Timothy stood in front of a puddle in his room. The unfortunate drippage was coming from a wide hole in his wall, which was nearly the size of his head. Thunder clapped loudly in the distance as the rain barreled in. The boy hadn’t been able to find a bucket, so instead he just watched as the water spread across the planks of his floor, likely causing more mildew and rot than there already was. He reached out, letting his hand become drenched in the torrent. It felt nice against his skin, like the cold air of a fan after a long time in the sun. He smiled, though he knew the moment had to be a passing one.

Already, he could hear the humdrum from downstairs as the others started to stir. Despite the sky being littered with grey clouds, the need for breakfast was surely enough to get them up and motivated. A grumble in his stomach confirmed his suspicions, though he would have to ignore the sensation for now. He was already late for his chores, and he was sure that it wouldn’t go unnoticed. So, with much haste and a lot of backtracking, he got ready for the day.

The first thing to do was to put on his clothes, so on went his tattered white shirt and his ripped jeans. The style of the pants was clearly not intentional, judging by the cuts that showed through them, but Timothy didn’t seem to mind. He attempted to tame the mass of yellow hair on his head. The comb attacked at the roots and knots, but their defense proved to be too strong. With a cheerful shrug, he discarded the comb in a small box beneath a three-legged table.

He didn’t mean to get distracted, but the other contents of the soggy cardboard container had an allure about them. The lid folded open, even though it wasn’t supposed to, and he reached his hand in. He produced an old book, though if it had a name it was unmarked. There were many missing pages from where a pair of scissors had ripped into them, leaving hanging fragments of paper forever alone and squashed between the covers. The reason for this massacre followed quickly out as he produced a set of stick figures.

He had to be careful when he held them; they were made out of bits of the floor after all. There was a chance he would lodge a splinter beneath his fingernail or scratch himself badly on the edges. The deteriorating planks would not serve as great playthings by themselves, however. On the fronts, plastered in awkward and fading postings, were little cutouts of paper. There were several of these, and they had clearly been treasured immensely. There was a man with a fishing pole, trying his best to catch a fish in a pond that was just out of the reach. A girl in a pretty dress was in the process of falling, but Timothy had positioned her in such a way that it looked like she was standing- albeit in an awkward position. Finally, there were his favorite figures. It was of a couple, with two big smiling faces. The man, who was obviously supposed to be a husband, stood on the left. He wore nice clothes, and he reached one of his hands up in a friendly wave. His other was clasping that of his wife’s, who accepted the gesture happily. She was in a short puffed-out dress detailed in a white checkered pattern. An apron was over this, with bits of flour and stains sprawled in pleasing patterns across the white fabric. Instead of waving, her hand was reaching out, as if to welcome whoever she was facing.

Timothy’s ears perked up as the rumble from downstairs grew louder. His heart sank as he realized that he had been wasting time, and quickly shoved his things back into the box. Racing to the door, he reached through a hole in the wall, wrapping his arm back around so that he could unlock the door from the outside. With a click, the thing swung open with a desperate howl, and he was off. The stairs halted his rush momentarily. He needed to be careful here, as there were several steps that were missing planks. If he was unlucky, there was a chance that he could wind up in the dining room way quicker than he wanted to. But after all these years, he was quite an expert at navigating the treacherous path, and he was at the bottom in no time.

There was no time wasted as he ran by all the other kid’s rooms. Unlike his solitary attic, the places that the rest slept in were much more communal. There were a few large rooms on the stretch of a long hallway, full of a dozen beds or so. Timothy wondered what it would be like to share such a space with someone else. It must be lovely to have all that time together. He wondered what they must talk about.

After another staircase, which was thankfully more there than the other, he arrived at the first floor. Unlike the rest of the orphanage, this place had been given some upkeep. The main entrance way had a lovely red carpet to lead guests inside to a waiting room. The tan wooden walls reached up to a height that you wouldn’t hit your head on, which was very pleasant. Timothy still had bumps on his head from absentmindedly banging himself into the slanted walls of his attic- though it was nothing that a little band-aid couldn’t fix.

Timothy realized that he was lost in another trance as someone coming down the stairs bumped into him. “Hey, watch it!” A short guy named Nathan shouted as he walked away.

The frazzled boy would have apologized, but he was already gone. This always happened to him. It seemed that no matter what he wanted to say, the people around him always left before he could get a word out inch wise. Though that was okay- what he was going to say probably wouldn’t be important, anyway.

His head hung low; Timothy followed Nathan into the next room. This place was wide and long and was spacious enough to have three windows all along the back wall. In the center was a massive plastic table being supported by several flimsy legs and the sheer will of a cheap budget. On the table there was nothing- which was the problem.

Already kids had taken their assigned seats, with their faces pulled into annoyed and confused expressions. Timothy would have hit himself for his lateness, but that would have been weird to do when people were around. Quickly, he stormed through another door, and the scent of the kitchen greeted him with all the pleasantness of a quick death.

A tall woman, standing behind a stove that was one day away from causing a grease fire, snapped her gangly head around to face him as he entered. “Late. Again.” Her words came out like the smoke billowing up from a pan.

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better,” the boy said, with his face the picture of remorse.

Agness didn’t really care to hear his explanation for two reasons. Firstly, excuses were for the commies and the weak. There is only doing and not doing, and the boy was clearly doing the latter. Secondly, her hearing-aid batteries hadn’t gotten replaced in a year, and she didn’t have the energy left to strain.

With a burnt hand, the woman pointed at series of plates across the chipped countertop. The food was already getting cold, and Timothy rushed to pick up the pace. Having done this all his life, he knew how to put several dishes on his arms to increase his carrying capacity. That was the easy part. It was getting through the stubborn door to the dining room that was the problem. Thankfully, he had a technique for this as well. With a twirl around, Timothy kicked his foot out at the bottom of it, sending the door swinging open for the briefest window of time. But, with the agility of a server, he managed to rush to the other side before he received a shot to the gut by a nob.

“Finally,” He heard a girl named Kate say as he started putting the plates down. “What took you so long, shithead?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Timothy began. “I got distracted. I promise it won’t…”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it.”

The next half-hour went like it always did. Timothy waited for Agness to cook the food, then took it out to the other kids. The cycle was an easy one to remember, and the motions fell like a rhythm. After a while, the scent of burning eggs and grits stung the nose. But what better way to start the day than with the smell of breakfast? At least, that was what Mr. Graham had told them was true.

Each kid eventually tumbled down the stairs to get their fill of grub- some later than others. But despite being overcrowded, there weren’t that many mouths to feed. There were the younger ones that needed a little guidance to their chairs. They never finished all of their food. Not because there was plenty of it, but rather because their tastebuds hadn’t had time to adjust to the unique taste. There were the kids that were middle-aged, well, for orphanage standards, at least. The prepubescent and pre-teens were typically the hardest to get down. They sometimes had a habit of tossing their plates on the ground and shout about how they wanted ‘real food.’ Timothy would often clean the messes up and wonder what they meant by that. Finally, the last subgroup of orphans were the elders. By the time they got to that age, they had got the gist of what this place was about. They never put up much of a fuss, but sometimes they wouldn’t show up.

Come to think of it, more and more people weren’t showing up for breakfast. Timothy had worried about them and went to check their rooms to see if they were alright. But each time, he wouldn’t be able to find them. Whenever he asked someone about this, he received mixed responses. ‘Runaways- don’t bother with them,’ Mr. Graham said. ‘The others just ran out of time.’

That last part had always stuck with him. What did he mean by ‘out of time?’ Were they running late for something?

Clang!

Timothy had been daydreaming again, and the consequences were quickly apparent. As he collided with one of the older boys, he watched as bits of egg and black toast flew through the air. He also watched as he, as well as the food, hit the floor with a splash. Thankfully, through sheer luck, none of the plates had shattered. This made him sigh with relief, as he was thankful that he wouldn’t be having another scar on his foot.

“For fuck’s sake,” a red-headed boy named Andrew spat. “Don’t you have eyes?”

“I do, but I didn’t see you there!” He was already clambering to scrape up the waste from the floorboards. “Are you okay?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

He paused to actually think about it. “Well, there’s nothing on your clothes that I can see. But I may have left a bruise! Would you like me too…”

“Just shut up,” Andrew groaned, but then a coy smile appeared on his face. “Hey, you missed a spot!” Bringing his foot back, he kicked up a bit of egg off the floor and flung it at the klutz.

Not prepared for this, Timothy cried out when a bit of yellow matter shot into one of his eyes. He clutched at it, his body already producing tears in an attempt to purge it. Some of the kids still at the table chuckled as he doubled over. It was fine, though. He would just have to wait until it came out, and then the pain would go away.

Andrew laughed and turned to his friends. “Damn, they need to get better people to work here.”

Timothy was a little confused by that remark, but he was in too much pain to ask a question. Instead, he picked himself up and ran back into the kitchen. Perhaps Agness could help him? His vision was blurry, so it took him a minute to realize that the woman had already left. The only thing there to greet him was a giant pile of dirty dishes climbed high inside the sink. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise. After all, Agness was just the cook, not the cleaner.

Moving aside a few of the plates, he ducked his head under the rusting faucet. It took a second for the water to start running, but when it did, it came out as cold as ice. Hesitantly, he opened his eye under the stream, and regretted it instantly. He fell back, his pain having only been doubled as his entire body shivered.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated to himself, with his hand firmly clutching his eye. “The pain won’t last forever. It goes away with time. Just let it pass.”

A few minutes went by as he waited for the sensation to end. To keep himself busy, he started doing his next chore. The plates weren’t going to clean themselves, unfortunately. So, taking a rather hard rag and an almost empty bottle of soap, he started to scrub. It was a monotonous task, but one that he was used to by now. Each circular motion brought suds across the dish in white foam. The water hadn’t got warm yet, but he wasn’t waiting for it too. The hot water heater had been broken for ages. He had gotten used to the sensation of dunking his hand into the icy depths of the sink. Sometimes he liked to imagine that he was reaching down into the depths of the ocean, trying to find a lost jewel in the murky waves.

Timothy giggled, forgetting about the pain in his eyes and hands. The dishes were his favorite chore, which was an accomplishment considering his many options. Here, he could sit back and let his imagination run wild- and be helpful too! Though, no matter how hard he scrubbed, the pile of dishes never seemed to end. It had been half an hour now, and he wasn’t close to being finished.

But a new form of entertainment arrived as the boy peered out a window. The storm was still going strong, with rain pelting the side of the orphanage in occasional bursts. Timothy was quite familiar with the nature storms, given the hole in his wall, so it was not this that interested him.

“Damnit!” a figure outside cried out in a muffled scream.

The voice sounded familiar, and Timothy searched his brain, identifying it. Soon, an answer shot into his mind like a message from above. The man outside was called Warner, if he recalled correctly. He had seen him a few times coming up from the basement, often with varying levels of emotion. Sometimes he was in the cheeriest of spirits, but most times he was the opposite. The boy recalled the scowl that he got once from asking him if he needed anything. It was the sort of look that would have made elephants turn around and blush.

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“What are you doing in here?”

Timothy spun around to find Mr. Graham standing behind him. “My chores, sir.”

The hunching man squinted his eyes. “Which one are you?”

“My name’s Timothy,” he was happy to reply. “Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mr. Graham waved his hands in front of his face, like he was batting away the notion. With a swaying bend to his walk, he approached the boy, getting a closer look at him. “You better not have snuck in here. There’s paperwork for that.”

“I’ve been here since I was a baby, sir,” Timothy said.

There was a moment of doubt in Mr. Graham, but he decided it was best to ignore it. One more problem wasn’t going to do anyone any good- unless you were a lawyer, that is. “So, I put you in charge of cleaning, is that right?” He asked, with his breath producing a strong, stinging odor.

The boy nodded. “The serving too, and the repairing. I’m sorry I haven’t fixed the stairs yet; I haven’t been able to find any wood around the place. Well, any wood that isn’t being used, that is. If you wanted me too, I could probably use one of those empty bookshelves for parts?”

Mr. Graham raised his hand. “Stop talking. Explain this.” He held up several plates. “They were on the floor.”

“Oh!” Timothy declared, realizing his mistake. “I’m sorry. I must have forgotten them. I…”

“Plates don’t go on the floor,” Mr. Graham interrupted, his voice unsteady.

“No, sir.”

“They go on top of things.” He said, leaning closer with a knowing stare.

“Yes, sir.”

The man gripped the boy by the shoulder, steadying himself. “Jeremy, the price of cleanliness cannot be understated. I think that if I have tasked you with the cleaning, you’re doing a crap job of it.”

Timothy was absolutely heartbroken. “I’m so, so sorry! It completely slipped my mind, and that’s my fault! I promise I can do better! I promise!” He clasped his hands together, looking up at his caretaker for any sign of support.

Instead, he received several slow breaths in his face as the two stood awkwardly for a moment. “What was I saying?” Mr. Graham asked, nearly falling backward.

“Shit!” Warner shouted from outside.

“Who is that?” Mr. Graham said as he tumbled forward to the window. “Oh, it’s that bastard! What the hell is he doing here at this time of day?”

Removing himself from arm's reach, Timothy glanced out the foggy window. Outside, Warner was holding a metal bat and standing in front of a pair of small doors. The boy knew that the entrance led into the basement- a place everyone was forbidden to go. Often, Mr. Graham would retreat there with a lot of his friends. They would spend hours inside and emerge in the morning with hands full of cards and empty beer bottles. But he had never seen anyone try to go down there alone before.

“Maybe he forgot something?” Timothy suggested.

Mr. Graham pushed a rotten-nailed finger to his lips. “Smithy, you’re in charge of the cleaning, not the thinking.” They pronounced each word with the clarity of a broken microphone. “Better go see what the hell he’s up to.” Lumbering by, the man pushed his way to the exit, and quickly came into conflict with a short set of stairs. By ‘conflict,’ I mean he missed them entirely, and nearly broke his legs catching himself.

Timothy continued his chore as the two men outside started talking. He couldn’t make out what they were saying over the sound of the storm, but he could feel their tempo. Mr. Graham came in strong, his words falling out harsh and stern. Warner followed this up calmly, but quickly raised his pitch to meet the standard. Soon, the harmony was combined into one conjoined sound. Albeit, the song was like two drunk cats fighting over a mouse, but art is an expression, after all. After a while of standing in the rain, their voices lowered. Barely able to hear, the boy would have leaned in closer to make out a sound- but that would have been eavesdropping.

The dishes were nearly done when Mr. Graham entered back in. His face was a despondent, wet mess, and his saggy suspenders were barely able to keep his pants up with all the extra weight. “Winfrey, come here.” He said, with his hand movement sending drops of water across the checkered floor.

“What for?” Came the reply.

“I don’t pay you to ask questions. I pay you to clean.”

“But sir, you don’t pay me anything.”

The man stamped his foot down, accidentally creating a puddle. “Just follow me!”

Not wanting to be disobedient, Timothy did as he was told. The stormy air met him briskly as he carefully descended the steps, and so did the rain. Immediately, he was the same level of drenched that Mr. Graham had been, and he felt about ten pounds heavier. A streak of purple lightning struck across the sky, flashing the road in light.

The orphanage was located on a street full of abandoned buildings. There had once been a long line of shops and convenience stores along this way, or so Timothy had been told. In all of his seventeen years of being here, he couldn’t remember seeing one of them with their lights on. He had heard vaguely of a new highway that had, ironically, driven all the business away. It was a shame. He would have loved to see what they were like in their prime.

“What are you standing there for?” Warner called out through the storm. “You wanna get pneumonia?”

Once again, Timothy broke himself out of his trance. The two men exchanged looks as they led him to the basement entrance. The thing sat at an angle, like a miner’s tunnel leading into a cave. “We need you to do something.” Mr. Graham said, his mouth filling with rain.

With a disinterested shove, Warner gave Timothy his baseball bat. The cold metal stuck to the boy’s skin as he fumbled to hang onto it. “You’ll need this.”

Timothy looked to his caretaker for moral support, but only found a man with his hands on his hips and a sour expression. “A wolf got into the basement,” he explained. “We need you to take care of it.”

Warner tilted his head. “But it’s a dog, Graham! One of my fighting ones! You can’t just have the kid bash it!”

A furious glare radiated from Mr. Graham’s eyes. “If it got out, then there’s no getting it back in! It’s probably already feral. I ain’t risking it!” He turned his attention back to the now extremely concerned boy. “Just go in there a whack it! You’ll be fine.”

“But…” Timothy struggled to find the words to object- there was just so many to choose from. “I’m not sure I can!”

“Come on, of course you can!” Mr. Graham encouraged. “Pretend you’re playing ball with your old man! Think of the dog… wolf… as the ball, okay? It’s easy.”

“I’ve never played baseball before,” Timothy pointed out. “I’ve also never had a dad.”

Mr. Graham gripped the boy by the shoulders again, pulling him in closer. “Look, you’re going down there, alright? That thing is a wild animal! As soon as it sees you, it’ll rip your throat out! If you don’t kill it, it’s going to kill you. It’s as simple as that.”

“But… should we not go in there then?” Timothy stammered, holding the bat like it was a sensitive bomb. “I don’t want to be brash, but wouldn’t one of you be better for the job?”

The two men exchanged looked. “I ain’t getting eaten,” Warner shrugged.

“That makes two of us.” Mr. Graham reached down a popped open the basement doors. Rain started pounding on a set of steps that led into a milky black darkness. “Hurry up!”

Timothy fell forward- or rather, he was pushed. He tried to catch his balance, but it was already too late. He felt the hard concrete against his body as he tumbled down. Thankfully, it was a short descent as he skidded to a halt on a carpeted floor. All the air inside his lungs left him in an instant, which left him feeling a bit like a deflated balloon. At the same time, the bat escaped his grip and skidded off into the dark.

“Good luck, kid!” Warner had the good decency to say as he slammed the door shut.

The boy sat up, his heart rushing full of adrenaline. He looked around, half-expecting the wolf to be lunging for him. But he didn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything, actually. The room was completely black, and he could barely make out shapes in the distance.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated. “Let it pass.”

From above, the soft thumping of the rain became a comfort. It was a slow melody that had lulled him to sleep many times before. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he might have let it.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Timothy could make out the room a little better. There was carpet everywhere, though many spots seemed curiously darker than the rest. A round structure sat near a corner, with several seats surrounding it. In the back, there were several rows of shelves with strangely shaped objects lining them. After another minute, he could see that they were bottles of some kind. But oddly, they were all empty. Suddenly, his heart fluttered as something darted across his view. He stood, alerted to the danger. A part of him wanted to call out for help, but he didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Graham after his mistake with the dishes. So, he reasoned that the only thing he could do was as he was told.

Carefully, he took a few steps forward. In the back of his mind, he pictured the wolf leaping out of the darkness and swallowing him whole. It was a grisly thought, but one that was alarmingly possible.

Clunk!

The sound of his shoe hitting the bat resounded through the entire room- and something responded. A low growl emitted from over near the shelves. This was the noise that one heard seconds before losing a limb. The darkness itself was calling out for blood, and it had a desperate need to be satiated.

Timothy reached down for the bat.

Some of the bottles on the shelf moved and clanked.

He grabbed it and snapped back up into place.

The bottles shifted again, sounding like a miniature choir in the blackness.

A step forward.

Another rocking bottle.

A pause.

Silence.

The thought of turning and running occurred to Timothy. Admittedly, it was very tempting. But he gripped the bat firmly and took another stride.

Clink- CRACK!

The echo of breaking glass was so alarming that Timothy didn’t even think about what he was doing. In a blink, he went from standing near the foot of the staircase to crouching near the back of the shelves. He wasn’t the only thing that had moved. Somewhere, the creature was growling. The low hum reverberated in the boy’s soul, sending shivers down his spine. Mr. Graham was right- if he didn’t kill the wolf, the wolf would kill him first.

In this moment, as the blood rushing in his body created a ringing in his ears, he felt a shift. Timothy had never been on a rollercoaster-ride, so he wasn’t familiar with the distinct sensation of being weightless. If he jumped, it was as though he would keep floating upward until he reached the sky. The room seemed to tilt, like the axis of the world was forcibly changed. His eyes narrowed.

He had felt this way before.

The shelves weren’t shelves anymore; they were just things standing up. The room wasn’t a basement; it was just a place. Timothy wasn’t Timothy; he was just a boy holding a bat. Everything disconnected, but yet, he was perfectly aware.

This wasn’t right, he knew…. This wasn’t how it happened.

The wolf grew closer.

The pain was still there, though. That was the one thing that was constant. But not the one in his body, or the sores on his hands. It was the pain in his eyes that stayed. Why did it hurt so much? Why wouldn’t it pass?

The growling was right next to him.

But he knew how this went. He knew what to do with the pain. It would be the same thing he had always done. This wasn’t unnatural to him. In fact, it was all too familiar.

Timothy jumped out from the shelves, raising the bat with a single sharp motion. The wolf was there, its teeth glaring and its eye’s a sunken red. Right now, the only one that could live was the one that struck first. The boy watched as the muscles in the creature’s legs shifted, and he knew what was going to happen. If he didn’t act, the wolf would lunge. There was no telling where it was aiming, but it wasn’t like it mattered, anyway. One swing. That’s all he needed to cave its skull in. He had the strength, and he had the means. All he needed to do was let the bat fall, and he could be safe.

But he didn’t.

Instead, the bat fell to the ground with an abrupt thud.

The wolf almost seemed confused as Timothy bent down to its level, practically opening himself up for a lethal strike. His hand reached out, and he gave the creature a big smile. “Hello, my name is Timothy. It’s nice to meet you.”

It was strange. A second ago, the boy could have sworn that the wolf was lunging. But now, having a better look at it, he could see that it was actually retreating. The small animal, with matted grey fur and a missing tail, scampered back into the corner. The looming growl wasn’t that at all. Instead, all he heard now was a scared moan.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” Timothy said, feeling safe enough to move closer. “You’re not a wolf, are you? You’re just a puppy.”

Naturally, the dog didn’t reply.

“Did you get lost?” The boy reached over and stroked its fur. The skin felt bumpy and riddled with sores. “Poor thing, what happened to you?”

The dog graciously accepted the pets, though it looked like it pained it a bit. With two small eyes, it looked up in a pleading stare. Although Timothy didn’t have the ability to talk to animals, he understood what it was saying immediately. He’d seen that same look in the eyes of some of the other kids. It was the need to get away- the urge to run.

“I know you want to go, but you don’t know what’s out there,” Timothy explained. “It’s a big world, full of… things. Most of it doesn’t really make any sense if I’m being honest. There are things you need to do. Important stuff. But no one will tell you what that is. And there're traps- lots of traps. If you make a mistake, there’s no telling where you might end up. A pound, a hole, or something worse! Besides, I can tell that you don’t have many places to go. No one can take care of you out there. It’s not safe for stray dogs, buddy.”

The creature listened almost patiently before looking towards the door.

Timothy followed its gaze. “Where would you go? I bet you’d just take off, wouldn’t you? You’d run until you couldn’t. Do you think wherever you end up might be better?” He looked at the dog for answers, but found none. “I think that the only way you can travel is if you know your destination first. It’s polite that way. You wouldn’t want to stop for directions and not have a route in mind.”

The dog whined as it slowly picked itself up. With a deep growl coming from inside its scrawny chest, it let out a loud bark.

“Sorry, I know I’m rambling,” Timothy replied as he stood. “But I don’t know. Maybe you do have some place to go? Perhaps there’s someone out there that wants you with them? Still, I think it’s better if you stay with your owner. He can take care of you, like he always has.”

The dog simply stared up at the curious human.

The curious human stared down. “It isn’t so bad, is it? You have a roof over your head, a bed, and food.” It was at this moment that Timothy’s empty stomach growled. “Well, sometimes you do. But whatever happens, the pain will pass. It always does. Why take such a big risk?”

Arf!

Timothy sighed. “I can’t stop you, can I? Well, I’m not going to stand in your way. If you want to run, then go for it! I wish you luck.”

With a nod, the boy marched up the stairs to the door. The dog followed quickly behind him, wagging the stub of its tail. “When they open it, you should run,” he explained quietly. “Mr. Graham, you can let me out now!”

He didn’t get a reply.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

Taking matters into his own hands, Timothy pushed against the door, surprising himself as it flung open. Without missing a beat, the dog flew out like a gunshot. By the time the boy got a better view, the mutt was already halfway down the street. It didn’t look back.

In the next moment, it was gone completely.

For a while, Timothy just stood there. He couldn’t help but feel worried about the poor thing. Anything could happen to it now. It could already be dead, for all he knew. But there was a small tug in the back of his mind. There was that voice calling out to him, urging him to start running to. He could do it. Looking around, neither Mr. Graham nor Warner was there to stop him. He could just… leave.

But, like he always did when he had these unhelpful thoughts, he pushed the urge back down. After all, the world wasn’t meant for strays like him.

Above him, the clouds had stopped moving. The rain had too, and now he was left standing in a soaking mound of mud. He would have to clean his shoes before he went inside. It would be so rude to make a mess all over the place.

“Timothy.”

The boy of the same name turned to find Mr. Graham standing behind him. “Sorry, sir,” he stuttered. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Don’t worry about that now.” The man was standing much straighter than usual, and he looked more focused. “I need to tell you something important.”

“Oh?” Timothy blinked.

Mr. Graham shifted in his place, as though he didn’t know what he was about to say. “Someone has just arrived. They want to meet you.”

Timothy’s heart skipped a beat. It had been so long since any of the kids had a visitation. In all of his years at the orphanage, he had only seen one or two kids get adopted. But this was much rarer. He had never gotten a visit before- not even a mention of one. “R-Really? You’re not joking?”

The man shook his head. “No, I’m being completely serious,” as he said this, he leaned in closer. “But there’s a catch.”

The boy tilted his head. “What’s that?”

“Timothy, these aren’t just some visitors- they’re your parents.”