It happened on Clark's first day of school after Thanksgiving break.

Jonathan knew it wasn't a good idea to push back bedtime during the week of Clark's vacation from school. Martha insisted it would be fine, that he'd outgrown his nightmares and he'd never had much of a problem waking up in the morning. It was true that Clark was difficult to tire out, and he seemed to become more and more energetic with each year that passed. Jonathan guessed that he would probably be completely invulnerable to fatigue sooner or later, but it hadn't happened yet. These days, if he stayed up too late one night, he whined the next morning about how his bed was too comfortable to leave. It happened every time.

They made sure to put Clark to bed on time on the Sunday night before he would have to go back to school. Clark stalled on his bedtime, though no more than usual—asking for a second trip to the bathroom and a third cup of water. But most nights, after the teeth were brushed, pajamas on, bedtime stories told, prayers said, and closet double-checked for monsters, Clark snuggled under his covers and closed his eyes.

On that Sunday night, he snuggled under the covers, but his eyes were wide open as Jonathan pulled the door to halfway closed and left the hall lights on.

The next morning, Jonathan was sitting down to coffee when Martha came in, wearing a look that told Jonathan in no uncertain terms that he should save his I-told-you-so's for a later date. "Need some help getting him up?"

"Please."

Jonathan nodded, set his mug down, and followed Martha up the stairs.

She knelt beside Clark's bed, gently rubbing his side through the covers. "Baby, you're going to be late for school."

"Don't wanna go." He pulled his covers over his head.

"Clark," Jonathan said sharply from the doorway. "Listen to your mother."

"Wanna stay in bed!" He rolled over under the covers.

"Sweetie, come on, you've stalled long enough." Martha took the covers and began to pull them back.

It happened so fast. Clark's little fist shot out and connected with Martha's forearm.

She let out a strangled yelp, jumping to her feet and grabbing her wrist.

Clark threw back the covers on his own this time, scooting back on the bed and pulling his knees into his chest. "Mommy?"

Jonathan's adrenaline spiked, and he hurried forward to his wife. "Honey, are you okay?"

"It's fine, it's—ah." She let go of her wrist and tried to wiggle her fingers. An ugly red mark marred her wrist.

"Mommy, are you okay?" Clark's little voice asked.

Jonathan whirled to face his son. "No, she's not okay."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He grabbed at his comforter, clutching the corner to his chest. "I didn't mean to!"

"You absolutely did mean to. You hit her."

"But I didn't want to! I won't do it again!"

"You shouldn't have done it this time!" Jonathan took a step toward Clark, who shrank back.

"Jonathan," Martha said gently, taking his arm. "We both need to cool down."

Jonathan clenched his teeth and pulled arm away, keeping his eyes on Clark. "You will get dressed, make your bed, and brush your teeth. Then you will come downstairs, and we'll talk."

Clark nodded, sniffling, and Jonathan turned to Martha. He wrapped an arm around her and walked her down the stairs.

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At the kitchen table, Jonathan wrapped up Martha's wrist while they quietly discussed what to do about Clark.

"I'm putting him on restriction for a month," Jonathan said.

"It was an accident," Martha said. "And he's five. A week would already be too long."

"Hurting you this badly was an accident. Hitting you was not."

"He might have just been trying to grab the covers back."

Jonathan shook his head. "I saw his hand. It was curled up in a fist. He meant to hit you."

"I think it was a reflex."

"Well, he has to learn to control his reflexes! If he'd hit you in the throat, he could have killed you!"

Martha's head lowered at that.

Clark came toddling down the stairs just as Jonathan was getting Martha an ice pack from the freezer. "Mommy? Can I kiss it?"

"Come here, baby." Martha held out her uninjured arm to him.

Clark slowly, hesitantly climbed onto her lap. His eyes were wide, fixed on her bandaged wrist.

"Son." Jonathan sat down across from them and gave Martha the ice pack. "Did you mean to hit your mother?"

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"I just didn't want to get up! I just wanted to push her back a little."

"With your fist?"

"I'm sorry!"

"Son, I am very angry, and very disappointed in you."

Clark's eyes welled up with tears. "I'm in big trouble?"

"Yes, you are. For the next week, you're on restriction."

"What's 'striction?"

"It means no playing with friends after school, no going to the playground, no TV, and no dessert."

"For a whole week?"

"It should be a month," Jonathan said.

Clark's lower lip trembled. "But—but Lana's birthday party is on Friday!"

"Well, you're not going."

"Daddy!"

"You should be thankful for your powers. If I'd hurt my mother when I was a boy, my father would have taken me to the woodshed."

"W-what does that mean?"

"It means—"

"Jonathan, stop." Martha ran a hand through Clark's hair.

"Mommy, please tell Daddy no 'striction. I'll be good."

Something in Jonathan snapped. "You don't argue about your punishment, and you don't play us against each other. You hurt your mother today, really hurt her. How many times have I told you that you need to be careful with your powers? How many times have I practiced with you and taught you how to be gentle? I am so very disappointed."

"Daddy, I'm sorry!"

"Go put your homework in your backpack. You're going to be late for school."

"I'm SORRY!"

"I heard you the first ten times. Now go."

Clark sped up the stairs, a blur.

Jonathan breathed in to scold him for running in the house, but Martha took his arm.

"Jonathan," she said, "that was too harsh."

"He has to learn."

"Are you trying to teach him, or defend me?"

Jonathan's jaw clenched as he looked down at her wrist.

"Hey," she said, and he met her eyes. "He's five. He's feeling guilty enough as it is. He needs to know that you still love him."

A wave of shame washed over Jonathan—he hadn't told Clark even once that he was loved or forgiven. Even Jonathan's father remembered to do that, before and after a punishment. "You're right. When he comes back down—"

"No. Go talk to him right now."

Jonathan nodded. He took the stairs two at a time up to Clark's bedroom.

It was empty.

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They searched the house, calling his name, and then the entire property. He liked to spend time with the horses and cattle, but he wasn't in the barn or out in the fields.

They went to the school next, but Clark had never arrived. His teacher called the principal, who called the police, and before long, there were search parties scouring the town.

Jonathan had never been so panicked in his entire life. He'd driven their child away. The police assured them that Clark couldn't have gone far, but Jonathan knew that with his speed, he could be just about anywhere in Kansas by now.

Jonathan drove far past the search parties, driving aimlessly. Martha held his hand when he could spare it from the wheel. Tears streamed down her face, and his eyes stung. He felt like his chest had been carved away, leaving a giant sinking hole behind. Part of him wanted to beg for her forgiveness, but he couldn't take it right now. He knew this was his fault.

Fifteen minutes into the drive to Metropolis, Jonathan pulled off to the side of the road.

"What?" Martha asked.

"He doesn't know the way to Metropolis. There's no way that's where he's going."

"Well, we have to try."

"We're getting nowhere. We have to stop and think about where he would go."

"He wouldn't go to a friend's house. He'd know they would just call us."

"That's true, but he might head toward a friend's house. It's the only direction he knows."

"The Ross house?"

Jonathan turned the car around.

With Abigail's permission, they searched the Ross's fields, calling out Clark's name. There was no response, but Jonathan spotted some rustling in a tree, and he ran over to it.

Clark was sitting on a high branch, clinging onto the trunk.

"Clark! Get down from there!"

"I c-can't!" Clark trembled and clung tighter, shaking.

Jonathan had no idea why his son was afraid of heights, given that the fall couldn't possibly hurt him, but before he could say anything, Martha was calling up to him, "Just climb down, baby."

"What if I fall?"

"I'll catch you," she said.

"You can't. I hurt your wrist."

"Daddy will catch you."

Jonathan wasn't so sure about this, but he held his arms at the ready. Very slowly, Clark began to make his way down the tree. A few feet from the ground, he leapt into his father's arms.

Jonathan held his son tighter than he ever had, tight enough to break a human's bones. "Clark, how could you make your mother and me worry like that?"

"You don't want me anymore anyway."

"What on earth gave you that idea?" He put his son down and knelt in front of him, holding him by the shoulders. "Haven't I always told you that I love you no matter what?"

"You said you were angry and dis'ppointed." Tears streamed down Clark's face, and his eyes were bright red from crying.

"I was, and I am, but that's because I love you so much. I know you can do better, so it makes me angry and disappointed when you make bad choices. But I'll always still love you."

"But you gave me 'striction!"

"Yes, to remind me to do better."

"For a whole we-eek, and I can't go to Lana's party." He cried harder, burying his face in his hands. "A-and you don't like me-e, and you're so angry, and Mommy got hurrt, and—" The rest of his speech was unintelligible.

Martha stepped forward, sat on one knee, and set Clark on the other, taking her son into her arms. Her eyes and nose were red from crying. "We were so worried about you. We love you so much, baby."

"No you don't. I hurted you."

"You didn't mean to hurt me. But I would still love you even if you did."

"Why?"

"Because you're mine."

Clark buried his face in her chest and shook with sobs. "I'm so hungry."

Martha rubbed his back. "Well, let's get you some breakfast."

"Daddy said I couldn't."

Jonathan blinked. "I said what?"

"You told me to get my backpack before breakfast. Because I was bad."

Jonathan's breath caught. "Son, I just wanted you to be packed up and ready to go so we could head out right after you ate. Did you think I wasn't going to let you eat?"

He nodded solemnly.

Martha gently combed her fingers through his hair. "Let's go home and get some pancakes. Okay?"

Clark nodded, but his eyes filled with tears once again.

"What's on your mind, son?" Jonathan asked.

"I already told Lana I could go to her party, and she's gonna ask why I can't come now, and I havta tell her I hurt my mommy and got 'striction . . ."

Martha's face fell, and she looked over at Jonathan, pleading.

Jonathan sighed heavily. The last thing he wanted was to reward his son for running away, but clearly he'd been too harsh. There had to be a way to compromise. "Listen to me, son. Look at me."

Clark's face turned toward his father.

"Mom's not going to be able to do all of her regular chores for a few days, because of her wrist. Think you could help her out?"

Clark nodded emphatically. "Yes, I could!"

"If you help Mom get her chores done, you can go to Lana's party."

He bounced in his mother's lap. "Okay! Okay!"

"But there will still be no TV, no playing with friends after school, and no dessert. And if you ever run away again, you'll be on restriction for two weeks. You really scared us."

Clark nodded, wiping his eyes and letting out a few more sobs.

"Hey, come here."

Clark climbed off of his mother's lap and returned again to his father's arms. Jonathan scooped him up and started walking toward the car, and Martha followed beside Jonathan with her hand on his back.

"You're going to be careful with your powers, right?" Jonathan asked.

"Uh huh." Clark sniffled.

"You're going to use them for good."

"Yeah."

"You're never going to hit anyone again."

"No."

Jonathan wiped away the last of his son's tears and kissed him on the cheek. "I believe you, little guy," he said.