Author's Note: Yes, I know that Rob's parents are very much out of character currently. However, there is a reason. How they are currently portrayed is definitely not how I think they would usually act.

Chapter One

"Manhattan Station Number Two, now boarding. If this is your stop, please board in a safe and orderly fashion. Repeat: Manhattan Station Number Two, now boarding."

Rob quickly grabbed his skateboard from the right of his chair, then got up from his seat in the subway terminal. He was wearing his backpack- his only other luggage. Perhaps it would have been better to even leave the skateboard behind, as it even slightly identified him, but he really had not relished the idea too much.

He quickly went through the open doorway of the train behind a small girl holding a rattling cat, with her other hand holding the hand of a teenage girl. Rob sat down nearby a tall man intently reading a newspaper. The two girls, possibly sisters, sat on his other side, chatting merrily.

He tried to ignore a small pang that went through him. Hopefully his older brother Jason would heed his warning to stay away from home . . .

He wondered if he should even write to Jason, who was currently attending a deaf school in Washington D.C. Then again, he wondered if he could just plain not. He would, of course, need to get some stamps from somewhere . . . But the stamps- and the post markings- would even slightly reveal where he would be.

That might even be unnecessary to worry about, though. With the right clues, Ghostwriter, the ghost that only he and his friends from Brooklyn could see, could find out where he was pretty easily. The matter was if his friends called someone official or got that type of person involved to practically drag him back to his house . . .

No doubt his friends would be mad if he had told him about leaving. Then again, he had also not told them, or anyone for that matter, the reason in the first place.

Rob sighed. Balancing his skateboard between his knees, he shrugged off his full backpack. After sifting through a couple of days' worth of clothes, he took out one of several books that he had brought. He wondered how far his money- he had taken all that he had saved up- would last. He planned on traveling as far as he could with enough for food for at least a couple of days, even if he had not used up the food he had already packed.

Rob quickly checked his watch. Eight thirty-two. It was still pretty early in the day, and he wanted to travel for quite some time yet. Somewhere that was far enough that local televisions would not be picturing a missing kid that looked suspiciously like him would be far enough- and probably a lot farther. Somewhere distant enough that someone could not easily drive to force him back to Brooklyn . . .

He began reading his book. Six hours later, he changed trains to one that would get him further in Connecticut. Rob sighed in relief as he looked at the signs above him on the train. At least his friends had not discovered he was missing yet.

Yet another train and more hours later, he had gotten off of the train and rode a small bus to a public library, in a smallish town called Hilden. Rob looked around him, hoping that he did not look too conspicuous with his skateboard and stuffed backpack.

He went in the library, where he was greeted by a friendly older female librarian at the front desk.

Rob took a deep breath. "Could I get a new library card?" he asked her.

The librarian- Marianne Shelter, it said on her nametag- smiled. "Sure," she replied in a friendly manner. "Have you had one here before?"

Rob shook his head. "No, ma'am."

The librarian nodded, smiled again, and reached beneath the tall counter behind some fake flowers coming out of stones in a clay pot. She pulled out a brand-new card, one that minors were able to use.

"Here you go," she stated. "Just sign your name on the line, and you're good to go." She pointed to the flowers. "The pens are right there."

Rob nodded, a bit confused. He hesitantly pulled a blue flower out from the grey stones. Surprisingly, the bottom of the green-stemmed "flower" was the tip of a pen. He had never seen that type of thing before.

His hand shook a little as he signed not his name, but one that he had invented. He then tried to put the pen back where it went. Surprisingly, it was pretty easy to slide the pen in the stones again.

"You're good to go," the librarian said, smiling again. "Are you staying to check out a few books?"

He shook his head. "No, I want to look at some things," he stated. "I really do want to get some books at some point, though."

"Do you need some help with what you're looking for?"

Rob shook his head again. "No, I'm fine."

"All right, then. See you later."

Rob thanked the nice elderly woman before leaving the front desk. He stopped near a small cushioned chair near a table and put down his skateboard before swinging off his pack. Rob flipped his new library card around to the back side, then to the front again. In neat cursive was his new alias- Richie Branson. The only thing in common between his birth name and his new one was the initials. Hopefully no one would ever notice.

He quickly stuffed the library card into a front pocket of his pack before putting it on. Grabbing his skateboard, he went to the local atlases and poured through them.

Two hours later, he stood in front of his destination. Rob looked upward at the plaque letters above him.

Korry Foster Home for Boys.

Actually, he had not gotten there by himself. He had been inadvertently gotten caught in the middle of a small gang paint ball war (though he had been thankfully spared getting hit), apparently illegal in the area. The policeman there had questioned him. After several unsatisfactory answers, including not telling his either his address or phone number, he had eventually ended up here.

The social worker standing next to him cleared his throat. "We haven't got all day," he stated in a bored tone. "One would think that you really didn't want to be here, after all." There was more than a bit of sarcasm in his voice as he rang the doorbell.

About half a minute later, the door opened to reveal a tall, somewhat burly man with balding grey-red hair. He raised an eyebrow at Rob. "So this is our newest addition?"

The social worker rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately. You would think that kids would have the sense to stay home."

The older man shrugged and beckoned them to follow him. They did so, going into a small room near the entry way. Rob sat down on a plastic chair by the wall near the social worker. The other man took a seat in front of them on a large rocker and placed his hands on his lap.

"It's surprising how many unfortunate circumstances arise from unhealthy situations in the home," he said, looking at the social worker.

The former frowned. "Well, that's hard to judge with his situation since he won't speak up about it in the first place, Mr. Willowby."

The older man merely leaned forward. "Surely you know better than most that many scars cannot be seen, even if they seem to be in plain sight."

"I hope you're not here to give a lecture, Mr. Willowby," the social worker complained. "I did what I was asked to. The boy's here-"

"His name is Richie, as I was told."

The social worker rolled his eyes. "His name is supposedly Richie," he said. "Half the time these kids don't even give their real names, thinking that they can hide under some fake identity until they're found out and then get themselves into more trouble because of that."

Rob sat sullenly while the grown-ups continued to talk about him- or rather, the older man talk and the social worker argue.

Finally, they stood up and shook hands, the social worker looking rather hostile as he did so.

"I hope you have a good night, Mr. Derwin," the older man said pleasantly. The addressee merely shrugged and did not comment. "I'll just show you to the door-"

"I can show myself to the door, thanks," the social worker commented sourly. He rolled his eyes again and spoke his next words in low but audible mutter. "I've only been here a million times."

Mr. Derwin left the room. Less than ten seconds later, Rob heard the somewhat distant sound of the front door slamming shut.

Mr. Willowby closed the door that the social worker had left open. He then went back and sat down in the large rocking chair.

"Well," he said, "unfortunately, some people get a little tired of their jobs after a while. Then again, perhaps it would be better if some people had gotten other jobs in the first place. But alas, so it goes."

He turned to Rob again. "All right then, Richie," he said.

Rob stared at one of the other chairs in the room, refusing to give any sort of reaction to his supposed name, even if this man seemed a whole lot nicer than the social worker. He knew, better than his friends, that people who acted polite to others were not necessarily that way all of the time.

The man continued to speak. "First of all, have you had a decent supper today, a drink included?"

Rob blinked. Of all the things that he had been expected to be asked first from the director of the foster home – or whoever he was; he was not wearing a nametag- it was definitely not about food.

"Uh, yes, sir," he said.

He had, eating two of the various sandwiches that he had packed in a park, about a couple of minutes before he had seen the first paint ball, splattering against a picnic table nearby. He had had plenty of water from his water bottle that he had refilled at the library beforehand.

Mr. Willowby nodded. "Good, I trust that you are telling the truth about that."

He studied Rob for a moment. "I wish that our doctors would be able to come later than eight o'clock, but unfortunately, they're on pretty tight schedules as it is," he said. "An examination will be order tomorrow- not shots, unless obviously needed, like a booster shot," he quickly added, obviously seeing Rob's small flinch. "They actually do most of the doctoral things here, no actual doctor offices or hospitals needed, unless necessary, of course. And then there's some more forms to fill out.

"But," he continued, "I won't bore you any longer with the details. Time for some shut-eye for the residents here soon, I would think. Do you have any pairs of pajamas with you?"

Rob sighed a bit. "No, sir," he said.

Mr. Willowby did not look offended at all. "That's quite all right," he replied. "We have plenty of spares. If you would follow me, please . . ."

About thirty minutes later, Rob was laying on a small bed in one of the dorm rooms, wearing a pair of borrowed blue pajamas. Thankfully, only one other boy was with him in the room. His roommate was apparently a pretty heavy sleeper. Rob had accidently tripped over something on the floor and dropped his skateboard with a loud thump, but the boy had stayed sound asleep.

He sighed. He had been lucky to keep his skateboard in the first place. The policeman from earlier had seemed to believe that he had stolen it. Thankfully, he had already carefully penciled his initials in all of the books that he had brought with him, as well as on the front of the empty notebooks. They were the same ones that were marked in black ink on the bottom of his skateboard, near the back right wheel. It was a good thing that the policeman seemed to think that that, along with his new library card, was enough proof it belonged to him.

The board was now resting near his backpack by the bed. He sure hoped that bugs, rats or anything similar would not go after the food still stashed away inside. Maybe he could even ask Mr. Willowby to allow him to put the few sandwiches left in a refrigerator tomorrow.

Rob sat up and reached into his backpack, less full now since he had put his extra clothing in one of the dresser drawers nearby, and pulled out a book.

He had been surprised by a reading light right above both of the beds when he had first come into the room. Hesitantly, looking at the sleeping occupant he shared a room with, he switched the one by his bed on. Rob flinched as the light instantly illuminated part of the room, but yet again, the other boy did not stir.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he opened the book and began to read.

He was about a fourth of the way into the book when some letters flew from the pages to form a question.

Rob, where are you?
–Jamal

Rob looked at the inquiry, trying to fight down his panic. Of course his parents (he sometimes wanted to think of them as his "parents" lately) would have noticed that he was gone by now, and would have asked his friends. There was no way that he could tell the truth, though. Surely utterly no one, even if they believed him, could actually do anything about it.

He got out a small notebook, as well as the pen attached to a cord that his friends had given his several months ago from his backpack. Uncapping the pen, he wrote a short answer.

Just somewhere.

Rob saw Ghostwriter circle what he wrote. Instead of leaving right afterward to deliver the message to Jamal, the ghost hovered by the notebook.

Rob flinched slightly. Ghostwriter was the only one who maybe even had an inkling of what had occurred within the past couple months. Unlike his human friends, he could sense the team's emotions, as well as pain . . .

The ghost then flew toward the small window and went straight through it. Rob waited anxiously, until the familiar colored sparks appeared in the small room with another message from Jamal.

What do you mean, "just somewhere?" It's late. Your parents are really worried.

Rob frowned as he penned a response. Yeah, right.

Obviously, his dark-skinned friend was confused. What do you mean by that? Look, if you had an argument with them or something, maybe it would be best to go back to your house now and try to talk to them tomorrow. You could even write to them, like you did with your dad about you liking writing better than sports.

Rob scowled a bit, trying to ignore pangs of anguish running through him. He had actually tried that last month, but things had still stayed the same. If anything, his parents, his mother included, had gotten angrier.

I'm not going back, he scrawled. He was feeling quite dejected as he wrote that. Not going back meant not seeing his friends . . . whose parents were still the ones that they loved. Not a seemingly random, gradual change to practically other people entirely . . .

Why?

Rob could see Jamal's baffled face as he read that. He sighed. He was where he was, and no way he could turn back.

I'm just not, he responded.

Surely Ghostwriter was rather sad with this conversation. Perhaps the ghost would even talk to him afterward.

He was soon sent another message from his friend. Seriously, you ran away?

Rob almost rolled his eyes at the obvious answer, but instead sighed yet again. Friendly as Jamal was, he just did not know . . .

Yeah.

He could practically see Jamal's concerned face looking at him as he read his response.

Running away won't solve a problem. You can't just stay outside somewhere by yourself all night.

Rob looked at the still sleeping form of his roommate. I'm not by myself, and I'm fine.

Who are you with?

He shrugged. Not sure. Somebody. I don't think they're dangerous, or I wouldn't even be with them in the first place.

Look, it's better for you to come home, Rob. You can't solve anything by staying wherever you are. Maybe the team can help.

I'm fine.

He could practically feel Jamal's confusion, as well as a bit of frustration in his friend's next reply. If you were, you wouldn't be somewhere other than your house at ten-thirty at night.

Rob looked at his watch. He had actually not realized that it was that late. Maybe it was due to just mostly riding on mostly subway trains all day long, but he was actually not that tired. Physically, anyway . . .

Ghostwriter sent another message from Jamal. Please, just come back. You could even come to my house first, if you want.

I'm not going back.

It was a few more minutes before Ghostwriter came back with a response. Korry Foster Home For Boys? Seriously?

Rob stared at the message. Obviously, Jamal had asked Ghostwriter where he was instead. He had known that the ghost could do that, and had actually been hoping that he would. He was still in the situation that he was, though. There was no way that his friends could change that . . . right?

You sure you're safe?

Rob nodded as he looked around the still room around him, and thought of the surprisingly friendly Mr. Willowby. It was much more than he had even dared to hope for.

Yeah.

Okay. Could the team meet you somewhere tomorrow, so that we can talk?

Rob blinked, though he had half-expected the calm answer from his level-headed friend. Hopefully Jamal would not become too angry with his next answer.

It's too far for that. Plus, he did not have enough money to even go back to Brooklyn.

Jamal would not give up, though. Can you use a phone, then? If you can, how about calling my house tomorrow, or even right now?

Rob sighed, feeling both frustrated and stricken with panic at the same time. Here he was, nearly back to original problem . . .

I don't think that would help with anything.

He anxiously stared at the notebook, his hand clutched around his pen. Gaby and Alex would no doubtedly shout at him, saying that he was wrong; Lenni would insist that the team could do anything; Tina would say that maybe there was a way to solve the problem.

Jamal was no different. We can at least try.

Rob stared at the words, his vision blurring a bit. He hastily wiped his eyes.

I don't know.

Look, I don't even know what the problem is. We could even get Lieutenant McQuade to help.

His hand was shaking as he wrote his next answer. I don't want to tell.

Why?

Rob gritted his teeth, trying to desperately hold back stupid tears. Why was he almost crying?

I just don't.

It was a stubborn answer; his refusal to tell anyone anything during the past two awful months was perhaps his thinking that things would be better . . . And they had not. Plus, his parents were just plainly way too good at acting when other people were around, including his friends.

Another message came. But how can anyone help if you don't say what's wrong?

Rob glanced at his long sleeves, which were hiding multiple bruises. He had many others in a whole bunch of different places, including a one on his face from last night.

I just don't want to tell.

No one would really believe that his father, a retired colonel of the air force that was stern, yet shown to be kind at times, nor his gentle mother, would ever do something like hurt their youngest son, would they?

Rob, please.

He winced. I'm not telling. I just CAN'T!

Rob felt a dumb tear stray onto his face. He hastily wiped it away, flinching a bit as he touched the bruise on his cheek.

Are you going to get hurt, or someone else, if you tell what's going on?

Rob huffed. I'm FINE!

He really did not like making Ghostwriter send angry messages to his friend, though. He should probably tone down his angered responses, a least a little.

Look, he wrote, really, I'm fine.

It was a few minutes before another message appeared. Okay, Rob. I believe in you. But I still think you should talk to someone.

Maybe.

That's better than not at all.

I guess.

Surprisingly, Rob almost felt like grinning some. It was crazy; he had not felt like smiling all day long. Yet his friends still would not give up on him . . .

Thanks.

You're welcome, Jamal replied. Remember that the team's always here for you, Rob.

Rob nodded, suddenly feeling anguished again. It still seemed that the team could not actually help with this, though.

Another message came from Jamal. I'll talk to you tomorrow, then?

Rob nodded again. Yeah, he wrote.

Good night.

You too.

He sighed as he put down his pen, suddenly feeling exhausted. Rob looked around the still room. The other boy was still sound asleep. Hopefully he would not turn out to be someone that was practically a gangster, or anything like that. However, would Mr. Willowby have even placed him with someone like that? Maybe his roommate was even from a situation like his.

Rob quickly replaced the cap on his pen, and put it, the small notebook and his book that he had been reading in his backpack. He then switched off the reading light and lay down. Hopefully he would not be sent back to his house tomorrow.