"Hello?"

His eyes travel up to the overhead TV above the bar, broadcasting the Beijing weather channel. He's using the universal language of pictures in order to interpret the weather report. From his brief analysis, he believes it'll be another cold morning, but at least there'll be no ice. He might actually have a chance of returning to the Pitts. After a couple of planes slipped off the run-way due to excess ice from the storm earlier that day several flights were canceled.

"Hello?"

Weeks ago, Kinnetic was contacted by a new Asian company interested in hiring his advertising business to sell their latest product in the US. Arriving four days ago, he brought a host of board members and his right hand, Cynthia, to begin their international work.

"Brian, I know it's you," a voice much deeper than he remembers says. "You're using your cell."

Draped across the hotel bar, cradling his cell phone in one hand and nursing a glass of whiskey in the other, Brian croaks, "Sonny boy's back."

He can hear background noise with people chattering and moving about on the other end of the phone. Not like here, where it's quiet and dead, except for the TV and the bartender who keeps signaling its time to close.

Brian's not interested.

"Shit! Gus?" he exclaims from the other end. "Is he- hurt? Will he be okay?"

Brian tries to explain the explosion, the new international business deal, China, ice storm but he's cut off somewhere in the middle.

"Fuck, this is so fucked. You're working? Your son comes back after ten years and you're working?" The anger in his voice isn't brand new. It's being fed from the same storm that's been brewing for the last decade. It's the hurricane that's never been able to die down, never able to serve its purpose because he took flight, because he didn't want to deal with the confrontation.

It's been in hibernation ever since.

He continues on, old resentments interwoven within his words. "The limits you'll go to stay untouched and emotionless are laudable."

Brian sighs. "I'm on my way back home now from China. Got stuck in a snow storm," he says, eyelids sagging. He feels tired although he hasn't done anything but fuck around at the airport and get drunk at the hotel bar. "Gus, he's fine. Walking and talking and everything. Mel and Linds sent me a picture of him sleeping. He's so fucking big now."

"China? I heard about that storm on the news." In an even smaller voice, he responds, "Fuck, that was uncalled for."

Brian shrugs, knowing full well he deserves a lot more than a few heated words about being a crappy father.

"What time do you think you'll get back?" He asks.

Glancing down at his watch, Brian answers, "Your time tomorrow, no later than ten am."

Five years, sixteen hours, and two major fights are separating them, but it takes Justin half a second to reply.

"I'll meet you there."

Dylan hates that feeling he gets when he does something he shouldn't have. That icky sensation of guilt, whether he's been caught and punished or managed to escape detection, is awful. It feels as though a million and one moths are fluttering around in his insides, making his stomach twist and turn until he has to throw up. It's frightening how the body can turn against you.

He's not at the sick part yet, but if his emotions became too debilitating he's sure he'll find his breakfast covering his bed.

Ms. Montgomery, Melanie and Lindsay make pleasant conversation by the door, taking turns shooting him concerned looks and worried glances.

My name is Dylan.

He isn't exactly sure why he said it, although he supposes he must've been on his last leg of patience when he corrected Melanie. Whatever it was or is, he's fucked. Like, seriously fucked. He wishes more than anything that he would have held his tongue for another measly two or three minutes, but he didn't. Now Dylan and his family are going to suffer the consequences of his rashness and loss of self-control.

"Did you hear that Gu… that?" Melanie asks, failing to avoid saying Gus but also not giving in to calling him Dylan yet.

Dylan shakes his head in response.

"Ms. Montgomery says that you'll be able to leave soon if you keep progressing the way you are," she says, walking over to the bed.

He feels the moths fluttering and probing the insides of his abdomen when he notices Lindsay isn't following behind her partner. For the first time since he's known her, she keeps her distance.

He doesn't know how he should feel about Lindsay keeping her distance, but it makes him feel bad; like he's betrayed them, like he's still betraying her. Of all the people in the world, he doesn't owe her anything, not a single thing. They're not his family.

Melanie continues talking, but Dylan is having a hard time hearing what she's saying. The moths fester in his stomach, but every so often they stray up his ribcage and he's afraid that at any second now, one of them will stray a little too far up and settle in his chest. That's the worst part because what follows next always results in vomit.

Grinning, she tells him, "The doctor will be in later to run some test. If he says you're okay then you'll be home by the end of next week."

Dylan finds no comfort in her smiles, because in less than a week he'll be released, but to what home?

His stomach lurches.

After finally touching down in at the Pittsburgh International Airport and getting to the terminal, Brian wastes no time as he jogs through the airport to get to baggage claim.

Even though Brian took a connecting flight in a small plane with about twenty passengers, the luggage staff still take fifteen minutes of his time to finally to place all of the luggage's on the conveyer belt, time that could've been spent in the hospital with his son.

Brian sends a couple text messages out to Michael, Linds, and Mel, and a tentative one, short and full of anxiety, to Justin.

He snatches up his small black suitcase and makes a dash for the exit. There's traffic around the exit door, lines of people waiting anxiously at the curb for their rides to arrive.

Brian doesn't do well with waiting around, especially now when he's yearning to meet his son again. Fidgeting mindlessly on his phone, skimming through the news, but luckily he doesn't have to do this long before he hears the familiar calling of, "Uncle Brian!"

When he looks up he sees his niece climbing out of a minivan, ignoring her father's orders to stay inside before running over to Brian and latching onto his waist. Wrapping her thin arms around his middle and locking her short legs around the backs of his knees.

Jenny Rebecca smiles brightly up at him. "I'm ten now!" she announces, her smile never faltering; if possible, it grows.

Brian grins down amusedly and pats her head. He's been so focused with Gus' return that he hasn't had time to think about anything but reaching his son and making sure that he returns to a perfect state of functioning after the accident. With guilt, he wonders if anyone else in the family also forgot about her birthday.

"Happy belated birthday!"

"Did you bring me any presents?"

"JR! You don't ask people for presents," Michael shouts as he climbs out of the minivan.

"My name is Jenny!" she yells back and then pouts. "How else will I find out if someone has gotten me a present or not?"

Michael ignores her, throwing his arms around Brian to give him a hug in greeting.

"Missed you!" Michael tells him happily.

Brian snorts. "I've only been gone a few months."

"Long enough."

Glancing over to the van, Brian sees the back doors open up and Sarah stick her little legs out.

Brian starts to say, "Sarah…"

"Ah, dammit!" Michael interrupts, turning around to try and spot the little girl. He spies her by the van and lets out a sigh, his heart beat returning back to normal. "I can't keep track of that kid. Lose her every time I take my eyes off of her."

Frowning, Brian says, "Maybe you shouldn't be telling her father how you frequently lose his kid." Walking over to Sarah, he scoops her up and cradles her in his arms. Kissing her cheek and ear in the process, he whispers, "I missed you the most, Little Red."

"I missed you the most," she says back.

With his daughter's small arms around him, Brian gestures for Jenny to grab his bag as they all head back to the van.

"What? The professor didn't want to join my welcome back party? Too busy making tofu concoctions and reading gay literature, eh?"

Rolling his eyes, Michael replies, "The professor is teaching."

Once they're in the car and finally driving away from the airport, Michael asks, "So, do you want to drop your things off at your place or should we head out to Ma's first for breakfast?"

"Actually, I think I should go to the hospital," he tells them, watching Sarah's expression in the rearview mirror. Her smile drops.

"But Uncle Brian," Jenny whines. "You'll miss breakfast and Grandma made a really big breakfast for you!"

Using the same whiny tone as his daughter, Michael says, "Brian, you should at least eat something before you visit him."

Brian shrugs. He hasn't had much of an appetite since he learned about his son's return.

"Can I go with you, Daddy?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think so, Little Red. Not this time."

"Are you going to come back to Uncle Michael's to get me tonight?" Sarah pipes up from the back.

With a teasing smile, Michael asks, "What? You don't like hanging out with us now, Sarah?"

She blushes. "I want to stay with Daddy."

"I'm not sure when I'll be leaving the hospital, but I promise if I don't come tonight, I'll get you tomorrow, okay?" Brian tells her.

"Okay."

"Although I'll be honest, I'm a little wary about leaving you in the care of someone who frequently loses you…"

"She's so quiet!" Michael protests as he takes the exit to Children's Hospital.

The three women leave soon after the announcement of Dylan's possible discharge. Melanie parting with a pat on his shoulder, Ms. Montgomery waving, and Lindsay shooting him another one of her worried/betrayed glances before following the social worker out the door.

Dylan doesn't waste any time climbing out of his bed to head straight to the bathroom, nor does he bother to close the door behind himself. Deciding instead to huddle over the toilet, afraid that at any moment he'll blow chunks.

He doesn't.

He waits.

Although he knows it's disgusting and unsanitary, he rests his clammy face on the surface of the porcelain toilet seat. Concluding from a very brief inspection, it looks clean enough, plus the exterior of the seat is cold, and it feels nice against his cheek.

Dylan doesn't know how long he sits there, lying with the side of his face pressed against the toilet seat. It could be seconds to minutes to hours when he hears the door to his hospital room open with a click and a creak.

"Dylan?" the visitor calls. "Are you in here?"

He jerks up startled and half awake, scrambling out of the bathroom because he knows that voice. He's lived in the same room with that voice, probably even shared a crib with that voice.

The flat lazy drawl of his brother... yeah, that's Cody.

Cody stands alone in Dylan's room, looking broader in the shoulders than Dylan remembers and leaning heavily against the door with his hands buried within his brown corduroy pants pockets. But that's as much as Dylan recognizes of his brother now, his posture and his voice. Everything that once was his brother has been stripped away and discarded, thrown away in a trash can and never to be seen again.

His brother's face is even different. Once lined with hobo man-stubble and black eye makeup is now clean and shaven. The greasy multi-colored bed-hair his brother sported daily has also been revised, remastered and restyled into a more polished look. Although the length is still ridiculously long, the strands are back to their natural muddy brown color but at least it looks freshly washed. Gone are the lively and vibrant eyes, which now look murky and apathetic, resembling a sort of dull gunmetal blue.

It's as if I've stepped into an alternate universe, Dylan thinks as he stares in horror at the ugly knit sweater Cody's wearing in place of his usual grungy band shirt. New Converses as well.

This is not his Cody.

Dylan means to ask, 'How are you?' but what comes out is, "What the fuck are you wearing?"

A lazy grin travels upon Cody's thin lips, not quite reaching his eyes which are still too dull.

"A present from Mommie Dearest," Dylan hears his brother say, full of bitterness.

Dylan frowns. "Mom?"

She didn't.

"She bought that get-up for you?"

She really wouldn't have.

Cody waves a hand at Dylan's question, dismissing the whole ordeal. "It's not important," he replies with a sigh.

Dylan wants to argue that any information his brother can provide on the topic of his Stepford transformation or Dylan's own mess of a life would be greatly appreciated, but Cody responds first.

"Are you okay?" his brother asks, gesturing to the bandages around Dylan's head and his injured arm.

Dylan almost reaches up with his good arm to touch them to see if they're really there or not. He sometimes forgets about the bandages but he lets his hand fall back down to his side when he hears his doctor's obnoxiously pompous voice in his head warning him about bothering the wrappings.

When he glances back into his brother's face, he sees that Cody's eyes are simmering with anguish, worry, and something else. It's the something else or maybe the mix of the three which has Dylan ducking his head down and charging back to his bed, just so he can avoid it.

Dylan doesn't reach the bed though, deciding at the last moment to veer off to the right and plop into the chair by the window, Melanie's chair. Cody follows suit behind him not long after, dragging the chair adjacent to the hanging TV and near the bathroom door, over to him.

Dylan thinks he might be able to bypass this line of questioning surrounding his own health and jump to the really important stuff. Such as how the rest of the family is doing, but nothing ever works out in his favor, he thinks, as Cody places his chair directly in front of his. He pins Dylan with a stare which he can only interpret as, you're not getting out of this without talking to me first.

Dylan settles back into his seat with a shrug and says petulantly, "I'm living aren't I?"

"Yeah," Cody murmurs, slouching. Dylan watches as his brother's eyes flutter close as he runs a shaky hand through his fine strands. "Yeah, you are," he repeats. "Yeah, you are."

Staring into Cody's too pale face and raw looking eyes, Dylan tries to answer the question again, this time with the goal in mind to bring comfort to his anxious brother.

"Hey man, look, I'm okay," he tells him, even going as far as to grin, but Cody doesn't look at all convinced. "I'm all good."

He jostles about in his mind to figure out something else to say, something that will really nail the point in that he's okay, that he'll get better. "They even told me that I'll be able to leave by the end of next week because I'm doing so well." Not quite a lie, but not exactly the truth either.

There's still a slight tremor of anxiety vibrating down the outline of his brother's form, but Dylan can see that he's managed to alleviate some of his worry.

"I just didn't think it would be this bad," his brother admits quietly. "I knew you were hurt, but I didn- I didn't know you needed brain surgery." Running another shaky hand through his hair. "Shit," Cody repeats a few times.

"It's not that I don't have hope of him one day remembering us. I just- it's just," Mel says, stammering. She's trying really hard not to come off as 'the less caring mother' in front of the social worker, but that's near impossible when you're competing with someone like Lindsay. Sprouting sermons every five minutes about lost things once being found. Her flowery rants just as poetic as any of Baudelaire's stanzas.

Melanie can't help it that she's not naturally attuned in speaking in the sort of flowery way in which Lindsay possesses, making non-sensible metaphors and analogies every five to ten minutes. She's too concise and brief, which may or may not be a result of her chosen career path. And she especially can't help it if her practical and logical side is out weighing her hopefulness.

They're seated next to each other in front of Patricia's wide oak desk, enclosed around bland white walls and blue colored carpet, receiving counseling, but Mel feels more like she's awaiting punishment in the principal's office rather than in a meeting with the hospital social worker.

"I just don't want. I don't think- I should get my hopes up for something that may or may not happen," Mel finishes off lamely.

"What's the harm in hoping?" Lindsay asks, restlessly. "Hope doesn't cost a thing, so why not invest in it? There's numerous studies of children remembering horrific traumatic events in their lives from a very young age. Gus was just about to turn four when he was kidnapped. It's not like he was two or turning three. He was about to go to preschool. He knew how to tie his shoes. He could recite the alphabet up to the letter 'M'."

A fond smile finds its way onto Lindsay's lips and Mel sighs. "He knew things. He remembered things. Yeah, I do hope, because I honestly what's the harm in hoping."

Maybe for Lindsay there wouldn't be, but for Mel… It's always been a well-known fact to her that practicality stings a lot less than misplaced hope. The reality is that there's a strong chance their long lost son's memories won't resurface and that's okay, she thinks because those are the facts.

The first day when Gus finally awoke after his major surgeries comes to her mind. His beautiful familiar blue eyes gazing over them with detachment as if they were misplaced strangers instead of his rightful family. The look on his face when they informed him, kindly and patiently, of their true identities was like communicating with a feral animal. Mel will never forget the shiver that grazed her form at his devastating cry and his frantic questions about his real family, for his real mother.

Or when Lindsay made a wrong turn and called his "mother" a kidnapper. The way in which Gus had thrown those words back into their faces with a vicious sneer and hate dripping from his eyes had Mel backing out of the room and running back to her office like a coward.

"The only kidnappers in this room are the ones I'm looking at right now."

No, Mel covets no hope in her heart of her son one day remembering them. The chance is too low and the odds too great.

"Lindsay, you're right, it's not uncommon for adults or teenagers to remember trauma from a young age," Patricia says, interlacing her fingers.

But Gus wouldn't just remember the moments when they made homemade mint chocolate chip cookies or how she sang to him at night, but the ugly too. The love they shared as well as the kidnapping which ruined everything.

Who would want their child to remember their own kidnapping?

If Melanie had to choose between Gus remembering the days she spent taking care of him when he was sick and his kidnapping or nothing at all.

She would always choose the latter.

Melanie isn't perfect. She isn't a selfless parent or even a great mother. God only knows the few hours she spends with the two daughters she has at home, but she would never wish unnecessary suffering onto her own child. A few years of love isn't enough to counter the memory of being snatched away from your own front lawn.

"But it's not something that is guaranteed," Patricia continues. "Which I believe is where Melanie is coming from with not wanting to commit her hope to something that might not happen. But whether Dylan remembers or doesn't, I think right now it may serve us better if we start making plans for once Dylan is discharged from the hospital, like how are you going to re-introduce him to your friends and family members? An even bigger point to consider is how are you going to talk to Gus about his family and what happened to them?"

"Patricia, you've given us a lot to consider," Mel says, feeling overwhelmed.

"No- I just. I just don't feel comfortable calling them his family," Lindsay says, running a hand through her hair, tugging viciously at the roots. "We're his family. We'll always be his family."

"I'm so sorry for calling them his family," Patricia apologizes. "I would imagine that it's still difficult to think about your son growing up with a group of people you didn't know or want around him."

Mel and Lindsay both nod, grasping hands.

"Honestly, I just don't think we need to tell him at all about what happened to those people."

"Lindsay!" Mel exclaims in alarm. "Wait a minute! I don't agree with this. He needs to know."

"Well, yeah. We'll tell him one day but not right now. It's not appropriate. He's just getting out of surgery. Things are going too fast. He just met us. It would be too much for him, hell, it's too much for me."

"Obviously, this is about you and not our son," Mel states, removing her hand from her partner's. "You don't want to tell him because you don't want it to take away from the relationship you're trying to build with him."

A horrified look appears on Lindsay's face. "That's not fair. Don't make me out to be a villain! You know this is way too much for a boy his age to have to deal with. We shouldn't- as his parents- we shouldn't put him through this. I'm not saying we'll never tell him but we can wait a little while longer."

"Unbelievable! And if he asks us? Do you expect me to lie?"

Lindsay sighs. "I would hope that we would put up a united front...I just don't feel comfortable telling him right now. Piling on the death of those people on his tiny shoulders would be too much for him. It would be cruel. He just needs to come home, get settled and be surrounded by family who love him, first."

Mel waves her hands around wildly at the incredulity of her wife's reasoning. "Throughout this whole time-What? Let's say a month or so goes by- you don't expect him to ask about those people at all or what? You expect us to lie to him for that long. It would destroy any trust or relationship we built with him. You can't build a relationship based off of lies. He'd never forgive us."

Mel and Lindsay fall quiet in contemplation. Patricia chooses this moment to cut in.

"I'm hearing from both sides a lot of wanting to protect Dylan from experiencing anymore pain either emotionally or physically, which is very natural reaction for a parent especially for the situation in which we are in currently," Patricia says, addressing Lindsay. "But at the same time Mel brings up a good point as well- What if Dylan wants to know about the welfare of the people he cares about? I feel, unfortunately, that this time has already come. Dylan asked me directly about them and asked if I could get permission from his guardians, you two, so I could disclose what happened."

Mel starts to say, "Well in the case…."

"Absolutely not," Lindsay cuts in with a deep frown. "I stand by my decision; I just don't think it's right. I don't think he's ready to know." Staring challengingly into her partner's face she says, "We either keep this from him for a little while longer- just until he leaves the hospital or we have Brian be the deal breaker. Which one?"

"It's not a big deal. Small brain bleed in the back of my head. Its fine now," Dylan answers casually. Frowning, he thinks, a little too casually, because any type of brain bleeding is a big deal in Dylan's book, but this isn't about him right now.

For the most part, Cody buys his bullshit with only a slight narrowing of his eyes. "What about your arm then?"

With a lopsided grin, Dylan says in a conspiratorial voice, "Apparently bookcases can strike not once but twice as well." Referring to the bookcase in his room responsible for his head wound and sprained arm.

"This is funny to you, eh?" Cody says with a growl, voice still low, but his gunmetal blue eyes flare up with unreleased fury. "It must be hilarious to you then being in this fucking hospital or that everyone in our family was hurt, some more so than others…."

"I didn't mean that-" Dylan tries to cut in, but his brother's voice rises over his own.

"If you think that's funny then you'll just die when you hear this; When I finally came back home that night, I found our house in ruins. Nothing there but roasted wood and fire. Nothing. Imagine finding your family like that, being pulled out of a burning house, maybe that'll give you a few more chuckles."

"Well, it's your fault."

Dylan didn't.

Dylan wouldn't say something-

Dylan doesn't think this.

But the words fall so easily from his chapped thin lips. It's your fault. He doesn't think this. It's not true. He wants to take the words back just as soon as they're born, but his hands glide through them like sand. Desperately, he tries to scratch and claw the words back into his mouth, but like a bee on a mission, they stubbornly make their way into the world of existence.

His brother's eyes go wide and dangerous. Dylan finds himself leaning back in his seat, just to gain some additional space.

"You think this is my fucking fault?" Cody asks, quiet and deadly, like the beginnings of a storm.

Logically Dylan should say, 'No', and then promptly apologize. That's what his brain tells him to do, but something unleashes deep within himself. A seed, perhaps, of righteous anger plants itself in the heart of his chest. He can't take it back, because he won't take it back. It's the truth.

"Yeah, I think this is your fucking fault," he yells. "It's always your fucking fault. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for you. If- if you- if you would've just brought your lazy ass home when you were supposed to, none of us would be in this hospital. Rachel wouldn't have had to go downstairs in your place and screw things up with her know it all self, if you would have just come home. "

"How was I supposed to know this would ha-" his brother starts to say, but Dylan cuts him off.

"You want me to feel sorry for you now? You want me to comfort you again? I'm the one who had brain surgery," he shouts, feeling heated and angry as he leans closer into his brother's face, fist clenched. "I'm the one in this hospital bed who hasn't seen mom or heard any news about any of you because that fucking useless social worker won't tell me anything."

Breath labored, but still fuming, he continues, "I'm the one whose life is in shambles. I'm the one," pointing a finger into his chest. "Who's surrounded by strangers who-who…."

Dylan wants to explode. He wants to explode so damn bad. He wants to pound his fist into someone or something. His muscles are aching to release, and it doesn't help at all looking into his brother's hopeless face. Noticing his gray skin, dead eyes or his protruding collar bones, because he just wants to be angry, because anger feels a lot better than the alternative.

Dylan has never had such homicidal thoughts in his life against a family member, well except for Rachel, but that's normal….For a minute he entertains a short fantasy of placing his brother in a small house and having it explode from the bottom up. Just so he can understand. Just so he can see how it feels.

A little time has passed and Dylan's still upset but he's no longer in the mood to shout and he isn't in danger of committing murder or exploding on anyone. Thank goodness.

Cody won't even look at him. For some reason that seems to piss Dylan off even more.

"So how's everyone?" Dylan ask in a surly tone. "How the fuck is mom by the way? Thanks a lot for keeping me in suspense. How is she?"

"Dead."

Dylan's first instinct is to lash out on his brother and to tell him to stop joking around, until he notices the desperation in his older brother's eyes. The absolute anguish at having to deliver the monosyllabic answer.

The room feels too hot. It's way too hot in here. He's only wearing the thin hospital gown, but it feels like he's in the savannah and overdressed.

"Mom and Rach are dead. I was there when they pulled out your bodies. Mom and Rachel didn't even make it to the hospital. Dead on sight." The hollow sob that heaves itself from Cody's thin frame sounds as if someone is dying.

Dylan turns away, his own eyes prickling rebelliously and his heart lodged in his throat. He struggles to breathe when he thinks about the ramifications of his brother's words. His mother? Rachel? Dead. It's not possible. It's not real.

"We didn't have enough money in the account for a proper funeral. I had to cremate mom. There wasn't much of her left. Rach was taken away. She might have been buried. I don't even know."

None of this is real. He closes his eyes and wishes to be anywhere else than here. Dylan no longer feels interested in hearing anymore of what Cody has to say.

But Cody continues on, in between bouts of crying and sobbing. "Mattie hasn't woken up yet. Had brain surgery like you did but he's a lot worse off. He's near dead now, I heard the doctor's say outside his room. They aren't sure he's going to make it. His little body has-"

"Just stop fucking talking to me," Dylan demands, cutting his brother off.

Dylan opens his eyes and comes face to face with impossibly wide eyes and a hurt look splashed across Cody's face.

"Dylan," he pleads, tears running down his face. "We're the only two left. Shannon's been discharged. A family took her away, out west. Mattie is practically dead. Mom's gone. Rach's gone. It's just you and me. Little bear and big bear," Cody says softly, reminding Dylan of one of their oldest childhood games.

Dylan shakes his head. "Get out," he says forcefully, having heard enough. He can't breathe sitting so near his brother. He can't think….

"We've got to stick together now. We're the last of the fam-"

" !" He yells even louder. Dylan stands up from his chair and with his good arm, grabs a hold of Cody's skinny wrist. He's just about to yank Cody out of his seat and chuck him out when he hears the door open with a loud bang and people rush in.

Dylan assumes that the people he'll see at the door will be Lindsay and Melanie, but his eyes instead find a short plump nurse with a soccer mom hairstyle. With her hands perched on her hips and a face that screams business. Behind her, dressed in a brown leather jacket and button up navy shirt, is the same tall man he remembers seeing this morning on Melanie's phone. Brian. He's supposed father.

He's tired. Tired of the changes. Of the news. Of the deaths. Of the new people in his life. He can't handle anymore right now.

Dylan turns away, just as soon as their eyes meet.

"Sweetie," the nurse calls from the door. "Is this boy bothering you?" She asks, her accusatory eyes directed towards Cody.

Yes, he is, he thinks, but who isn't?

He releases Cody's wrist. Staring straight into his brother's eyes and says, "Yeah, he is."

The woman makes her way into the room and gestures for Cody to leave. "Alright young man, you heard him. He doesn't want to be bothered with you. You need to give him some space. Plus his father is here and I think they would like some time alone, don't you think? Hmm."

Cody doesn't listen to a word she says. He stares back into Dylan's eyes, betrayal and pain hiding behind the deep blues. "You're my little brother," he whispers.

Dylan remembers those same words echoed back to him many years ago.

Watery blue eyes stay stuck to the door, watching in horror as the only neighborhood he's ever known flies by in a flash. Clawing desperately against the handle, he sobs for his mothers, for his father, for anyone to come and rescue him.

No one listens.

"Shh, it's okay."

There's another boy, another kid in the van with him. A bit older with pudgy cheeks and icy blue eyes sitting next to him. Locked in a car seat with a sippy cup. From time to time the other kid says this but he doesn't pay him any mind, until he feels his hand being pulled in the opposite direction.

Yanking away, he screams, "Let go!" Like he should've done earlier. Like he was taught to scream a while ago when bad strangers try to lure kids away, but everything happened so fast. Within the span of 30 seconds, he was stolen from his own front lawn and placed inside of a mini-van while his parents argued from inside.

Whirling around, he glares up at the other kid with red swollen eyes, still trying to take his hand back.

"Shh, it's okay," the other kid tells him over and over. "You're safe." Blue against blue, minute by minute the screams and sobs from him begin to die until there's only a few sniffles as he finds comfort in the other kid's presence within the near silent van.

"You're my little brother now," the other kid tells him. "I'm going to be a really good brother to you. I promise. I'll never tease you or hurt you or anything. I'll take care of you forever," the other boy says with a proud grin, puffing out his chest and peering down at him. "Forever," he promises.

He throws up.