy pulled open the door. "C'mon."

Thomas's talons dug into the seat's red velvety material, and he scampered to its back, hugging it close as Patrick climbed over the seat and sat behind the steering wheel. The boy scooted far forward, his chest mere inches from the wheel, where his feet could touch the pedals. The interior smelled of forest pine and plastic--most likely from the new floor mats his father had put in--and cigarettes. His father's smoking was the one thing Patrick absolutely hated about the man, but tonight he forgave the smell.

"No," Thomas said. "You're too young to drive."

"Says who?"

"The state of Colorado."

The boy gripped the wheel with both hands. "Oh, well. We're not far from 317 Old Mill Road, right?"

"You don't have the car key," the bird informed him proudly.

Patrick reached over and opened the glove box--finding the car's manual, a small package of Kleenex and some Tic Tacs--then closed it. He pulled out the ashtray under the radio. There were four spent, smelly cigarettes. He reached up to the driver's side visor and flipped it down; the metallic jingle of a set of keys quickly dropping into the child's lap had Thomas rolling his eyes.

"Great," the bird remarked with a begrudging sigh.

Patrick sorted through the keys, using the light from the streetlamp to guide his decision. He found the key with a square head and the famous Buick trishield logo etched into the metal. The determined child slid the key into the ignition and cranked it. The engine roared to life, vibrating the glove box and putting a pep in the boy's chest.

Patrick rose up in his seat and peered into the rearview mirror to see the vehicle's exhaust rising up into the night. He sank back into the cushion and readjusted the mirror until the thick fog was now in his natural line of sight. "The doctor will know what to do." The boy flipped on the wipers, and they worked back and forth to clear the fresh powder from the glass.

* * *

The drive through the city was rough. Patrick's seat belt tugged at his body, pulling him back, making it hard for him to reach the pedals. Although Thomas's "backseat" driving was helpful at times, it put added pressure on Patrick that made his nerves jump with every shrill demand.

"Stop sign. Up ahead here. Start braking!" Thomas yelled, stretching his neck to get a good view of the upcoming intersection. "The left pedal!"

The Buick sailed through the intersection, sending chunks of slush whipping from the tires to devastate the fresh surrounding powder.

"If you're not going to stop at the stop signs, could you at least let me know? They're there for a reason," the bird insisted. "If another vehicle were coming through also..."

"Sharp turn!" Patrick shouted, as the car jerked left to avoid a group of toppled garbage bins.

Thomas smacked against the passenger window, and an additional left turn onto Wilshire Street kept his face firmly planted against the glass.

"Is that what you wanted?" the boy asked.

"Yes. Thank you. Maybe a little sooner next time," Thomas said, his soft gravelly voice buried in the window. The vehicle straightened out, and Thomas plopped back onto the seat. He shook his head in a daze. "Now, a stop sign is coming up. Stop at it this time."

Patrick's foot tapped the brake, and the car sputtered for a few seconds.

"Ease on the pedal. Not too much. You're not easing!"

Patrick panicked and locked the brakes. The front tires met the arching grooves of a previous passerby's tracks, temporarily locking the front tires into a wide left-hand turn, only breaking free once the vehicle's back end had whipped around, resulting in a slow 360-degree spin all the way through the intersection.

Once through the crossroads, the passenger-side tires hugged the long bank of snow that lined the street, scraped away hours earlier from a plow. The drift straightened out the Buick, and Patrick hit the gas pedal, sending the bird to the back of his seat.

A ways down the road, surrounded by a neighborhood full of middle-class houses--where evergreens, leafless cottonwoods and undisturbed snowy sidewalks were plentiful--Patrick tapped the brakes five or six times, this time leaving the gas pedal out of the mix, which resulted in a smooth stop at the snow-caked stop sign of a four-way intersection.

Thomas flapped his wings and rejoiced. "You did it! You're learning. It just takes practice..."

Thomas kept talking, but the headlights approaching the intersection to the right had Patrick laser-focused. When the looming vehicle came into view, the boy noticed the silhouette of the two giant bulbs on its rooftop.

"... and that's why if you pace yourself you can learn to..."

"Thomas."

Thomas snapped out of his rant and looked over to Patrick. "Yes?"

"That's a cop," Patrick said, staring through Thomas's passenger window as the cruiser came to a stop to their right.

Thomas turned his gaze to the black-and-white squad car sitting silent at the four-way. "Oh, dear. If he pulls us over, we're done for. I can always go limp. No one's arresting a toy. But you,... you'll be taken."

"I can't get in trouble right now; they'll ship me off to a foster family or put me in jail for stealing a car."

"At least," Thomas added.

Patrick glanced over at Thomas.

"Your dad is missing. They might blame you. We don't know."

"I have to find my dad. He needs me," Patrick said.

Thomas shook his head and straightened up. "Act natural."

Patrick flipped on the windshield wipers, and the long blades squeaked across dry glass. He then adjusted the wiper speed to full blast.

"What on Earth are you doing?" Thomas asked.

"Acting natural."

"Shut them off. It's not even snowing anymore. We look ridiculous."

Patrick flipped off the wipers. The officer flashed his high beams twice.

"That means he's letting us go. For the love of all that's holy, ease on the pedal. Don't spin the tires," the bird instructed.

Patrick and Thomas moved through the intersection at a slow crawl, and, as the police car's headlights lit the interior of their car, they stared into those lights as if it were the bright white calling card of death himself, Patrick with an awkward frozen smile plastered across his face.

* * *

Patrick romped the Buick down an unplowed road. The engine shifted into fourth gear and jerked the car about as it did. The speedometer peaked at thirty-eight miles-per-hour, and the small child behind the wheel glanced over at Thomas, whose gaze swapped from the speedometer's needle to Patrick to the snow-covered road and back again.

"By now ice will be forming in the vehicle's wheel wells, and the grooves in the tire treads will be packed with snow," Thomas shared. "Be extra cautious."

Luckily, they were in a less populated area.

Most of the folks on the outskirts of town cherished their luxurious farmsteads, rolling hills and private saunas with indoor pools. A peaceful quiet loomed out here, where the herds of cattle outnumbered the people. No traffic, dogs barking or church bells; no hospital helicopters passing overhead, sirens or pedestrians. And, of course, in this moment, it lacked the one thing Patrick was most grateful for: no cops.

The large chunk of land at 317 Old Mill Road held a monstrous French Normandy mansion that Patrick had only seen one time before and only in passing. It had enough windows and balconies to entice Statler and Waldorf right out of the 1970s and had more columns than an old city hall building. A long line of electric sconces followed the structure's face, lit with a pale yellow that gave the place an eerie glow. This elegant gothic manor--dreary as it was--stood out.

Patrick pulled the car up the estate's twisting drive and stopped near a fountain, that, despite the cold, flowed freely, sending crystal-clear water from the mouth of a devilish gothic creature with illuminated red eyes.

The boy struggled to unbuckle his seat belt as the mechanism jammed up. With a few yanks he wiggled it free, then he zipped his coat to his chin, popped open the car door and stepped out into the cold. Patrick knelt down, extending his arm to the eager bird. Thomas climbed on, gripping the child's forearm a bit harder than usual due to the wind that pushed at their backs.

Patrick closed the car door with his free hand, and the two of them took in the overwhelming allure of the place. The mansion's land--with its sprawling snowed-over lawn, sturdy surrounding stone fence, elegant line of massive elm trees to its south and naked oak trees to its north--resembled the dreary ambience of an old creepy cemetery.

Only the graves of the dead were missing.

The shadows that bounced around the lawn from the swaying trees had the young one on edge and second-guessing his visit here. The estate's many yard lights seemed to flicker through the occasional wind-driven burst of snowflakes, keeping the darkness at bay as it brewed over the nearby empty fields.

"Must be heated," Thomas said, motioning his head toward the steaming fountain.

"I suppose."

"Where does this doctor see his patients? You've never mentioned this place before." Thomas scanned the area with wide unblinking eyes. "And this place is definitely worth mentioning."

"My dad sees him here at his home office. I see him every other Thursday at the Care Clinic in town."

Patrick, with Thomas in hand, trudged up ten concrete steps toward the next elevated section of lawn. He worked his free hand over the long black banister, using it more and more as they ascended, as Thomas's weight took a toll on his arm.

Patrick then scurried up onto the front porch--so big it could hold his home's entire downstairs within it. Thick rounded columns held up the sixteen-foot-tall ceiling, and wooden swings dangled from chains, each at opposite ends of the portico.

Hesitant, the two uninvited guests approached the majestic hand-carved oak doors. The sweeping lace carvings and delicate patterns crept across the wood, spiraling in a mix of interwoven clusters, meshing together to create a border that would make the English wood carver Grinling Gibbons himself take notice.

Keeping the cold from the manor were two stained mahogany doors, rounded at their tops with polished gold kickplates at their bases. Though, who would ever kick such a luxury, Patrick wasn't sure.

Thomas jumped to the arm of a nearby wicker chair. "The bat," he said with a head bob.

Patrick followed Thomas's gaze that went halfway up one of the doors. The rustic iron fruit bat with folded wings, hanging upside down from a small perch, was within the boy's reach. As he stood on tiptoes, Patrick lifted the eccentric door knocker and rapped three times on the hardwood.

* * *

After Patrick knocked a dozen or so times, Thomas pointed out a small doorbell near the woodwork. Its dark color, like the mahogany, blended well. After a lengthy discussion, with Thomas claiming that was most likely done intentionally to deter door-to-door salesmen from being heard, Patrick rang the bell and placed his ear to the door.

The chimes of rich notes jingled through, but no one answered, and the freezing temperatures were having an effect on the pair. Patrick's hands began to shake, while his teeth chattered away like a woodchuck bearing down on a piece of bark. He tried the door's knob. It turned easily, and the door popped open. The mansion's warm air wafted out and enveloped Patrick; before he could even resist, he had stepped into the grand foyer.

"Are you coming?" Patrick asked, leaning out the open entry.

"We could be shot for entering someone else's home," Thomas said, standing firm.

"Do you want to wait outside and freeze?" the boy asked.

Thomas glanced around, then hopped down from the chair. "I suppose breaking the law is becoming the theme of the evening," he said in his soft and wise tone.

The bird followed Patrick into the home. When the door closed behind them, the two visitors stood in awe. Patrick outstretched his cold fingers and then rubbed his hands together. He closed his eyes and let the heat sting his freezing skin; it burned comfortably from his toes to his hands to his face. The place smelled of polished wood, apple pie and freshly cooked meats.

Dark shadows nearly overtook the manor's interior, held back by only a number of strategically placed, dimly lit lamps that the boy considered nothing more than fancy tabletop night-lights. Patrick stepped further into the foyer and flipped a switch on the wall to his left, expecting the lights to come on. Instead, bright yellow flames ignited in a stone fireplace on the foyer's far side, its glow casting back toward the front door, revealing a black grand piano sitting in front of a large picture window that resided over the portico.

He stared ahead at a large velvet-covered staircase; it grew wider at its topmost steps, leading to the second-floor balcony that looked out over this foyer and its piano.

From Patrick's position near the entrance, he could see through the doorway to a nearby office, right off the stairs. Inside this cozy room, he saw flames flickering through the iron screen of yet another, but smaller, stone fireplace; its mantel held half-a-dozen ships in bottles. The child eyed the large gold-framed paintings of ocean frigates hung on the wall, the art barely visible in the low light. A framed folded American flag sat in the middle of a long shelf, surrounded on both sides by extremely weathered hardcover books that looked to be at least 150 years old.

* * *

The sound of Thomas's talons tapping on the foyer's smooth wood floor as the bird hopped toward the stairs stole Patrick's attention. The owl stopped abruptly and froze in place when a loud piercing hiss made his synthetic feathers ruffle. Thomas's blue eyes searched frantically through the darkened foyer for the source. The second territorial hiss came from a darkened corner near a giant pillar that held the upstairs gallery. A pair of glowing eyes appeared, reflecting the light from the foyer's fire.

"It's only a cat," Patrick said.

"And I'm only a bird," Thomas remarked.

As the feline crept from the shadows and slowly moved out into the foyer, Thomas retreated a ways toward his master. The oversized black cat kept its head and shoulders low to the ground, resembling a fierce jaguar on the prowl for a late dinner.

"This does not look like a friendly cat," Thomas said, retreating even more.

"On second thought, stay close. It looks territorial," Patrick said. "Dr. Thrasher?" the boy called out, a bit reluctant.

The mansion was dead quiet with only the subtle sound of a ticking pendulum coming from a darkened corner in the foyer.

"It's Patrick Jepson," he added.

Patrick stepped to the feline and nicely shooed it away; it ran up the staircase and froze at the top step, then plopped down and licked its paws, never taking its eyes from the intruders.

The boy focused on a doorway on the piano's far side, he crossed in front of the luxurious instrument and walked to the unexplored room. He peered in; the dark room beyond its threshold showed no signs of life. He felt around for a light switch, but, when his fingers touched the sticky strands of a spider's web, he yanked his hand back, then shook off the heebie-jeebies and decided to backtrack.

Patrick climbed the twenty-eight daunting steps of the foyer's grand staircase, running his fingers along the smooth banister as he ascended. When he reached the top, the cat arched its back, meowed and then ran across the gallery, disappearing into a shadowy hallway. Patrick followed; his gaze watched the feline as it bypassed a number of rooms and disappeared around a corner.

"I think we're alone," Patrick yelled down to the bird, though, Thomas was nowhere in sight. The young boy placed his hands on the intricately carved oak balustrade and peered up at the massive crystal chandelier that hung over the foyer from a glass-domed atrium.

The boy watched as Thomas exited the office and hopped back into view. "I believe this is where the doctor works. Where is the cat?"

"It ran off," the boy answered.

Thomas glanced around. "Probably lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce." He hopped over to the stairs. "Let's try to find your father's file. Maybe we can glean some information from it?"

Patrick nodded and then trotted down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, two high notes on the piano rang out. The boy froze in place. "Thomas, did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" the bird replied.

"The piano,... it just made a sound," the boy insisted. His left hand tightened around the stair's banister. "Are we alone?"

From the bottom step, Patrick studied the piano, its polished black cover propped open only two or three inches. If a person were sitting at the keys, he'd know it, even in the low light. He crouched to the ground to peer under it, finding only the three legs that held the instrument up. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he shuddered at the eerie moment and then reluctantly followed his owl into the comfortable office.

Patrick clicked on a lamp, brightening the room. To his left was a puffy black leather chair and a matching couch, a shiny glass coffee table and beautiful wooden shutters that closed over a long succession of windows wrapping around the room's northern side. Large built-in bookcases filled with hundreds of titles reached twelve feet high and long rolling ladders attached to a track at the top, one at each end, sat ready for use.

A large desk stood at the back of the office, an elegant mahogany piece that rivaled the presidential desks at the White House. A pencil cup, letter opener, stapler and a few glass paperweights holding down loose documents littered the work surface. A sleek Macintosh II personal computer sat to the right, its screen facing the desk's wooden armchair.

Thomas flapped his wings, lifted off the floor and flew to the cushioned chair. He landed on its back, then hopped over to the desk and stood on its glossy surface. He cooed, closed his eyes momentarily and then let out a hoo "There," the bird said, tipping his head in the direction of a polished wooden filing cabinet nestled between the fireplace and the desk chair.

Patrick walked to the cabinet and opened up the top drawer. "You think Dr. Thrasher sees a lot of patients?"

"Judging by the size of this mansion, I'd say so." Thomas used his beak to tap a switch on the base of a desk lamp, illuminating its halogen bulb.

Patrick's fingers flipped through the files, fanning past the names that started with the letter H. He ran through the thin section of Is and finally slowed at the Js.

"Jackson, Jainy, James, Jecard..." He paused. "Jepson. Here it is." He pulled the file and laid it on the desk, then opened it up as Thomas waddled over.

Patrick read aloud.

"Paul Jepson, male, 34 years old. Occupation, NASA Instructor prior to wife, Angela Jepson's, car accident that resulted in her death in January '89. Paul has been on personal leave since the tragedy. Paul's son, Patrick Jepson, 12 years old, is also my patient and a schizophrenic. Prescribed the experimental drug Risperidone, 1 mg daily."

"What's schizophrenic?" Patrick asked.

"I'm not really sure." The bird looked into his eyes. "I didn't know you were on medication."

"I take it in the bathroom each morning."

Thomas nodded. "Keep reading."

Patrick continued aloud.

"Paul is working through Angela's death and seems eager to return to work, which would involve a move to Sorrow's Sky, Colorado, where NASA's higher-altitude test facility resides. Paul has spoken about pursuing a career as an astronaut, but I fear his self-doubt will keep him from seeing it through."

Patrick lifted his head from the page. "I was hoping we'd move back to Sorrow's Sky. I didn't know Dad was already thinking about it though."

"I think that's a good sign. He is ready to move on with his life." Thomas ruffled his feathers and stared down at the page. "What does the next part say?"

Patrick straightened his back and picked up the sheet of paper; he roamed the small area behind the desk. "Paul has monetary issues with a loan shark named Larson Donovan, to whom he owes $8,000" the boy read. "Donovan owns an old station off Challenger Road. Paul has recurring nightmares of Donovan beating and torturing him. He has one vivid recurring dream that Donovan stabs him several times, then drags him to the nearby train tracks, where Paul is confronted with the terrifying sight of an oncoming train. He always awakens upon the train's approach. Paul has assured me that he is confident Donovan would not actually harm him, but says he's still scrambling to come up with the money he owes."

Patrick turned to his friend. "Old station? Train tracks? Sounds like Larson owns Logan Train Station."

"You know it?"

"I do. When I was little, my parents would take me there each year to meet family traveling in for the winter holidays. I could never forget that place. I remember the lights, the columns, the big glowing clocks with Roman numerals, people waiting on the platforms,... and then the trains would come." He smiled; it faded quickly. "They built a new station one town over, and all the trains were rerouted there." He put the paper down and slid it back into the file. "Today, Logan is abandoned."

"*Hmm*." The bird spun a circle on the desk, searching the room with his big blue eyes. "I don't see a telephone in here. It's probably time we call for help. We can send an officer to Logan Station."

"Why wouldn't a phone be in here?" Patrick asked. "This is an office."

"I would imagine the doctor doesn't want the ringing to disturb his sessions with his patients."

"That makes sense." Patrick replaced the file in the cabinet and slid the drawer closed. He held out his arm, and the bird climbed up onto his shoulder.

The sharp piercing tones of two more high notes rang out from the piano, sounding like the cue of a mystery sequence in a thriller movie. Then the smooth deep velvety bass of a low note carried from the instrument and held, like an air horn, its resonance vibrating through Patrick's chest until it abruptly cut, leaving the foyer in silence, and its audience of two, stunned and shaken.

Patrick didn't move, even with the owl's plastic claws digging into his shoulder. "You heard it this time, right?" Patrick asked.

The bird cooed softly and nodded his head. "We're not alone," Thomas whispered. "I can see well through the dark. No one is sitting at that piano." There was a strain in his gravelly voice.

When myriad childlike chants rose up from the distant room beyond the piano, spilling from the darkness in a commotion of hysterical laughs, quick whispers and terrifying growls, the sounds rushed the two intruders like a gust of wind, and Patrick wasted no time. He sped through the office, crossed the foyer and raced for the front door, all while Thomas held onto the boy's shoulder with all the might his talons could muster.

When the child tore open the door and got a face full of an icy breeze, a little girl's whisper tickled his left ear. Patrick bolted from the residence.

"Don't fall," Thomas instructed, in a panic, but it was too late to stop the boy's forward momentum. Patrick jumped from the porch, bypassing its steps, causing Thomas to fully extend his wings for balance.

The boy's snow boots landed in fresh snow, leaving his prints as evidence of his visit. He trotted down the ten concrete steps that divided the upper lawn from the lower and jogged through the cold toward the Buick.

The fountain produced a thick steam of vapor that bent and whipped in the wind, at times, completely cloaking the Regal. Patrick charged through the fog, tasting the mist on his tongue. He opened up the vehicle's driver's side door and let Thomas climb inside. The boy took one last look at the mansion, climbed in the coupe and started it up.

The engine roared and revved in the cold as Patrick's breath fogged the windshield.

"What was that? The voice. I heard it whisper something to you," Thomas said. "What did it say?"

Patrick locked his door. Thomas saw his action and used his beak to lock the passenger side as well. The bird turned back to his master.

"It said,... 'Your daddy's as good as dead.'"

* * *

The Regal trudged along a back road, heading east at about thirty miles-per-hour. Thomas had been policing the child on his speed, saying, anything over twenty-five was too fast for these conditions. But the boy couldn't get to the train station fast enough. He feared what the voice had told him was the truth, or it would become the truth if he failed to get there in time.

The road signs that still directed traffic to the historic building were few and far between, but enough of them had survived to reassure the two travelers that they were on the right course. For the boy, the signs stood as relics from another life, reminders of a time when he was whole, not broken. It was as though he had traveled back to before his world fell apart. As if this long stretch of road were his memory lane.

The vehicle's headlights lit up the station's final sign that read Welcome to Logan Train Station - Two Miles Ahead.

A thick field of evergreens whizzed by; the overabundance of pine needles on thousands of drooping, snow-covered branches kept the station out of sight for the time being. Patrick searched for it, peering out his driver's side window every few seconds, waiting impatiently for that massive familiar building to pop up.

Fifteen yards ahead was another road sign; its yellow canvas reflected the Regal's headlights, which revealed a box-shaped graphic of a vehicle racing down an incline. Underneath in all uppercase letters it read CAUTION: SLOPE.

The Buick sped past the sign, and Thomas glanced over to Patrick to find his gaze swapping from the road before them to the thick trees at his left.

"Patrick? Did you see that sign back there?" the bird asked.

"No," the boy replied, peering over the steering wheel, gripping it with all his might. "What was it?"

"You need to reduce your speed. There's a drop-off..."

When the road before them vanished, Patrick let out a gasp as the front tires lifted from the snow; in that moment of weightlessness, Thomas and Patrick lifted a few inches off their seats. The headlights dipped through the blackness of night, and the front end sunk into it, as if the car would fall for miles and miles, right off the edge of the Earth.

With his heart in his throat, Patrick watched as the headlights found the snowy road again, and, like a roller coaster coming off the peak of its track, the descent had the Buick accelerating.

Snow and dirt whipped from the Regal's four wheels as the nearly two-ton automobile raced out of control, carving a path down the weary road that had yet to see a plow.

"Brake, Patrick!" the owl yelled.

The vehicle's front tires locked up, spinning the back end around as it slid to the slope's bottom at nearly fifty miles-per-hour. The front tires took the car off the road, and the front end plowed directly into a reinforced telephone pole, obliterating the bumper, grill and hood, while the engine slammed back into the transmission.

The blunt impact had thrown the child forward with such force that, when the seat belt snagged him back, every bit of breath in his lungs escaped, while his legs, arms and head thrusted toward the engine, nearly pulling the boy apart at his joints.

As the car settled, and the telephone pole teetered, Patrick gulped and choked, trying like hell to bring oxygen back into his body. Streams of blood ran from the bridge of his nose and his lower lip, trickling down his chin and dripping over the waterproof nylon shell of his winter coat.

Thomas's synthetic feathers floated around the hazy cab. The bird twitched as he lay on the floor mat, fluttering a wing that no longer worked. He had impacted the glove box, leaving cotton stuck in the grooves of the metal door that hung open, swaying, barely attached to its hinges.

Patrick lifted his head and looked around the car's interior. The shattered windshield still held back the breeze, but the dash above the radio had a gaping foot-long crack. Smoke rose from the mangled hood outside, and Patrick startled when a bright flash sent flames licking up each of its four sides. The fire grew quickly, popping and crackling as the car's paint sizzled and boiled.

"Thomas?" Patrick called. "Thomas? Where are you?"

The bird propped himself up and shook the daze from his head. He carefully stood and tried to hop back up onto the seat but couldn't make it; his extreme injuries limited his mobility, and Thomas fell back to the floor. Patrick studied the bird, horrified. The only childhood toy he had ever truly loved held its tattered body, damaged beyond repair. Tears welled up in the child's eyes, and he took in a shaky breath.

Thomas's broken left wing bent over upon itself. One of his talons dangled from the latch of the glove box, and white strands of thick cotton oozed from between his feathers.

Patrick slammed his fist down on the seat, as blood and tears dripped from his face. Thomas's blue eyes stared at Patrick.

"I'm sorry, Thomas," Patrick said. "It's my fault. I should have listened to you." Patrick leaned over and held out his arm, and the owl nudged its broad head against the young one's hand, then used his one good talon and his beak to climb up the boy's appendage, reclaiming his place on the seat.

"I know you didn't mean it. You were only trying to get to your father." Thomas leaned against the seat's back and stretched his neck to see that the vehicle had over three-quarters of a tank of gasoline. "This fire is spreading, and it may ignite the fuel lines. We need to go."

Patrick's thumb pressed the button to release his seat belt, but it jammed. The force of the impact had jostled the already broken mechanism inside the buckle, and the retractor didn't have any give to it. The young boy let out a yell as he yanked and jimmied the buckle with all his might. The heat from the flames became unbearable. The fire had grown so large it had melted a significant portion of the lower windshield, and the plastic polypropylene dash bubbled up. Within minutes, the boy would burn.

Thomas fell face-first into the passenger's seat and used his beak, wing and talon to pull himself toward his young master. When Thomas reached the seat belt, he pecked at the button with all the strength he had left, sending his solid plastic beak into the metal mechanism with such force that the boy's grip on the buckle could hardly hold it in place.

When the blackened windshield partially collapsed, and thick black smoke filled the car's interior, Patrick began wheezing and coughing. The bird slammed its beak into the button over and over, as Patrick pulled at the woven polyester belt. The frightened child took in a deep breath of black smoke and then coughed it up. With a final push from Thomas's plastic beak, the harness released.

Patrick threw open the driver's side door and fell out onto the cold snow, tumbling a few feet into the shallow ditch. He crawled as fast as his legs and arms would allow, spitting blood into the snow and making his way back onto the road. When he fell to the ground and rolled onto his back, big puffy snowflakes pricked at his face. He elevated his upper half, using his elbows to hold him up.

Patrick looked at the flaming mess before him. In this moment, he realized that, in his haste to exit the Buick, the force he had put upon the driver's side door must have caused it to swing back shut; it had latched. There, in the window, Patrick's beautiful snowy owl stared back at him, while the black smoke soaked into those white feathers.

The bird looked around at the fire that had spread to the passenger side's door and seat. He blinked away the floating silt and tapped the glass with his beak, then looked down at the door's handle.

Patrick watched as the black smoke stole the color from the owl's eyes.

Thomas ruffled his feathers, and, as the flames reared up and overtook the Buick, the snowy owl opened his beak and let out a sound Patrick had never heard before; it was a tremendously haunting scream that drilled into Patrick's ears and drained the color from the boy's face.

The battered child rose to his feet in a frenzy, but the car exploded into a devastating fireball, sending scraps of glass and metal hurtling out into the night. The force of the blast slammed Patrick back to the ground. He quickly propped himself up, his eyes scrambling to find his friend. The boy looked at the still-burning wreckage, let out a sob and collapsed to the snow.

* * *

Patrick shivered as he approached Logan Train Station. The wind whipped past his head, and the cold stung at his cheeks, nose and ears. The pajama bottoms he wore didn't do much to keep the cold from his legs, but his heavy coat zipped tight, and his snow boots kept his feet dry and warm.

Behind him, two hundred yards in the distance, the vehicle burned. Looking back at it from so far away made it look like nothing more than a campfire. As he stood and watched the flames flicker and dance in the freezing breeze, warm tears rolled down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away, turned back to the building and saw a red Jeep parked in front of the station's main walking path.

Patrick examined the two pairs of footprints that came together at the front of the vehicle. One set had treads, and the other didn't. A trail of blood accompanied the prints that originated on the passenger's side of the Jeep. The excessive line of blood droplets followed the prints all the way into the building, putting a rising fear inside the young one that his father may have already bled out. Patrick rubbed his hands together to warm them up and followed the blood.

As he neared the entrance, he looked up to see a large painted sign that read Logan Station. Four unlit spotlight domes mounted above the letters and positioned to cast their light down over the entire sign still contained the large dead bulbs within. In this state, the dark red lettering looked dull and aged, as the city's reflected glow off the gray clouds above wasn't strong enough to give it life.

Patrick walked under the familiar large redbrick arches that made way to the building's entrance. His cheeks burned, and his fingers were numb, but he breathed a sigh of relief as the structure gave him a break from the piercing wind and cold.

The interior of Logan Station was exactly how the boy remembered it, and the place still had power, but only about half the large halogen bulbs that hung from the ceiling were lit. The grand lobby was still quite elegant, with silver borders around the ticket booths, black iron benches that cut across the room's center--stretching throughout its entire length--and the beautiful marble floor that, despite the dust, still stood out boldly with its white rock interlaced with strips and spots of black limestone.

Patrick examined a small wooden sign at the lobby's southern end. It dangled crookedly as one of its chains had detached from the hook. "Columbia Park and Train Yard," he read in a whisper. He focused on another sign directly ahead of him. It read Platform A, Main.

Patrick cut through the lobby and entered the main platform where the passenger trains used to pick up their travelers. He had never seen the place without a train on the tracks. The result made the venue feel as it was, empty and forgotten. The level stage consisted of a smooth dark-gray ceramic tile flooring that seemed to stretch on for a mile.

Even after all these years, it still reflected the overhead lights. Enormous black pillars hugged the eastern wall on the far side of the track, and did the same here, on the western wall near where the boy stood; he craned his neck to find that each pillar supported the arching steel girders that held up the translucent glass ceiling. The discordant sounds of an electrical hum high above, clanking old pipes in the walls and rushing water somewhere near the tracks melded together to ring in the boy's ears and to echo throughout the terminal.

As Patrick turned to his right to examine the west end, he saw his father, hunched over, beaten and bloody, looking half frozen, sitting in a metal folding chair, half devoured by a shadow. A terrible gash ran across his face, starting at his forehead and cutting down across his nose and left cheek, ending at his jawline. It was so deep that the split-open skin had peeled back, exposing the red muscle underneath; the man needed thirty or forty staples. He wore an unzipped black leather jacket, a bloodstained white T-shirt underneath and blood-spotted blue jeans, with only dirty wet socks on his feet.

"Dad!" the boy called out. Before Patrick could take a single step, a strong tug on the hood of his coat pulled him back, almost knocking him down.

"Well, I'll be damned," a gruff voice said.

Patrick felt a cold metal barrel press against his temple.

"Paul, you said this little guy was in bed."

Patrick looked up at the man, recognizing him immediately. Long gray hairs grew in patches throughout his ratty brown beard, and dark beady eyes examined the boy. The overweight man's shaved head revealed a small swastika above his right ear, and, when he talked, Patrick winced at his stale breath.

"You said we'd be alone." The man laughed as he yanked the struggling child every which way.

"Patrick, stay calm," Paul advised. "It'll be okay." Blood dripped to his lap. "Larson, if you hurt him, I..."

"How in the hell did you get here, kid?" Larson leaned down close to Patrick's face. "Are you magic? We are miles from your home." The man tapped the gun's barrel on the top of Patrick's head.

Patrick stayed quiet.

"You not gonna talk?" Larson rose back up, giving the boy a break from the stink, but keeping a firm grasp on Patrick's shoulders. He smiled, revealing his stained teeth. "Doesn't matter."

Patrick heard the distinct metallic clicks of a gun's hammer, drawing back slowly, like he'd heard in the westerns he'd seen on TV so many times. He knew it was a revolver.

"You'll both be dead in a few minutes anyway. Your daddy owes me money, and I'm making an example out of him. You shouldn't have come, kid."

Patrick looked into his father's eyes, seeing more despair in them now than he'd seen the day his mother had died. Paul leaned forward in his chair and spit out a mouthful of blood. The boy watched as his father wiped his mouth, then hung his head low and took in a deep breath, deeper than a midday drag from one of his smokes.

Paul glanced at his son and gave him a wink.

Patrick picked up his left foot and ran the heel of his snow boot into the toe of the man's right sneaker.

The sour burly man jolted, pulling his foot back while trying not to stumble. He squeezed the back of Patrick's neck, then tipped his head back in laughter. As Patrick winced from the pain, the boy watched his father rise from the chair.

Paul's abrupt movement sent the folding chair sailing into the brick wall; he ran faster than Patrick had ever seen. As Larson's head came back down, Paul buried his fist in the man's nose, silencing the laughter and crushing the bones within, sending blood splattering over the right side of Patrick's face.

Patrick fell to the tiles, half dazed from adrenaline and shock, and he quickly used the sleeve of his coat to wipe the blood from his cheek and nose. He examined the blood smears on the fabric. Then, as his father let out a fierce yell amid the struggle, pulling the young one from his stupor, Patrick scurried away from the danger and held close to the edge of the platform, near the daunting drop to the tracks below. He watched the barrel of the revolver as it flailed through the air, still tightly gripped by the deranged man.

Blood ran from Larson's nose and dripped freely onto his hand that tried to contain it. The droplets fell to the gray tiles below, where they had smeared under the ratty man's shoes and created a red slippery mess that kept him from standing firm.

As Paul's hands went for the gun, Larson raised the barrel and pulled the trigger. A loud bang and a bright flash flooded the station, and Paul shuddered and stopped his movements, his expression, horrified. The boy's father brought his hand to his chest as his blood poured out over his fingers; then he fell hard, with no chance of bracing or catching himself, hitting the ceramic tiles with the entire weight of his body.

Paul choked and wheezed and spat up blood as he lay on his back. One of the halogens high above flickered and flashed, trying to come on strongly but dying out after each pulse.

Patrick could see the bad electrical connection had a hold of his father's attention. A bullet to the chest would put any man on his back; the boy knew this. But the distant look in his father's eyes as Paul focused on the beaming sporadic light told the young one that his father didn't have much time.

Larson scanned the area, seemingly spooked at the chaos. He found the boy at the edge of the platform. Patrick huddled close to the tile floor. The man stared at him, tapping the barrel of the gun against his pant leg, deciding what his next move would be.

The young boy recognized the indecision in the gunman's eyes. Patrick glanced down the long tunnel that led the tracks out of the station; it was wide open all the way down. If Patrick made a break for it, he'd be as vulnerable to a bullet there as he was cowering before the criminal now.

The frightened boy wanted to get to his father, to be at his side. The bullet had gone right through the man; the blood that trickled from his back pooled beneath him.

Larson grunted, then tucked the gun into the front of his pants and ran for the building's entrance, leaving a trail of blood behind in his haste.

Patrick looked at his father, as he lay dying on the platform; the young one heard the front door push open and close hard, letting him know the danger had left the building. Patrick crawled across the cold floor to Paul, put his hands on his father's shoulders and looked into his tired eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dad." He broke down in tears. "I tried to get here sooner."

"Hey," Paul said, spitting more blood onto his lips and chin. "You did great, son. I'm so proud of you." Paul gripped his son's hand and closed his eyes.

For a moment Patrick thought he was gone.

"I wanted to show you something," Paul said, opening his eyes. He slowly lifted his hand to his jacket's front. He straightened the leather back over his chest where it belonged, covering his wound in the process; the bloody mess wasn't something his son needed to see.

Patrick studied the torn patch sewn into the jacket's leather. He reached his hand into the pocket of his pajama bottoms and pulled out the piece he had found in the kitchen and then placed the two halves together.

In the middle of the patch was a bundle of seven white shining stars surrounding the space shuttle and the classic red NASA swoop cutting through. Patrick read the words aloud. "The sky used to be blue. It's black for me now. NASA Astronaut Corps 1990."

Paul looked up at his boy with tears in his eyes. "I was going to tell you tomorrow morning. I had a big cake in the fridge for us. There was going to be a party."

Patrick let the tears stream down his cheeks, and they fell to the leather of his father's sleeve. "I always knew you'd make it, Dad."

Paul smiled as his final breath slipped from his mouth, and he went still. Patrick laid his head on his father's chest and curled up next to his body. The child shivered in the cold and then closed his eyes.

* * *

Six months had passed since Thomas's and Paul's deaths. Only days afterward, Patrick had moved to Uncle Tom's farm on the outskirts of Sorrow's Sky. It was a two-story home with a large backyard, an apple orchard to the north and an open field to the south, where his uncle carved out a go-kart track, something that kept the boy busy for a few hours each day.

Patrick's aunt and uncle had done their best to make the summer easier on him, and, although school would start in about a month, they still had a few trips planned for the lad, including a visit to the Denver Zoo. Keeping him entertained seemed to be their main priority. They wanted the rest of his childhood to be as carefree as possible. He'd already endured enough traumas for one lifetime, including a murder trial.

Detectives had an easy time placing Larson Donovan at the scene of Paul's murder, what with all the blood the killer had left behind. They matched the bullet that killed Paul to Larson's revolver, and the man gave a full confession. Justice moved swiftly for once, and Larson received a life sentence behind bars, without the possibility of parole.

NASA had paid for Paul Jepson's funeral service, and, due to Paul's status as an astronaut, the Honor Guard fired off three volleys from their rifles, which made the young boy proud. Paul's burial site, right next to Patrick's mother's, was only a short drive away, in Arpac Hills Cemetery.

* * *

The blue sky shone; the mid-July sun burned, and the occasional breeze soothed and cooled. Patrick sat in a rocker, enjoying the shade of the deck's overhang. His uncle placed a tall glass of iced tea on the small table in front of the child. It dripped with condensation, and Patrick picked it up and took a sip.

"Thanks, Uncle Tom," he said.

Tom took a seat next to Patrick in a matching rocker. "You're welcome. It's caffeine free this time, so I won't catch you out there trying to climb the flagpole." He gave Patrick a wink and then leaned forward in his chair, trying to get a look at the open sky. "I don't think there's a cloud up there today."

"I think you're right. I read that, on Mars, the sky is red all the time," Patrick shared.

"Red?" Tom asked, putting it on a bit. "We sure are lucky to have our bright blue sky here on Earth."

Patrick smiled. "Yeah. Red is depressing."

Tom thought for a moment, almost hesitant to ask his next question. "Are you interested in that sort of thing,... space and whatnot?"

The boy gave it some thought. "I am."

Tom nodded. "That's good. Start thinking about your future early." The man smiled. "You take after your dad," Tom said. "All his life he wanted to fly... to be out there in the black."

"I wish I could," Patrick said. "But I have... my thing."

Tom nodded, while staring out at the line of overgrown lilac bushes near the barn. "Schizophrenia. It's nothing to be ashamed of. We all have obstacles in life that hold us back." Tom took a drink from his glass. "Pursue the things that make you happy. That's all there is to it."

Patrick shrugged. "I've lost so much."

Uncle Tom nodded, then set down his tea. He leaned back in his chair and put his arm around the boy. "You've seen tragedy,... been drug through the mud. You'll continue to fall. We all do. The question you've got to ask yourself is,... Will you let it break you? Or will you find your way through to become someone stronger?"

Patrick nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes before they could run down his face. The boy let out a shaky breath but froze when a large shadow circled the grass in front of them. A strong push of wind blanketed the child, blowing back his long hair with such momentum he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, a white snowy owl with a four-foot wingspan swooped in under the overhang and landed on the deck's railing, directly in front of Patrick. His long black talons gripped the wood, as he let his wings hang in the breeze for a time before tucking them in.

"Holy Hell!" Uncle Tom yelled.

The massive bird moved his head in quick jolts, examining Patrick with his mesmerizing eyes, as he cooed and let out a series of chirps.

"In all my years..." Tom said, as he rose from his chair and headed into the house. "I gotta get the camera!"

Patrick leaned forward. He rose from the chair and slowly stepped up to the bird as the flat-faced predator hooted a few times. The boy's hand slid over soft feathers, and, when he held out his arm, the animal crawled right on and perched. The beautiful creature bumped the top of his head against Patrick's cheek. Patrick looked into his big bright eyes. "Your eyes are so blue," he said. "They're just like the diamond my mother used to wear around her neck."

The snowy owl closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze; he ruffled his feathers. He was finally home.

Patrick smiled wide.