1981: indefinite month/day

"Is he dead?" a voice asked.

"I dunno. Poke 'im with a stick, Gair!"

Within seconds, he felt something sharp jab into his side. With a cry, he sat up to see two, very frightened boys. The two looked to be about his age. They shared a fleeting look of panic before fleeing down the sidewalk.

Where am I? Where are Bernard and Lucy?

Michael Waters looked at his surroundings. He was on a greasy park bench in the middle of a litter-strewn park. To his left, a pigeon poked at a used condom and to his right was a desert of cigarette butts.

It took him a beat to notice that he was clad in a jacket way too large for his small frame. It was orange with a collar of yellow corduroy with a number four sewn onto the left shoulder. The sleeves fell well past his hands and the hem dragged at his sneaker-shod feet. His Goodwill-bought, frayed jeans were spattered with mud and copper burs but what he noticed most was—he was alone. Not another soul was present in the park. His only company was the perverted pigeon. Where were Bernard and Lucy? They'd never leave him here. Never ever in a million years.

Mike felt fat tears well up in his eyes. Maybe…maybe they were gone. Just like the others. Once they realized that he wasn't like other boys, that he fell asleep a lot more, they ditched him. They left him here on a park bench in the middle of an unknown city with condom-poking pigeons! How could they do that to him?

Bernard and Lucy had been the nicest couple so far. They gave him nice—albeit secondhand—clothes. They gave him dinner with little to no mold or spoilage on it. Hell, they gave him dinner. He had had his own room. He only had to share it with the dog and Bernard's minivan. Why would they leave him here?

The tears started to roll down his cheeks. He rubbed the sleeve of the jacket over his eyes, chafing the lids slightly. Mike lay back down on the bench and started to sob. His entire body convulsed in loud sobs that echoed off the streets. They danced into the deserted park and played on the swings. The horny pigeon gave a 'hoo-hoo' and flew up into the sky, still clutching the condom in its talons. Mike curled his body up and tightened his hold on the jacket as another hard sob racked his body.

June 26, 1981

"Now, Mssr. Scott," the live-in nanny, Sandrine, chirped in a heavily accented voice. "You can go play on the swings but don't let your suit get dirty. Understand?"

Scott Favor nodded his head energetically. Sandrine grabbed his besuited shoulder to calm him down.

"Mssr. Scott!" she shrilled. "Your mother told me to keep you clean and neat for your father's dinner tonight, no? That means no getting your hair all messy and such."

Scott slowly nodded his head before heading off towards the swings. He cast a casual glance over his shoulder. Sandrine had seated her denim-too-tight-to-belong-on-a-nanny clad backside on a park bench and was starting to read some sappy, French erotica book—or, at least, that's how an early-jaded Scott viewed them. Scott turned his view back forward and loosened his navy tie until it was able to be taken off. He then stripped his suit jacket off and slung it over an orange coat that had been heaped on a park bench.

Much to his surprise, the coat moved. Scott jumped back before clasping his tie in both hands and pulling it taut—ready to use it as a weapon. His own jacket fell to the grimy, crusty ground and a boy who looked to be his age sat up. He looked like he was drowning in that coat. He had a pointed chin and an upturned nose. His eyes were a startling shade of green and his dirty blonde hair was in a wild mess. Like a bird's nest.

Scott straightened himself and fixed his imaginary tie. His actual one hung loosely from his other hand.

"Hello," he greeted and stuck his "tie" straightening hand out.

The boy blinked those green eyes at him before glancing at Scott's outstretched hand and then back to Scott's face.

"It's customary to shake," Scott deepened his voice in a vain attempt to sound professional.

Cautiously, the boy stuck a sleeve out. He then pulled his other hand up and rolled back the sleeve to show his hand. Scott professionally clasped it how he saw his father do and gave a firm shake. The boy seemed eager to get his hand back so Scott let go. As if it were a spring, his hand immediately shot back into the sleeve.

"I'm Scott," he offered. "Scott Favor."

The boy cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brows.

"Don't you speak English?" Scott demanded, putting his hands on his hips.

Slowly—very slowly—the boy nodded.

"Yes," he said quietly. His voice sounded clogged like he had a cold.

"Then what's your name?"

He looked around the park, upper teeth lightly resting on his lower lip.

"Chris?" Scott wasn't sure if it was meant to sound like a question or not. Either way, he was grateful that there was another kid in his direct vicinity to play with. So what if he was a little weird?

"Well, Chris, why don't you come play on the swings with me?"

Another nervous glance.

"I dunno. Bernard and Lucy are coming soon."

Scott frowned. He wasn't used to rejection. Favor's always got what they wanted.

"Who are Bernard and Lucy?"

"My foster parents."

"Why aren't they here?"

Scott didn't mean to sound harsh. Chris's face got nervous and sad looking.

"Because I'm a bad boy," he said quietly. "I fell asleep again during my soccer game."

Scott was getting into deep territory. He decided to let it drop. He had learned at a young age that it was important to stay only on the surface. Things got messy when said surface was scratched.

"Well…okay th—"

He blinked his brown eyes rapidly. Chris was gone. Man, that kid could run fast. If it weren't for the dulling sound of sneakers on pavement, Scott would've thought that he imagined the whole thing.

1981: indefinite month/day

Mike ran from the park, that enormous jacket flapping around him. What a strange boy. Scott. That was his name. Kids rarely talked to Mike. Especially kids in fancy suits. Brooks Brothers. Mike could tell since the label had jabbed him in the eye and awakened him. He wondered if Scott had a mansion or just wore suits for fun and lived in a normal house. Either way, he was better off than him. And much easier at meeting people. If Mike hadn't been terrified of freaking him out, he would've gone and played with him. Maybe—

"Slow down, little sweetheart."

Mike stalled in his frantic sprinting. Frightened, he clutched the coat around him more tightly and looked wide-eyed around him.

That voice. Despite the strangeness of it…it sounded slightly comforting. Like cream pouring from a bottle into a bowl. Mike shivered despite the warm weather.

"Don't be scared," the owner of the voice was walking towards him.

He was a stocky, solid man with a thick mass of black hair and twinkling eyes. He kind of looked like a cross between Santa Claus and a hobo.

Mike shivered again and wished he had a knife or a stick or something. This was karma. He believed in that stuff. Read it in the library once.

He fell asleep midfield and used a fake name with Scott. He had banked some bad karma. This guy was going to…to kill him and leave his body for that pigeon to eat.

Then Mike noticed that a boy a little older than him was tagging along behind the man. He looked positively ecstatic to be with the guy so maybe he wasn't that bad.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" the man asked in a kind voice.

Mike contemplated using the same fake name—Chris—again but faltered. Bernard and Lucy, the fear of anyone knowing who he was couple, were probably never coming back. Or if they did, they'd smack him for falling asleep on the field and then being on a park bench. So why shouldn't he say his real name to this guy?

"M-Mike," he stammered, sniffing through his clogged nose.

The man smiled. It put Mike at ease a little. He didn't get any dangerous vibes from this guy.

"And how old are you, Mike?"

"T-ten."

To his surprise, the man chuckled.

"Do you always stutter?"

Mike shook his head rapidly and stared down at his shoes.

"No…" he glanced up, eyes wider than he'd ever felt them to be.

The man smiled and took a step closer. The little boy behind him followed. He appeared to be twelve, maybe thirteen or fourteen even.

"My name's Bob," he said smoothly. "Bob Pigeon. This is Budd. He's my protégé so to speak."

The boy smiled brightly, revealing a gap-toothed grin. Mike sheepishly returned the smile.

"Do you have a home, Michael?" Bob asked.

Mike shook his head.

"No," he whispered. "Not anymore."

"Anymore? Why, how come?"

Mike sniffed again.

"Because I was a bad boy," he said for the second time that day.

Bob knelt down so they were eye level.

"Why were you a bad boy?"

He had this…thing about him that just made Mike want to tell the truth.

"I was on a soccer team and I was passed the ball. And everyone was screaming and then I fell asleep."

This obviously must've taken him by surprise.

"Asleep?"

Mike nodded.

"Yeah. And when I woke up, I was on a bench being poked wiff' a stick."

"Now, that seems kind of rough to do to a child just for falling asleep at a soccer game."

"Oh, no," he made his eyes bigger. "It wasn't the first time. I fall asleep all the time. At school, at home…in the school pool. The world just spins and I fall asleep."

Bob and Budd shared an apprehensive look. Mike bit his lip. He said too much. He was going to be left alone again.

"My, my, poor child. Cast into the world for a simple problem. Well, my boy, worry no more about having no family," Bob proclaimed. "You will join mine!"

He stood back up and leaned back, seemingly appraising Mike.

"Hmmm…he can be like Gary and Digger. A pickpocket," he said, almost to himself.

Pickpocketing? Mike blinked his eyes rapidly. That was stealing! Did Bob expect him to steal from innocent people?

"…then he can join Budd's profession when he gets older," he nudged Budd lightly with his elbow.

"Right, Bob!" he said with a little jig.

Mike smiled dolefully. Despite the welcome and prospect of a new home, he still felt a pit of despair at the bottom of his stomach.

June 26, 1981

"Lovely night for a party, no?"

"Oh, it's so great to see you!"

Mwa! Mwa!

"Did you see Lillith?"

"Oh, heavens, yes. Chin tuck."

"Oh, what college is William going to?"

"Yale. Like his father. And Scott? Never too early to think about it."

Scott tuned out his mother's response and concentrated on sitting still. Usually, at parties such as these, he'd be fidgety and purposefully getting in trouble to push his parents' buttons. But tonight, he wanted to be the well-mannered boy they expected. He knew from experience that this could reap rewards.

The entire party was boring beyond belief though. Men dressed like penguins, boys acting too big for their britches, woman in floor-length couture gowns and their perfectly-manicured daughters. It was too much.

And the conversations! Amidst the constant praise for the Favor's new living room, petty gossip floated from everyone's lips to whomever was in earshot of a whisper. Even at age ten, Scott found this practice stupid and pretty useless.

The living room itself—which was more of a cocktail lounge with a television—had been expensively redecorated for the fall that wasn't due for another three months. Deep reds and chocolate browns. Wooden antiques from countries Scott couldn't pronounce. Fancy renaissance art with naked fat ladies. All useless in Scott's eyes. But no one ever listened to him. When you were prepubescent—a word he picked up from his usually good-for-nothing tutor—no one ever listened to what you had to say.

Instead, he sulked on an uncomfortable chair while guests cooed about how big he'd grown and what college he was to attend in eight years.

"Mother, can I go outside?" he asked suddenly.

His mother gave him an 'it's-not-polite-to-interrupt' look and her friends tittered about her being unable to control him.

"Scott," she proclaimed importantly. "We're going to be sitting down to dinner soon."

He sighed.

"I'll only be a minute, mother. Please?"

Not wanting to appear as a bad mother in the eyes of her friends, Eleanor Favor waved her son towards the elaborate, stone balcony.

Scott never understood why his parents even renovated their summer home in Seattle every year. It was redecorated just as often as their own home was in Portland and almost as elaborately. The only thing he did care about, though, was the awesome view of the city he got. The tall buildings loomed like sentries over its residents. The moon was like a Christmas ornament hung on the black tree that was the sky. It was amazing. He wondered if that kid—Chris—was out there somewhere. He felt bad for him. He had the scared look of a stray dog. Maybe he'd be at the park soon. Then Scott could talk to him again. He seemed to be a change from the show-pony sons of his parents' friends.

"Mon-so-year Scott?" the overly French maid, Babette, poked her head through the door. "Dee-neer is being surv'd."

Scott had had the niggling suspicion that she was as French as his gym socks—that is, if he had any—from the time he was seven and had heard the unmistakable accent of a New Yorker. Of course, at the time, he thought she just sounded like Bugs Bunny.

Regardless, he followed her begrudgingly into the house.

1981: October/indefinite day

Living with Bob was probably the best time of Mike's life. He lived on the roof of an old office building in a see-through plastic tent. The tent was filled with blankets and there was even a pillow!

All he had to do was take a few bills off of a passerby a few times a day and he had actual friends! Friends that looked out for him and didn't care when he fell asleep. He was even watched over.

Mike really had no perception of time other than another day ending. He didn't even know autumn was upon them until it got really cold. That was when he knew he was eleven. His birthday was roughly a month before the autumnal equinox. He had actually had a party once he had told Bob that his birthday had passed. One of the pickpockets—who, coincidentally, was one of the kids who had poked him with a stick—stole a cake from a bakery and he had actually had a party. Like a normal kid!

He had a family. A real family that took care of him and…made him feel normal. Mike had never felt normal in his life.

Two of the pickpockets, Digger and Gary, weren't really street kids. They lived with their parents and only worked for Bob after school and on weekends but planned to ditch their lives and live permanently on the street since, according to Gary, they were too stupid to do anything else. That was how Mike felt. He fell asleep a lot. He'd be fired. The only reason he got to stay on the soccer team for so long was because Bernard hadn't been refunded the money he had put up for him to be put on the team in the first place.

But now…now he was happy. He actually had people who cared about what happened to him!

Sometimes they took trips to Portland to visit this old lady, Jane, who was a friend of Bob's. Mike liked those especially because her boarding house was heated and she treated the kids like they were her grandchildren.

It was during one of these trips—sometime near Halloween judging by the decorations in storefronts—that Mike saw Scott Favor for the second time.

He and Gary were walking on the streets, looking for a Goodwill store to buy stuff for their costumes. Bob had finally given in and allowed the three youngest to go trick-or-treating under the condition that they had to also filch candy from other kids.

That day was a clear day in Autumn. The kind of day that makes you want to run to the park and jump in a pile of leaves. Mike and Gary had been walking down the street when a sleek, black limo caught their eye.

"Shit, dude," Gary mused. "That guy is loaded."

Mike still wasn't used to obscenities being used by kids his age and cringed a little. Then he noticed Gary's brown eyes light up and, when the light hit them, he could even see little dollar signs.

"Dude!" he grabbed Mike's shoulder. "Dude, if we steal from this guy, Bob-dude would be most pleased, you know?"

Mike nodded and waited until Gary lifted his hand off of his jacket to speak.

"But I dunno. If we get caught, it'd be twice as bad."

"Don't be chickenshit, dude!" Gary protested. "We're kids! It'll be like Oleander Twist. No one gets mad at the cute kids unless your ask for more gruel, dude!"

Mike furrowed his brow but, in the end, agreed. That is, until he saw who was walking towards the limousine. It was Scott. Even all those months later, he could remember the suit-wearing boy who had tried to befriend him for such a short moment. A woman in a pair of extremely tight pants and a sleeveless shirt that showed a lot of middle-aged arm was behind him, carting a huge, white box and a black garment bag. Of course they could afford to go to a fancy costume shop and buy stuff good enough to be put in a bag. His assumption that Scott's suit-wearing had been for wealth was confirmed. Mike couldn't help but be impressed. Not with the wealth but that Scott had spoken to him. Kids who had limos never spoke to Mike. Of course, he'd never known a kid who had a limo but he could justifiably say that they wouldn't speak to them. Kids with Volvos didn't even speak to him.

"Hey!" Gary whispered excitedly. "Do you know that richie? 'Cause he's looking over here, dude."

So he was. Mike fiddled nervously with the zipper of his jacket. Scott waved to him. Recognition? He got recognition? The woman looked at them and cast a look that Mike figured she'd also give if she saw a cut-open pigeon on the ground. He suddenly got the impression that the garment bag was a body bag and the hanger was where the head was to go. He felt ill. It didn't help that Gary was waving overzealously back with a goofy grin on his face. Then…and then Scott started to walk over to him.

"Mssr. Scott!" the woman shrilled. "Get back here!"

He paid no mind and continued walking towards them.

"I thought you lived in Seattle," he said the moment he was near them.

Mike had no idea what to say. He just sniffled through his cold. For once, he was thankful for chatterbox Gary.

"We do but we're visiting a friend of Bob's…he's our protector and…shit like that, dude," he spouted at rapid-fire speed. "And I don't think we've been introduced."

He put his hands on his hips and smiled, revealing the gap between his front teeth. Gary was one of those kids that had the potential of being cute but never cared enough to make an effort. He had thick, wavy black hair and a pale face that was already defining a strong-jaw. He was short and skinny and always wore the hats that Mike saw on shriveled cab drivers.

Scott, boy was he professional, gave a speedy once over of all of this using only his eyes before straightening up.

"I'm Scott Favor," he said in an office-room voice.

Mike couldn't help but be mystified by this. Scott was amazing. He had only met him twice but he was already labeling him a "role-model" in his mind.

"I'm Gary, dude. And I think you already know—"

"Chris, right?" Scott turned to Mike and smiled.

"No, dude, Mi—"

Mike stepped on his foot.

"Yeah," he answered sheepishly. "Chris."

Dimwitted though he was, Gary understood that 'pain equals keep-your-mouth-shut' and loyally remained silent. This was quite the feat for a motormouth like him.

"Where are you to off to?" Scott asked in that same, professional voice.

"Goodwill," Gary answered immediately. "For costumes. Real cheap."

Scott frowned.

"Goodwill?" Mike could tell that the word sounded foreign on his tongue.

"Yeah, where the clothes lives," Gary rolled his eyes.

"Live," Scott corrected in a deadpan.

"What?"

"Live. You over pluralized it."

"I what?"

Yep, definitely role model material. This kid was too cool.

"Mssr. Scott!" the woman strode over and grabbed his besuited arm. Mike bet that it was another Brooks Brothers one. "Leave zeez urchins and come on!"

"Hey!" Gary shouted. "Who you callin' 'zeez urchins', bitch?"

Mike wanted to run away then. The woman's nostrils flared and she looked about to spew fire.

"What did you call me, you little bastard?"

Gary's mouth dropped opened. Mike knew from his months of being friends with him that Gary took extreme offense to being called a bastard. He once told Mike because he was one. He had no idea who his birth father was. Mike could relate. He could barely remember his own family. He didn't even remember a dad. He remembered his brother who once visited him at a foster home and had vague recollections of his mother.

"Don't call me that!" Gary screamed.

Mike grabbed the back of his silk, letterman-style jacket so he wouldn't tackle her.

"Come on," he quietly urged. "She doesn't know…dude."

Gary looked like he was about to cry. When he cried he nearly broke the sound barrier. Mike, instead, pulled him away. He kept his head down and said nothing. He yanked hard on Gary's jacket and the two broke into a run. He thought he heard Scott call out to him but he was already halfway down the block.

They never made it to Goodwill.

October 31, 1981

Mike was sick. Really sick. The kind of sick that kept you from going out on Halloween. He just stayed in his tent and slept. Bob had given him a little TV and he watched Partridge Family reruns on it while the others got ready to pickpocket, deal drugs, and turn tricks. Mike watched a boy about twice his age get ready to pick up a john through the smudged plastic of his tent. That was going to be him soon. Bob said he'd be able to turn tricks once he turned fifteen. It was like a promotion. A rather promiscuous—a word he read on a page from a Word-a-Day calendar he found in the gutter—promotion but he still felt like it was a way to move up.

On the two by two glowing screen, Danny had let loose a quip on the manager and the audience was going wild. Mike turned it off. His head pounded and he didn't need canned laughter. It only made it worse. Instead, he plopped down on his pillow and pulled a blanket over him. Digger had promised him candy—amidst other ramblings—but it wasn't the same as getting it yourself.

He felt rank. It was the first time he had felt truly rank since Bob had taken him in. He sniffed through his ever-clogged nose—the freezing weather was doing him no favors—and curled up to get ready for a long, long night of sickness.

October 31, 1981

"I got a new boat to match my costume."

"My, Muffy, what a wonderful little costume. You look just like that young woman."

Scott turned his gaze to the girl in question. His own mother was tittering about how uncouth it was for a girl to dress as an exotic dancer while Muffy VanFossen flounced about in a Flashdance costume. The boat-boy was Scott's supposed best friend, Charles Archibald, who was dressed as a skipper. Scott thought he looked like a throwback from Gilligan's Island—a show Sandrine loved and would force Scott to watch.

He himself was dressed like a musketeer who had lost two friends and was seated on a stone bench on the balcony.

For the party, the well-to-do Portland families gathered in the Favor's Seattle summer home which was customary to every Halloween.

Scott always felt restless but tonight…tonight he wanted to get out and roam the streets of Seattle with the other kids. He wanted to be normal for once. To go from house to house and, for a simple phrase, gain candy. Maybe even see that kid, Chris. For some reason, Scott couldn't get him out of his head. He was so odd and so interesting. He was different from the ho-hum, to-the-manner-born kids he usually interacted with.

"Scottie!" Charles' voice broke through and derailed his train of thought. "It's time for Halloween games."

Halloween games consisted of the kids running around blindfolded and looking for slices of fruit while the parents rated and berated them.

Suddenly, he despised Charles in his navy blazer and maroon ascot. Muffy's costume wasn't cute so much as trashy. The parents' laughter and collective clink of glasses sounded like bacon frying and popcorn popping at the same time. He needed an escape.

Expertly, he marched back into the party and out the door of the lounge. Luckily, for once, no one noticed him. With as much speed as you could muster in pointy, brown-leather boots and a cape, Scott ran from the house and down the sloping lawn. He broke free from the wrought iron gate and out into the cold, clear night. The moon sheltered him like his own private nanny and he took off into the night.

October 31, 1981

Scott scanned the busy street. He knew exactly what—or, rather, who—he was looking for. Kids in brightly colored masks and garishly painted faces whisked past him. He had to find Chris.

He spotted that talkative kid, Gary, with a blonde boy who had the appearance of a scared antelope. Gary was what appeared the be a vampire. He wore a cape and had his face painted white. Buck teeth were worn instead of the customary fangs so Scott couldn't tell if he was really a vampire or a zombie in need of orthodontia.

The blonde boy was wearing an extremely oversized backwards cap and a yellow sweatshirt and sweatpants with yellow feathers glued on. A piece of cardboard colored with orange marker was cut into a rough, bill shape and the same cardboard was cut into webbed feet over his shoes. He was carrying two bags.

"Hey!" Gary proclaimed in a slightly slurred voice. "The richie's slummin' it, dude!"

He elbowed his companion and the two approached him. The blonde boy pushed his cap back away from his eyes and smiled from under his bill.

"Hi," he said timidly. "I'm Digger. And—"

Gary elbowed him.

"Ignore him and thank me. I stopped a Digger-ramble," he said. "So what is a rich-case like you, dude, doing out here with the steaming masses?"

"Teeming," Scott corrected instinctively. Years with a straight-laced-ironed-underwear tutor made him correct people. "And I'm—"

"Looking for Chris," Gary interjected, spitting his buck teeth into the palm of his free hand.

Digger furrowed his brow which caused his hat to fall down again.

"Who?"

Gary whispered something into his ear and he nodded, blue eyes suddenly the size of discs.

"Ohhh," he said sheepishly. "Chris is sick. He's on our rooftop."

Upon receiving directions to said rooftop, Scott started away.

"Wait!" Gary wrenched the second bag out of Digger's hands. "Give this to him. We promised him we'd get him candy."

He took the bag and bid the duck and vampire adieu before heading to visit his rather peculiar acquaintance.

October 31, 1981

Mike liked his tent. He made a vow to himself, as he lay there in half-fevered sleep, that no matter where he went, he'd build a tent like this. The see-through plastic was always in ample supply behind buildings and made a translucent veil around him. After that vow, he promised himself that he'd travel more. He'd go visit his brother. He lived…in one of the 'I' states. His brother…maybe he knew something about his mother.

Mike vaguely recalled her. He remembered being held in her arms as a baby in a puffy coat like the kind baby girls wore. She'd hold him and sing to him. It was—

"Chris?"

Mike sat up suddenly and nearly retched. Scott Favor was standing outside his tent. Tentatively, he crawled out and stood on the slab of poured cement. He was still feverish and immediately felt the compulsion to sit down.

"Here," Scott thrust a full pillowcase at him. "It's from Gary and Digger."

Mike numbly took the bag and placed it near his tent. He felt like he was about to pass out.

"Thanks," his voice was merely a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

Scott shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with his feathered hat.

"I wanted to see you…how you live and stuff," he said without a shred of sheepishness. "And it was more exciting than sitting in my family's stuffy lounge."

Mike was about to reply but was cut off by a booming voice behind him.

"Sweetheart! You brought company!"

Bob lumbered up to Scott wearing his royal blue terrycloth robe over his usual garb.

"And what fine company it is," he proclaimed.

He tilted his head and grabbed the sleeve of Scott's puffy shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

"My, if I didn't know better, I'd say that was real silk."

Scott wrenched his sleeve back, unabashed.

"It is," he replied.

"Real silk? Who did you steal it from?"

Scott rolled his shoulders back, the huge feather in his hat bobbing up and down.

"My father paid for it," he said with half-lidded deadpan.

"Your father?"

Mike took this opportunity to crawl back into his tent. As much as he wanted to talk to Scott, he was hopelessly ill. He grabbed his pillowcase full of candy and curled up on the blankets.

He vaguely wondered if by this time next year, Scott Favor would've forgotten all about him. He figured so. Cool kids like Scott always forgot loser kids like Mike. His curiosity would fade and he'd go back to his rich, perfect life. This was probably the last he'd ever see of the charcoal-haired boy who, despite his coolness and role-model material-ness, would only be a footnote on Mike's book of life.