Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night was restless, bringing about the things that often shied away from the light. Whether creature or alarming thought, the balmy, dark hours never ceased the movement of life.

 Like the gurgle of a draining kitchen sink,

the crack of a strict whip, 

and the crunch of trash in the garbage truck—

All a part of the offbeat harmony of the near-lightless sky.

...

"David, why aren't our clothes put away yet?" The thock-thock-thock of the woman's heels emphasized her impatience. Her brown, narrowed eyes had little life in them left, her high cheekbones trying to make up for her skin that was quickly becoming wrinkled with her toxic love of cigarettes.

"I'm sorry," The boy replied, over the clacking of the dishes he was washing. Small lasagna crumbs ran down the drain, the dinner he'd made for his guardians. They swirled with the water, distractingly dancing to their own doom.

"Do it right now." She commanded, "I've the worst headache, and—" She was cut off as she tripped over her husband's shoes, which had been strewn beside the kitchen entrance of the small house. The woman nearly fell, her tipsiness and fatigue dragging her down like heavy baggage. The clothes weren't folded yet, her husband was still in the living room, and she'd just arrived from her other lover's house after another spat. She was tired, after another difficult day of being a struggling adult and what had her runt accomplished? Nothing but a small, home-cooked meal!

"DAVID!" The woman howled in sheer anger, "You piece of shit, I bring your pampered ass food and shelter, and you treat me like this? By ignoring me?"

David, who had already folded the clothes and put them in a basket to be hung meticulously, had approached carefully to fix the mess of shoes beneath his caretaker's feet. He murmured nothing but apologies, hoping it would at least stall the upcoming events that would occur.

It did not.

"Fucking shut up, Alycia," The lady's husband shouted, coming into the kitchen grumpily, awakening from the stupor of the TV, "No one gives a shit about half of what comes out of your mouth."

"At least I'm not a vegetable half of the time, Horace!" Alycia shouted back, not caring that she spooked the boy below her. He tried to calm his shaking hands, tried to distract himself with the different shoe colors and patterns. For a brief moment, it worked, and his mind wandered to the guitar he'd seen at a storefront window on his way home from the market. Its body was made of dark wood whose pattern had wavy lines of cut wood that reminded him greatly of the forest he was sent to camp in.

David was fourteen, and all he could think about was how he could escape the clutches of death within four years; before he could turn eighteen and finally be released of the cycle of foster-parenting.

"It's because you're not being hard enough on him!"

"Oh yeah?" 

David had zoned out too long by the time he felt the air rush out of his lungs, kicked onto his side. Pain radiated from his abdomen, and he regretted not bracing for the impact.

 "He's a dumb fuck, you think a little kick with your witch shoes is gonna get the point across?" Horace sneered, and David prayed for mercy this time around, but got none. A stomp to his stomach followed, Alycia's black heel digging into his midsection, making the boy whimper quietly.

"These are Burberry limited edition!" She cried, pressing her foot harder, "Worth more than you and him combined!"

"You're forgetting," Horace reached down and dragged a fearful David from the floor by his red hair. His teal eyes held nothing but fear and apprehension, but neither of the two adults could've been bothered to care, "He's the only reason we're making real money, cunt."

"We should've gotten a more obedient one. Can we trade him for another?"

"Nah, that would be more of a hassle. We've just gotta—" The man stopped, and David felt his face crudely crash into the sickly yellow wall of the house. White-hot pain exploded all over his face, and he felt salty tears flow freely from his eyes, "Whip him into shape!"

The boy struggled to breathe, feeling himself decompose and wither with each punch and sordid insult pouring from his guardians' lips. That was all they ever did, spew insults. The only solace he got was their silence, his Christmas gift their lack of presence.

David was fourteen, and all he could think about was when he was scheduled to have his ticket punched.

It had been this way for all his life, traded through the foster system like chattel and relying on his luck for decent family. It was like drawing lots, except he got the short end of the stick.

Even in domestic turmoil, he still found joy in the music he wrote, in the small songs he played to himself and the covers he did of those he admired. After all, it wasn't all bad when he had his trusty guitar and a few melodies off the top of his head. 

Sometimes, David would hum the songs he liked to himself the few times he ventured out of the house to buy necessities, sneaking a book or two from the library to homeschool himself. The shopkeeper in the music store next door to the grocer, Jaques, had taken a liking to the boy's love for music, and had given him a free walkman with a pair of headphones. David still stopped there for tapes since. There were only slight difficulties he had with the worker, like his concern for the redhead's home life, but David often tried to evade the subject. Other people didn't really need to get involved, it would only hurt more than help.

There was one day, however, that flipped his life around on its head.

He'd arrived back home, after a rare opportunity of shopping, bags of food heavy and another tape hid stealthily in the inside of his jacket. The shopkeep was extra-kind that day, possibly due to the myriad of bandages covering David's face, so he got two tapes instead of one for his visit. The boy was ecstatic, dying to listen to them when he got home, and in his rush he hadn't noticed the bland, silver Prius of Social Services outside of his house.

Slipping inside, David was met with the faces of his two guardians and Francesca, his social worker. Something was different, however. 

In Francesca's arms was a baby swaddled in a white blanket. He had tousled, curly black locks and tanned skin, the arms of the social worker nearly swallowing him with how small he was.

"David," she greeted, "Meet your new baby brother, Max."

Instead of feeling happy, he felt nothing but fear for the delicate thing in her arms. He won't stand a chance living here!

Maybe David could scrape by for a few more years, but he knew that giving these people a baby that small was nothing short of infanticide.

"We'll take good care of the little squirt!" Horace said with his plastic smile, and the redhead noticed the man had changed into more suitable clothing than his traditional boxers and wife-beater. He was in ripped jeans and a jacket.

"Of course," Alycia nodded, her smile even less convincing than her husband's.

"Please be careful, Max was found in the garbage, so he's fairly small from malnourishment," Francesca turned back to David, "Here, why don't you hold him for a little bit?"

She handed him over with happy eyes, blissfully ignorant of the implications of the scene before her, and the boy felt a bit of pity for the woman doing what she thought was right.

Grabbing Max gently, he cradled the warm, soft child in his arms, and he felt two things in a matter of four seconds: A swelling protectiveness for him and a new sense of responsibility. Not only was he running the chores of the house, he was tasked with the raising someone—giving them a good life to live.

And David quickly learned that doing so under the care of his assigned parents was just not possible.

"SHUT HIM UP OR IT'LL BE YOUR RIBS I'LL BE BREAKING!"

Through the few weeks, Max cried in the early hours of the morning, wails loud and emotional, and most of them ended with a stressed-out David in the dark kitchen at 3AM, holding a bottle for the hungrily suckling baby.

The older had found a way to prevent the problem, settling his alarm for the wake-ups before the crying could begin. Although, it didn't help his everyday schedule at all, as it got to the point where he nearly fell asleep on any sort of chair he sat in. Max was time-consuming, demanding of the physical and emotional contact most babies needed, maybe even a little more. There was also the need for baby products and food, two things which his guardians refused to pay for, but David did did so anyway, regardless of their consent. He was paranoid that they'd find out, but the items were necessary. Max wouldn't suffer because of him or his foster parents, that David would make sure of.

With the division in his concentration, the teen's beatings were escalating, and there had been more than one instance in which he had to barricade his room, cooing comforting words into the baby's ears. David's nights grew longer and longer, and soon he almost never slept, his guard up for Max, fearing for Max, and was willing to kill his guardians for Max. His evenings were punctuated with a blunt object at his bedside, some sort of defense to keep the monsters away, to keep the child in his arms safe from any harm.

By the time he met Jaques again, it was around four months into taking care of Max. The redhead didn't trust his guardians with the baby alone at the house, so wherever David went, Max came along, curious turquoise eyes peering around at their surroundings from his baby bjorn. The younger was around four months old too by then, according to what Francesca had said before she left. Since then, David had gone through books and websites on baby care, his librarian actually asking once if he'd gotten his girlfriend pregnant by accident. 

So naturally, the man behind the counter stared confusedly at the baby and then at David that day, "Who'd you knock up, kid?"

"No one! My parents got another kid, so..." he petered out, "Any new tapes?" 

Jaques seemed more at ease with that, "I found one from 2001, The Strokes!"

David beamed at that, "The Strokes?!" It was one of his favorite bands, and few of their songs were on tapes nowadays.

"Yep. Vintage line!" The shopkeep reached under the register and pulled out a cassette, sliding it over to the excited teen across from him. "Strokes-Is this It-2001" was scrawled on a makeshift label on the side of the white tape. David held it carefully, and knew that he'd probably run through the whole album in a couple of days. Max followed his gaze and grabbed at the tape, little hands shifting over the plastic rectangle.

"Hey, kid," Jaques called, and David met the other's eyes, they held a real concern in them, "I know the girl who runs the Baby Bayou on the corner. Says you stop there often to get stuff.  I could put in a good word for you, it'll help with the prices." The man winked good-humoredly, but the teen knew there was slight truth to the statement.

"You can do that?"

"We're dating, the relationship has its perks."

"Thanks!" David stuck the tape into the usual place, his inner jacket pocket, before he started for his house. He was almost home when he noticed the newly opened park right next to him, the dead leaves of the fall making piles on the grassy ground. 

There were only a few people there, like parents watching a few children scale the different structures on the playground in the center like little monkeys. There were also a couple of teenagers on the swings, not even moving, just talking about different things like teachers and tests that made a part of David long for a more normal life.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gurgling sound, and the the redhead looked to see Max grabbing at a low-hanging tree branch, stretching his little arm out and moving the thin bark up and down, like he was trying to shake the tree's hand.

David didn't have normalcy. He'd likely never achieve that. But he had Max, and for now, that was enough.

By sundown David was quickly walking home, trying not to jostle the small, drowsy baby strapped to his chest.

I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead. The teen hoped, prayed his foster parents had gone out for whatever reason, but even he was beginning to doubt fortune's cruel smile.

The door to the house was open when he arrived, the sky dark and the sun already hiding away, as if it were afraid to see the scene play out before it. David felt a chill run through his body, and gently encircled his arms around Max, who dozed peacefully in the bjorn, head against David's chest. He would protect this kid today, through beating or through his own murder.

The light poured from open door of the house. Shadows, likely his guardians, flitted against the walls, the heating cranked on high. This was it, into the belly of the beast.

David snuck in quickly and quietly to the stairs and into his room. He tucked the sleeping Max into his crib, sucking peacefully on his pacifier. The crib was made of white wood, pillows and a small blanket around the area Max would sleep on top of.

The teen knew Max never liked to be left alone, but there always needed to be a buffer between him and his foster parents, some sort of barrier. David was protective, fearful, and inexperienced, a combination that would be catatonic if he hadn’t already exercised restraint on his panicky mind.

He quickly held Max close, pressing a kiss to his forehead with a mumbled, “I love you” before he set him down again into the crib. Please, if it doesn’t get better for me, it has to for him.

With Max in his crib and a few hefty locks, David finally shut the door quietly behind him, willing the thoughts of SIDS and the fragility of a child so young to the corner of his mind. He had one major problem that needed his immediate attention already.

Max’s food was in the pantry in the kitchen, where his guardians would no doubt be. Waiting, ready to strike him and beat him down verbally and physically. If the redhead had the money to, he would buy more someplace else, but the equipment and extra food costs had emptied most of his wallet, leaving a measly dollar for expenses. It wasn’t like the family had much money either, making them as watchful as hawks over their share.

David went back downstairs, seeing Alycia picking at her manicured nails and Horace still in the living room with a bottle as his partner, eyes glued to the TV in the lightless room.

“Look who’s home,” she preened, “Its after hours, dipshit. Where the fuck have you been?”

“I was running groceries and—”

“ Bullshit,” her husband called, and stomped into the kitchen in fury, “ You need to be taught a lesson. You don’t want to keep your parents waiting on ya, we really miss you,” he said with a smile David could only call evil.

“W-Wait,” he stuttered, backing away from his foster-father’s approaching hands, but he couldn’t escape and the older man’s hands tightly gripped his throat; he was choking.

David could only watch in horror as Horace dragged him, hands still on his neck, to the kitchen sink, and dunked his head into the pool of dirty dish water that hadn’t been drained since the night before. The man’s hands had moved from his neck to grip his hair, something he did often. It felt sickeningly familiar and was almost like a twisted tradition.

In the nearly beige waters, David struggled and coughed, the tears he shed cleansed by the cold, dirty liquid. For a brief moment, he considered voluntarily submitting to the pain in his lungs; considered giving up his thrashing to the dots in the corner of his vision.

But he couldn’t, wouldn’t do it.

Because there was still Max .

Max, who was far too small to have been abandoned, whose curious eyes and ravenous appetite required time and care. Yeah, he vomited and regurgitated on David often, but every single time the teen managed to get him to laugh or smile was worth ten of those experiences combined.

And to leave him alone to face these two...the redhead couldn't let that happen.

So he fought, against the push of Horace's hand and with the energy of all the times he was afraid to rebel. He struggled for his life, for a shot at freedom, for Max.

And it was then that fortune finally, after so many years of bad luck and mistakes, smiled in his favor.

Loud crying was suddenly heard from upstairs, momentarily distracting the abusive couple. "That damn baby!" The man snarled, and David used the lapse of concentration to quickly lift his head from the water and put some distance between him and the other, backing away and quickly breaking into a sprint up through the kitchen and up the stairs.

"DAVID!" Horace howled, and ran after him, but the teen had slipped quickly into his room and barricade his door with the closet.

He shakily held Max in his arms, who was still wailing tearfully. He clung to David like a little koala, hiding his face away from the world in his t-shirt. The redhead gave a shaky sigh of relief, before it devolved into a sob, and he found himself holding the baby close while trying to console his own teary eyes.

"You little BITCH. I'M GOING TO KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP," A voice beyond the door screamed, and David quickly got out his main defense weapon from under his bed: A baseball bat he'd smuggled after finding it in the park one day. He held it close to him, bat in one hand and Max in the other, who'd calmed down by then and was drifting off to sleep. 

In the quiet night, at around 2AM, the teen came to a realization. He had to run away. It was no longer optional. 

David was fourteen, and all he could think about was how the only way left for him to go was up.

Chapter Text

Stuffing clothes and baby items into his swampy-green backpack, David placed Max into the baby bjorn he had on before pulling on his warmest auburn sweater. Anticipating the bite of the cold wind, he zipped it up to the baby's neck, so he could still see and breathe properly.  With that, he grabbed his baseball bat—for good measure—and left his old bedroom behind. I won't look back.

He carefully snuck into the kitchen, opening the pantry and taking all the food he could, both baby and regular kind. If he was going to steal, he had to make the most of his crime.

With one last glance back at the living room, which was now empty and still decorated with beer bottles and the scent of stale tobacco, he turned and opened the door. It was the brink; the edge of the ravine between him and a completely uncertain future. David stepped out of the house, and into the cold air of the dark night.

 He was gone.

The frigid weather served as a stark contrast from his sun-glazed days at Camp Campbell. There was the place where he'd made new friends and got lost in the shady woods near the site. He remembered the counselors and their giddiness for the activities, the dilapidated equipment and the quartermaster's odd hook-hand. But there were two things that made the camp worth going to time and time again through the summers:

Jasper and Gwen.

The two were the closest friends he’d had there, and he trusted those two with many of his secrets, including the reason Horace and Alycia had sent him there originally. David only hoped that he'd find them again one day. You made friends like those in lifetimes.

David was drawn back into the present by the roar of a truck. The hulking vehicle sped closer to him, and the teen quickly crossed the rest of the zebra before the thing flew past, ignoring the red light and probably also the speed limit. 

His heart thudded with adrenaline, and he looked down to Max to check, for about the tenth time in five blocks, that he was okay. The baby slept still, tiny hands fisted against David’s shirt. He was fine, thank God.

The redhead kept walking down the sidewalk, trying not to trip on the cracked and unevenly paved path. He dodged crowded pubs and straggling adults trying to get home before the sun woke up. He walked until his growling stomach begged a break, and so he took a seat in the baby blue bench in front of a closed ice cream shop and pulled off his bag.

The urge to check on Max again was strong, so he undid the bjorn and opted to hold him in his arms instead. Max was awake, looking up at him with wide eyes, tears threatening to spill from them. With a sharp pang of guilt, David realized it way past time to feed him. Scrambling to get the milk out, he quickly sifted through the light contents of the black bag with nervous hands, untensing as he found the bottle and filled it. Max was whining and wiggling impatiently, small, grabby hands reaching for the bottle, only content when he began to drink from it. David reached into his own bag and unwrapped a PBJ sandwich, made hastily before his departure, and watched the scenery around him as they both ate.

The redhead wished he hadn't forgotten his guitar, even if it would have been too big to take with him. 

He regretted a few things, as he thought about it. Like not taking more money before he left, or asking for one last tape for the walkman in his pocket. He'd need more milk soon, more food and water, and he didn't know where to go other than away from that house.

Fresh anxiety seeped into his thoughts as he realized he was lacking the most basic yet necessary aspect of running away: a plan.

What would he do next? Maybe find the bus stop to try to get as far as possible before the police—

"Hey, kid."

Just as Max finished, David looked up to see a short man, around forty maybe, in front of the bench. He was carrying a black plastic bag that crinkled with his steps, likely from the deli nearby. Even in the darkness, the boy could see the dark circles underneath his bloodshot eyes, which were black and glassy behind equally dark, greasy locks.

It reminded  the redhead of Horace when he got too drunk, and every molecule of his body was looking for an exit.

Instinctively, the redhead pulled Max closer, farther into his sweater, slipping the bottle back into the bag without moving his eyes from the stranger. He looped an arm over one of the straps of his bag, other hand ghosting over the handle of his bat like a threat.

"What're you doin' out here, all by yourself," the man drawled, "pretty boy?"

The remark made David's stomach roll. He was no longer hungry, and he got up just as the man reached out and grabbed his shoulder, hold as tight as a vice. 

"Don' go anywhere, I wanna have some fun," the stranger drew closer, and the teen could smell the rotten stench of cigarettes and weed mixed with alcohol, and he felt dirty just being in the man's presence. David's mind went haywire when the man suddenly licked the boy's neck.

With panicked scream, David swung the bat as hard as he could at the man's head, a sickening crack ringing loudly in the lonely bench area. The stranger collapsed, blood pooling from the side of his head in a puddle that encompassed it like a vermillion halo. Hearing approaching footsteps, the teen bolted, bloody bat still in his grip as he sped off with his bag, Max pressed close to the inside of sweater. He knew it wasn't wise to carry a used weapon but if he left it nearby, he'd get caught in no time. The world rushed before his eyes, and it wasn't until he calmed down and stopped, after running for who knows long, he found himself in the middle of a wheat field.

David was back to walking, now farther than ever from the bus stop after the incident. He'd lost the bjorn, likely ruined some of the food in the bag with his jostling, and found himself through a field of wheat. It was a setback, but hopefully he'd be fine.

The inky sky's grey clouds began to clump together, and the boy could smell an upcoming storm brewing, sighing tiredly at the prospect of trudging through the rain. Should've paid more attention to the morning forecast.

The crop reached his shoulders, and he looked around the area for an exit. The redhead was met with the view of a deteriorated barn, seemingly abandoned. It could work as a shelter for the rain and possibly a place to rest for the night, so he started towards the lone structure.

The bat felt heavier with guilt in his hands, and David feared he might have to hurt another with it if the occasion ever came up. Paranoid for any other occupants, he kept looking around anxiously for signs of life other than his and Max's. He may not have known half of what he was doing or where he was going, but he wasn't about to die now—not until the baby in his arms was someplace safe.

A little selfish to be assuming you're safe when you've just killed someone, a part of his mind shot back at him, but he shook it off warily. There were other things to worry about.

The teen managed to wade out of the wheat and in front of the forsaken barn, creeping quietly up to the tall, wooden door with depressing peeling paint and rusted hinges. With a push, the loud and loose door whined as it swung and slammed the wall supporting it. Inside, five older teenagers—likely on the cusp of sixteen—stared back in surprise, each either sitting on a haystack or standing around. Two of them were from the park, and everyone wore dark clothing and had hair colors spanning the rainbow, collars on each one of their necks, passing around a Teddy Grahams box like a sacred pipe.

"What the actual fuck, Alpha Rye?! I thought this was our secret territory!" One of the girls, whose hair was a luminous lime green, chastised.

"Ylissa, I said nothing to the other packs or people, I swear it!" "Alpha Rye," a girl with short, bleached blonde hair replied, mouth full of bear-shaped cookies, "Where's Shirokami?"

"Busy checking the borders on the other side, but how could our Beta miss this?" Another guy gestured at David, who at this point had no idea how to react. Is this a gang? Should I be scared?

"Guys, guys, he's probably like thirteen, okay? He looks lost—Is that a baby?" A black-haired boy with red highlights pointed out, "And is that blood on your bat, the fuck?"

David wanted to shrink away into a teeny particle, so no one would be able to see his hands sweating profusely at the mention of his two most guilty steals. The tension in the barn hiked, the rest of the older teenage gang stopping the Teddy passing, now all ears at the possibility of a murder weapon.

"It's paint from my house's garage," the redhead lied, "I ditched today's baseball game because I was afraid, so here I am."

"Oh, and is that your little brother?" Ylissa asked, pointing to Max, who'd woken up from his nap and was pulling at David's shirt, eyes wide and curiously peering at the group in front of him.

David nodded, "Do you guys mind if I stay a while?" He really needed to put Max down for once and was exhausted from the stress of the night.

The members looked amongst each other for a minute before looking to Alpha Rye, "Alright, you have the official protection of the Whitefire Wolf Pack!"

As if on cue, everyone in the group howled in unison, and David caught Max giggling at the noise. They don't seem so bad.

David set Max on his stomach atop his spread out sweater on the floor, playing with a set of colorful plastic keys he'd brought just before leaving. The redhead himself was almost nodding off, one finger on Max's hand, trying to keep awake in the quiet chatter of the barn.

"Take a nap, you look like shit," Alpha Rye suggested, and caught the worried look in the boy's eyes, "we're in the middle of nowhere and we're unarmed. Just get some shuteye."

He could feel his body beg for it, a nice, long nap, and eventually his eyes became his traitor and he fell into a dreamless sleep, hand still on his bat and taut like a tripwire.

David felt like he was shaking, and in his sleepy haze, he could hear voices around him, muffled and incomprehensible. They flowed in through one ear and out the other, and it wasn't until a few seconds later that the words registered in his mind. 

"SHIT, IT'S THE COPS!" 

Ylissa had been the one trying to wake him up, and she was quickly picking David's sweater from the ground, hay sprinkled all over it. The other group members were all fleeing from the large back window of the farm—which was just an opening with no glass—the thudding of panicked steps like rain in his ears. The girl pulled him up from the ground and sloppily wrapped it around him before slapping him straight across the face—that got him awake for sure.

"Get out of here, run!" She shoved Max into his arms as she carried the bat. David jumped onto the ledge and and out of the barn, just before he heard the sound of the police storming in. He ran into the wheat field, wishing the best for Ylissa, who never made it out of the barn.

Eventually, he made it to a small piece of woods, and after a few more paces, he spotted the familiar icon and bench of the bus stop, nearly weeping with joy at the sight. He quickly crossed the street and sat on the bench, just as the sky launched its first army of raindrops at him. David pulled his hood over his head, tucking Max one more time back into the niche of his sweater, and quietly awaited the bus's arrival—which would be in a few minute or a few hours.

The solitude of the night had him retreat back into his mind, and he felt cold with the realization that he'd left Ylissa with all of his traceable objects, including his backpack of supplies. 

And also the very bloody bat.

Not only had he delayed her escape, he dumped his crime onto her. Oh my God, I framed her.

He killed someone, and then left the blame on another person. He'd escaped from Hell, only to send someone else there in return.

What if her life is ruined? What if they find him later on and try to take Max away from him? What then? 

I'm so screwed.

There was no food, water, or clothing left, all basic necessities were out of reach for the next couple hours at least. David wanted to scream in frustration, there was nothing left to do except wait in hopes of a better option—which he didn't have a good track record for. He felt tears sting the back of his eyes, and he willed himself not to cry, not to feel hopeless. It was futile, and he rubbed his eyes with his already wet sleeve; he hoped Max wouldn't get sick in this weather.

The boy had to admit, he left his house with fairly high expectations and optimism. Retaining those now seemed almost wasteful—he felt like he'd been chewed up and spat out and he'd only been on his own for about four hours. 

No shelter, necessities, supplies, they were going to die and it would be his fault. His fault alone for making such a rash decision so quickly. 

Max is going to suffer, and it'll be your fault.

David shook his head insistently, more so to himself than anyone else. Thinking like that would only make him wallow in self-hatred. Leaving was the only way to survive, even if there was little preparation. It was now a matter of improvisation and adapting. Right. He just had to adapt. To breathe, take control of the things in his reach. And at this moment, caring for Max was still mostly in his reach. 

Around ten minutes later, a pair of lights snaked around the road approaching David. It was the bus, and it stopped in front of him, lowering itself closer to the ground and opening its doors. At this point, the shabby, carbon factory of a vehicle was like a godsend. The teen climbed inside, shaking off concerned looks from the driver, and sat near the front rows of the bus. There were only about four other people there as well, either listening to music or asleep. There was a long and thin screen in the front of the bus with the time written in tangerine letters: 6:02AM.

As the bus moved and made occasional stops, David had pulled out his walkman and began listening to his Strokes album, one ear left uncovered by the headphones in case something happened. Max had taken to trying to move his upper body to the redhead's shoulders, and the boy held a hand on the baby's back to support him. It was something familiar, and brought some comfort to his wandering concentration.

The sun was slowly rising, light pouring slowly into the sky as more and more people boarded and left the bus, the rain still coming down, though now with less force. It was almost too soon when the bus driver announced his last stop, Rosewater, and everyone was instructed to leave. 

And wow, did the bus take him far.

Large houses occupied the streets, expensive cars by nearly every driveway. The street itself was immaculate, and even the smallest houses—which were still fairly large— had extensive front lawns. The bank by the bus stop itself had a large electronic sign that read 9:47AM. I may have nodded off for a while in the bus...just for a little bit.

Residents were watering their plentiful gardens with smiles on their faces. It was extremely different from his hometown Wrendale, where almost no one left their small, shabby houses. 

David walked down the polished sidewalk, and in front, a decorated wooden sign read "Welcome to Rosewater!" He was at least seven towns over!

There was a small downtown part, where the train stations and shops were situated—the ground below him made of red brick. It was still a little cold, but the sun made the winter day more bearable. The area was fairly populated that morning, and he caught a few stares from the people around him. It only isolated him further, and David just kept his head up and moved forward. There was nothing else left to do. 

He turned onto a particularly windy street, and got smacked in the face with a bright orange paper. Peeling it off his face, David took a better look at the poster:

HOUSE SITTER NEEDED!

Cameron Campbell, 

461 Gordon Road, Rosewater, XX, 11111

Pay: Negotiable

It was almost unreal, seeing his old camp master's name again, outside of the summertime. There was a possibility, a slight hope that the man might be willing to let him stay at the house. 

The flicker of hope that David had been nursing in the cave of his chest grew stronger; this had to work!

Reinvigorated, he sneaked a map from the train station, seeking guidance through the rosy and peaceful town. The teen searched long and hard for fateful 461, stumbling over tree roots and waving awkwardly at unusually chipper residents. By around midday, he'd found the golden-leafed numbers, at the entrance of a large house that was three times his own. Gates lined the entrance, where a man—Cameron Campbell himself, stood. He was just as David had remembered, chocolate-brown hair combed back with visible grey streaks on the sides of his head. His cleft chin, sideburns and mustache were all still there. The man wore a suit this time however, and lingered by the entrance of his home for a moment, looking down at his phone in an odd way.

He was about to leave, and David would not let the opportunity slip through his hands!

"MR. CAMPBELL!" He screamed from across the gate, hoping his call somehow reached the older man, "MR. CAMPBELL!"

Mr. Campbell turned spun around, looking for the source of the voice, and seemed to pale a little bit when he saw David standing there. He approached the boy, running over to him.

"What the hell are you doing here, Davey?" The man whisper-shouted, glancing behind his back several times. Men in black were waiting outside of a limousine in the driveway, and they were impatiently tapping their feet. 

 Here goes nothing! "Let me house sit for you."

"Done! Keys, supplies in the closet, and cookie jar for shopping funds," he handed the items over with sweaty hands, and the men in black had begun approaching them, "BYE!"

Mr. Campbell turned around and practically sprinted into the limo, the tall gates opening with their exit. 

"Excuse me young man," the gate manager called over, lazily leaning to the side of his small box of a workspace, "Are you the new house sitter?"

David nodded, grasping the keys more tightly in his hands. Max grabbed at the noisy, silver object, hypnotized by the clinks it made when it moved. The teen caught the man in the box smiling, eyes having moved down to the baby in his arms. 

"Good luck...?"

"David."

"David. Interesting. Well, even a stone killed Goliath."

"What do you mean?" he glance quizzically at the older man who just shook his head and smiled.

"Nothing at all. Head right in, there's still a mess left from yesterday's party, and he won't be back for a while to clean it!"

The inside of the house was covered in streamers and empty champagne glasses, but the actual structuring was beautiful. The pale marble floor matched the walls and in the center of the foyer was a large vase of paper flowers atop a glass table. The staircase had a shiny silver railing, carpeted steps clean and plush-looking. I can get used to this.

He couldn't believe his luck! David looked back at the rumpled orange sheet that saved him. It was almost a blessing.

Something was written, just below the "Pay" section. The last line was fine print, and the teen had to squint to read it:

Nothing over $10/hr.

Time to find a job.