Memory 3: Could you come with me, please?

[justfuckingtryit]

The hallway’s only lit by the sunlight streaming in through the curtains down at the far end. It splashes over the floor, cheap fake wood, and over the page of the comic book spread out in Thorn’s hands. They are not especially big hands - a child’s, with bitten nails, ink smudges on the underside of one thumb. He turns the page, to a scene in which a man swathed in a blue cloak and mask and a round red creature wearing a visor are fighting monsters.

In the mirror across from the door, he’s reflected in profile: a boy of perhaps twelve, with sleek black hair that’s starting to get too long. It’s not undercut; his face is free from scars. The baggy teal t-shirt he’s wearing doesn’t have text that tells anyone to go fuck themselves.

Thorn checks the clock.

His mom's still thumping around upstairs. His dad's tucked away in the kitchen, finishing a cup of coffee.

Thorn wishes they'd just go already, so he can finish his homework. He's got a paper due Thursday.

"Five minutes," his dad calls up the stairs. "We gotta catch that train."

Thorn's mom says, "Down in two."

She's down in one; Thorn eyes the clock on the wall by the stairwell, waiting for her. She blows in like a hurricane, all wild energy, hair pulled back into an unforgiving ponytail and glaive boots newly polished. "I'm all set. Get a move on, hon."

Thorn's dad ambles in from the kitchen in a matching uniform, boots decidedly unpolished. "You mind washing my cup, kiddo? We got places to be."

"Yeah, sure," says Thorn.

"Now," says Thorn's mom. "Emergency funds are on top of the fridge. Ms. M next door will stop by every day to check on you."

"Uh huh," says Thorn. They've done this before, more times than he can count. It's not often that both his parents get called out on a deployment at the same time, but he knows the drill: home straight after school, don't go crazy on the junk food, head next door if there's any kind of trouble.

"We'll call on Friday," says Thorn's dad.

"Or sooner," says Thorn's mom.

Thorn rolls his eyes. "Guys," he says. "Come on. I'm not a kid anymore."

So of course they ruin it by bracketing him with their arms and planting two near-identical kisses on his forehead.

"He's all grown up," says Thorn's mom, pinching his cheek.

"Aww," says Thorn's dad. "Guess I won't bring you back a moogle plush after all."

"Oh my gods," says Thorn. "Get out. You're gonna miss your train, and I'm going to laugh my ass off."

Thorn's mom glances at the clock. "Oh, shit," she says, and grabs for the duffel bag on the floor by the door.

Thorn's dad says, "Be good, kiddo. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Thorn's mom, in the process of shoving him out the door, adds, "Sweet Astrals, that's a low bar. Just stay out of trouble, okay?"

"I think I hear your train," says Thorn, and watches them scramble. When they're gone, two black-clad figures half-jogging down the sidewalk in their rush, Thorn shuts the door behind them.

===

Friday comes, and goes, and no one calls.

Thorn's not that worried. His mom and dad stay on a schedule when they can, but he's heard enough about what it's like outside the wall.

Chances are, there's no working pay phone nearby, and they're somewhere with no cell reception. He'll get a call mid-week next week, with his parents on the other line tripping over themselves to say sorry. Thorn will say he threw a wild party and trashed the living room in retribution, and they'll know everything's fine.

He fills the weekend with comic books and homework and video games. He waters his mom's plants, and he finishes half of that word puzzle book his dad likes, just so he can see the look on his face when he gets back. He makes tea for Ms. M when she stops by, and they sit in the kitchen and drink it and chat about how school's going, even though Thorn's kind of not a tea fan.

The call still hasn't come by Wednesday, but Thorn's not all that worried.

He doesn't pay much attention when a man in a starched white shirt and tie slips into his math class and makes for the front to share hushed words with the teacher.

He doesn't pay much attention until the man in the tie comes over to his desk and says, "Lumen? Could you come with me, please?"

Thorn gives him a quick looking-over and makes to stand. But the man says, "Bring your backpack, son."

Awareness settles into the base of his skull like a buzzing insect. He can feel the possibility burning in his throat, and coiling in his stomach. He thinks, quite suddenly, that he might throw up.

But he packs up his backpack, and he follows the man down the hall, to the office with the door marked Counselor. The counselor is sitting behind her desk, but Thorn's sight is already too blurry to see what kind of face she's making.

The man in the tie says, "Why don't you sit down?"

But Thorn makes his hands into fists at his side. He shakes his head, and he says, "Just tell me," and his voice comes out brittle and strange.

The man in the tie and the counselor share a glance.

Then the man in the tie sets a hand on Thorn's shoulder and casually destroys his world.