He was always on the 7:15 am bus. Monday through Friday the young man sat in the third seat from the front next to the window. A worn brown leather backpack would be clutched in his hands as he stared out the window. He never looked sad, but he also never looked happy. The boy just seemed to exist and nothing more. At 7:52 he would exit the bus and make his way toward the largest preparatory school in the state. Every day it was the same.

That week it had been raining, no, pouring nonstop. The heavens had opened up, leaving the sky gray and gloomy. Storm drains were plugged, resulting in flooded street corners. Cars created their own rain clouds as they flew through the puddles. Water was everywhere, and there was no end in sight.

Large rain drops pelted the windows of the bus as a large gust of wind howled past. The boy continued to look on, uncaring of the anger Mother Nature displayed only inches from his face. A flash of lightning illuminated his deep green eyes before the rumble of thunder echoed through the sky. The bus creaked as the driver took a slow left turn. Everybody on the bus was somber, the effects of the weather clearly visible in their expressions and posture. Still, the boy looked on, his expression never changing even as another streak of lightning touched the ground.

Gold eyes moved to and fro, never looking up from the novel. It was a well loved book, the corners on the back cover were torn and bent, the pages discolored from years of use and the cover held on by tape and a prayer. It was the man's first time on the 7:15 bus. He looked up and caught a glimpse of wheat colored hair before turning his gaze back to his novel.

It was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy found she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around, and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.

The bus lurched to a stop, signaling the end of the youth's and golden eyed man's journey. Slipping a scrap of paper into the page, the man put the book in his briefcase and stood up to leave. He edged along the row of seats and as he passed the seat of the youth he bumped into a plump old woman, uttered an apology and quickly hurried off the bus. The youth, waiting for a very stressed young man to get up so he could leave his seat, watched as the book fell out of the stranger's briefcase. He left his seat, uttered a thank you to the young man who wasn't even listening to him, and picked up the book. Holding it tightly in his hand, he exited the cramped bus.

The rain pelted him in the face and to his horror, the book as well. He immediately tucked the book into his pristine gray jacket and made his way toward the school.

Gil had searched everywhere but he could not find his beloved book. He had called the bus station, retraced his steps, but it was to no avail. His favorite book, the one given to him by a very special person, was gone.

You will remember there was no road-not even a pathway- between the castle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City. When the four travelers went in search of the Witch she had seen them coming, and so sent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her. It was much harder to find their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow daisies than it was being carried.

Page after page turned past the young man's eyes as he drank in the story of Dorothy and her journey home. He could hear muffled yells and sobs through his walls, but he ignored them and continued the journey through the land of Oz.

For years Oz Bezarius had believed his parents loved him and each other as only a child could. He could see no fault in his father, who worked long hours and was away on business trips for weeks on end. As for his mother, he had seen the sadness in her eyes, but had thought that it was due to the absence of his father, and not the growing hole that would soon encompass her heart. The trouble came when Oz reached the age of 10. His father would go on even longer business trips and his mother rarely ever smiled, even when Oz gave her his best smiles. It was when his father was home from one of these trips that he first heard the screams, the accusations and the crying. Tiptoeing to his parents' room, he saw his mother sitting on the bed, her head in her hands. Tears streamed through her fingers and down her arms, staining the beautiful burgundy shirt that hung from her petite frame. His father was faced towards their large glass balcony doors. Neither now spoke, but even Oz could feel the cold, dead feelings in the air.

It didn't get better after that. The more his father was gone, the thinner and lonelier his mother became. It was on the day of his 11th birthday that Oz lost all the light in his eyes.

He had woken up, feeling particularly good about being a year older. Though his father had decided not to return for his birthday, his mother had promised him a wonderful dinner and lots of gifts. His mother's eyes had seemed somewhat far away when she had spoken to him; he thought she was just preoccupied, especially with his father being away again, so he shrugged off any negative feelings. So that morning, he took a long, hot bath, changed into his favorite t-shirt and jeans and rushed downstairs to greet his mother. Unfortunately, she was nowhere to be found. He searched the kitchen, the dining room, the foyer, everywhere and still his mother was missing. Working his way up, he searched her bedroom, the guest bedrooms and bathrooms and even the scary attic, but it was like his mother had turned to smoke and drifted away.

Thinking she was out shopping, he turned his attention to getting ready for his party. Oz did not have many friends, as his parents' wealth and notoriety made him an outcast. His father was the CEO of a large oil company that had recently come under fire due to corruption charges. On the other hand, his mother stayed at home, looking after him. Oz did not care about either his father's job or his mother's lack of one, but he did worry about not having friends. Still, the servants and his mother had planned a grand party and he had invited his uncle Oscar, one of the few people who saw Oz as the boy he truly was.

By three o'clock, Oz began to worry about his mother's whereabouts, as his party started at four. He asked the maids and none of them knew where his mother had gone. Going outside to their expansive estate, he wandered toward his mother's garden; a massive collection of roses of all different colors. In the middle was a large koi pond, where he knew his mother loved to watch the fish swim in lackadaisical circles. The rose garden stretched throughout the end of the estate and very few people ever wandered that far out, but Oz found his feet taking him toward the smell of roses. As he drew closer, he saw something floating in the pond.

It was his mother.

Her silky gold hair floated with the fish, weaving amongst the lily pads and rose petals. A long white dress, her wedding gown, made her look ethereal, even as her body floated on the surface of the water. He could not see her face, but he knew without a doubt that her eyes were open and a smile was on her lips. It was then that Oz screamed.

It was a foggy day and Oz was once again on the bus. He was glad his father was leaving today because he couldn't stand the guilt and the sorrow. All he wanted was to return the book and be alone. The book's owner was nowhere to be seen though and Oz left the bus without the returning the tattered thing.

For two weeks it went on like this, with Oz bringing the book onto the bus and eventually leaving with it. He was beginning to give up hope that he would ever return it.

Gil, on the other hand, had flung himself into a depression so deep that he had missed a week of work. His skin was pale and dark circles appeared under his eyes. He could not live without the book, his most beloved possession.

Gil had no memories of his past aside from those involving his little brother, Vincent. He could not remember his mother or father, where he was born, or even his own birthday. A doctor had once told him that if a person tries hard enough, they can subconsciously destroy their memories. That worried Gil, as he feared the reasons as to why he couldn't recall anything before Vincent was a little boy. His first memories were those of Vincent flinging himself onto another little boy in an orphanage, trying to gouge the terrified child's eyes out for making fun of the color of his eyes.

After that incident, Gil and Vincent were moved from orphanage to orphanage, each sending the two away because of Vincent's violent outbreaks. When Vincent was 13, he was sent to a juvenile detention center for stabbing a grown man with a pair of scissors. The man had threatened Gil for talking to his girlfriend. For six months Vincent showed signs of improvement in the center, being cooperative to guards, not threatening the other youths and showing an improvement in his overall demeanor. Unfortunately, Gil was the only one who knew it was an act.

Vincent was a cunning and ruthless child. What he wanted, he would have and if he couldn't get it, he would destroy it. The one thing Vincent loved more than the color of blood was his big brother. He would do anything for Gil and that frightened his older brother.

The day Vincent was let out of the center, he found a stray dog. What Gil remembered after that was a horrible memory, one he wished he could also forget.

"Hey Vincent, what was it like in the facility? Where they mean to you? Did you get enough to eat?" asked Gil, feeling a sort of sad relief his brother was free. They were walking down a shady part of the city, toward a shelter for abandoned children.

"Of course, Gil. Everyone loved me there. How could they not when all they saw through their rose colored glasses was a boy trying desperately to reunite with his one and only brother?" Vincent replied.

"Well, I'm glad you're out. What should we do next? I managed to scrounge some money together while you were away. It should be enough for a couple of bus tickets out of here."

But Gil could tell his voice had fallen on deaf ears, as Vincent's eyes had turned hazy, his gaze following that of a stray dog. It was limping badly, whining, blood trailing from a gash on its right hip. Vincent's eyes followed that stream of blood that flowed from the wound, down the animal's leg, to the street, where it mingled with the dirt of the city. As if sensing evil, the dog's ears laid flat, a low growl emanated from its throat as it slowly backed its way into an alley, hoping to fend off the unwanted person.

Vincent followed the dog even as Gil yelled at him to stop and leave it alone. In that dark, putrid alley the dog was trapped between a rusting metal fence and the murderous intent of a young boy. To his right, a broken pipe lay glistening on the ground, just asking to be used. Slowly kneeling down, he picked up the pipe, feeling its weight in his hands. He swung it back and forth in slow, methodical arcs, enjoying the way the air moved past him with each swing. Then he turned toward the dog, his eyes wide and his mouth spread into a thin, deadly smile.

The pipe came down on the dog's head and it gave out a short yelp. Then another blow and another, one to his shoulders, his back, his legs. With each blow the dog jerked and twitched and after a few more seconds, only silenced remained. A deep crimson rolled down the pipe onto Vincent's hand. He merely smiled at the blood before dropping his weapon to the ground. Gil stood behind his brother, his eyes wide in terror. There were no words, no tears, only silence and that frightened Gil more than anything else.

Then Vincent kneeled down, picked up the dog's head and cradled it in his lap. Gil could not hear the whispered words coming out of his brother's lips, but he knew it was an apology. Then Vincent, his eyes once more wild, drove his pointer finger and thumb into the dog's eye socket and ripped out its eye. It was then that Gil threw up as his brother laughed.

For years, Vincent continued to act this way, forcing Gil to realize the truth; his brother was irreversibly sick. It was when Gil confronted Vincent about this that everything went out of control. He had been 18 when he shot Vincent in the chest. His brother had attacked him with a kitchen knife, blaming him for everything that had happened to their parents and what would happen to Vincent if Gil had him taken to a doctor. The gun had been a precaution, something Gil wanted to protect himself and his brother. Funny how life had worked out.

Gil ran his hand through his raven locks, remembering the day the paramedics had come, saying that Vincent was in a coma. The police had told Gil that it wasn't his fault, that his brother was schizophrenic and would have eventually killed him, but that didn't ease the guilt in his heart. A few months later, Vincent died in that hospital room and with him, all of Gil's happiness faded away.

The day he learned his brother had died, he went to go pick up his things and within his brother's belongings was a book. Inside read:

To my dearest brother: Happy "fake" birthday! I love you the most. Vincent.

It was The Wizard of Oz by Leo Tolstoy. His brother planned to give him the book on his birthday. Vincent had been shot by his brother the day before he planned on giving him the book. It was then that Gil began to cry.

Sitting on the 7:15am bus, Gil looked like a beggar, his clothes hung loosely off his frame and his hair covered half his face. Oz almost didn't recognize him, but upon closer inspection, realized that the briefcase was the same. Standing up, Oz made his way toward the bedraggled stranger, thinking that the man was either a poor dresser, was sick or was a serial killer. Sitting down next to him, he opened his backpack and laid the book on the man's lap. Gil pretended to not care about the stranger and continued to stare forward. Oz gave the man one more glance before getting up and returning to his usual seat. It was when Gil looked down that he saw it. His book. Tears began to stream down his face as he slowly ran his fingers over its cover. He looked up, but the youth was no longer there. Searching through the bus, he caught sight of blonde hair, a radiant halo amongst a sea of gray. Stumbling to make it to the youth, the bus jolted to a stop, flinging Gil forward. He saw the young man exit the bus and Gil immediately pushed himself forward, shoving people aside as he made his way toward the exit.

Oz felt good that he had returned the book, even though the stranger had been ungrateful. Now he could go back to living his solitary life, a life without Dorothy, Tin Man, Scarecrow or even the Cowardly Lion. It was when he felt a presence behind him that he flung around, ready to fight any attacker. However, it was the book's owner standing there, staring at him.

"You are an angel," Gil managed to whisper out.

Oz just stood there, unable to say anything.

"You are an angel from heaven," Gil said louder.

Oz gave him a sad smile, his shock fading away. "Perhaps a broken one," he replied.

It was then that Gil began to laugh and Oz gave him a queer look, wondering if the man was perhaps insane. But even so, both of them felt it, a bond stronger than steel.

"Did you read it?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Every day."

Both of them smiled at each other then.

"Would you like to talk about the book?"

"Yes."

And so Oz skipped school and Gil missed work and the both of them spent the day talking about a world where life is a little less complicated. From the book they talked about life and love and eventually, they found within themselves a new hope, one where the shadows could not overpower their hearts. Gil eventually talked about Vincent and Oz about his parents. Their mutual sadness made them friends, but it was the bond of their hearts that made them more. Even now, that book rests in the middle of their bookshelf, a reminder of all the sadness and happiness in their lives.