Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As the plane rumbled to life, Indiana finally let himself relax. He tipped his head back and sighed, the sound lost amidst the chatter of his fellow passengers in economy.

Usually, the archeologist avoided flying commercially. One of the perks of working for museums that sent him to the far reaches of the world was that they had an unlimited budget for transportation. Jones had flown in a myriad of machines: helicopters, jets, gliders, floatplanes, biplanes, bombers, turboprops, even a hot air balloon. He'd flown in a dozen planes and jumped from twice as many. But he hated, loathed, passenger planes. Too many people, all complaining and coughing and snoring and laughing—forming a cacophony when the scientist needed to sleep.

Leaping from a plane was exhilarating, that Indy couldn't deny. He loved the risk of never knowing where you'll land, that adrenaline as you yank the pull-cord and your parachute unfurls behind you with the dramatic gusto of a seraphim's wings. An adventure to start or perhaps conclude an adventure.

He hadn't always had a parachute either. Some freefalls were riskier than others, some nearly physics-defying. Once, he’d jumped from a glider's wing with nothing but his whip, which he lassoed around the drooping branches of a chinquapin tree in Japan. He'd dangled from the water rudder of a seaplane over a river in Paraguay, infested with red-bellied piranhas. He'd been pushed from a biplane over Prince Edward Island while locked in a suitcase, only to survive by clawing his way out in the air and grabbing the wing of a lower flying plane. Death-defying stunts that earned him praise and accommodation from others in his field, and an equal amount of resentment and jealousy from the very same community.

So to have leapt from a cargo plane carrying chickens over China on an inflatable raft that he had to inflate mid-fall? Another addition to his many feats.

Only, Indiana hadn't felt the same thrill and power as he'd felt soaring through the air so many times before. Rather than the ground being a destination to achieve, it suddenly seemed a force to be reckoned with. The air was less a freeing rush and more a cutting bite. Rather than thinking of his determination and excitement, he thought only: dear God, don't let this be the end. He's just a kid.

Short Round was eerily quiet in his window seat beside Indy. Shorty was the reason Indiana refused Marcus' offer to hook them up with a smaller aircraft. Commercial flights were terrible, but they were safe. Far safer, at least, than a chicken plane. Had Indy emerged from the plane in a raft by himself, he would have been overcome with the intoxicating thrill of adventure. With an eleven year old beside him, he suddenly found himself feeling the fear Sallah had many times chastised him for lacking. The fear of another such incident led Indiana to triple-check that their pilot had never even heard of Lao Che.

Indiana glanced over at Short Round, or rather, Wan Li as Marcus had discovered when he so graciously (and definitely illegally) obtained a passport for the child. When Indiana had first caught Shorty trying to pick his pocket, he asked him his name, and Shorty only stuck his tongue out at him and ran away. When Indiana caught up to him, the ornery kid still refused to give him anything, so he was dubbed Short Round. Even as Indiana learned about what happened to Shorty's parents, the kid never offered his real name. When Shorty's passport was delivered to their hotel in Delhi, Indy asked him if he wanted to be called Li. He thought the kid's head might fly off shaking no, so Short Round he would remain. Indiana wasn't sure why—he only hoped that it was for a dumb reason and not a sad one.

The silence between them had persisted for too long, and as the plane began to rise, Indiana turned to the kid. "Take that off," he said gruffly, batting at Shorty's Yankees cap. Short Round reached up and grabbed his hat, keeping it firmly in place on his head. Indy rolled his eyes. "It's not polite to wear a hat indoors, Shorty."

"I don't care!" Shorty replied indignantly, turning his body away. Indy sighed and ran a hand over his face, feeling defeated and at a loss for what to do.

Shorty had been mad at him since the night before. Indy returned to the room to find him jumping on the bed, his excitement about going to America palpable. All Shorty could talk about was America—what it would be like, what it would smell like, what it would sound like. And what the kid wanted to see more than anything in the world: an American baseball game. He wanted to sit in a stadium full of other kids wearing his hat, cheering for the real-life Yankees.

Indiana had returned in a sour mood, disappointed with his anticipation of ruining Shorty's hopes. He had just returned from using a payphone to talk to Marcus. Passports already in Jones' possession, Marcus had finalized their tickets for the next morning. They'd fly to London, where there was a connecting flight to New York.

Only Indiana would be on the second flight.

When the Sankara stone had been returned to the village and Willie said her goodbyes, Indy was left with the realization that the real world beckoned him in New Jersey. But as he turned around, there was an orphan boy riding an elephant, asking him what was next? Where was the next adventure?

When he rescued the village children from the Thuggee, it had been simple. Unlock their chains and escort them home, where their families waited to embrace them. But Shorty was not someone he could leave behind with his parents. Recruiting Short Round was just as empathetically impulsive as when Indiana was caught by throwing a rock at the Thuggee man who whipped the child—he knew it was right, but he hadn't thought about what would happen after. When Shorty asked him where their next adventure was, Indy said "America."

Of course Indiana was not just going to leave Shorty in India. And it would have been worse still to dump him back on the streets of Shanghai where he could continue to be an unlicensed eleven year old cab driver, sleeping in puddles and eating food from restaurant trash cans. Shorty may not understand why his life startled Indiana so much, but it was still the archeologist's responsibility not to let it happen again.

So then… what? Indy had a responsibility now, but what exactly was it that he was responsible for? He had to ensure Shorty's safety, and that was exceptionally difficult to do—and not only because Shorty was incredibly stubborn and danger-prone.

Indiana could not just keep him. Even just the thought sounded strange. Shorty was not a dog that he picked up, so he couldn't simply take him home. In the same way, Shorty was not a dog, so Indy couldn't just hand him off either. His first thought had been to put Shorty up for adoption. It sounded like a good idea in theory—Shorty could find a home and parents who would take care of him. But the overwhelming risks were dizzying as the scientist played them through in his mind. What if he bounced around the system and was bullied or god-forbid hurt? What if he spent his waiting time trapped in some dingy orphanage, feeling abandoned? What if—though Indiana despised the thought—no one wanted him?

Looking over once more at Short Round, gazing out the window with a small pout, Indy felt a cold bitterness sweep through him. How could no one want him? He was incredible. The kid was clever, funny, kind, and brave as hell. Indy's mind would have been forever tainted with the Black Sleep of Kali if not for that child breaking through his chains, running from his captors, and being strong enough to fight back. Not just the Thuggee, but Indiana himself.

But prospective parents wouldn't know all of that. They'd see a Chinese kid with broken English. America was many things, but one thing it rarely was, was kind. Shorty wielded a lot of power and confidence, but a place like America had the capacity to eat him alive.

If someone chose to adopt Shorty, Indiana knew that it could be okay, wonderful even, but without a way to ensure that outcome, it was far too risky to simply put Shorty in the system's hands and leave. No, hell no. There had to be another solution.

Then one presented itself. While roaming the streets of Delhi after Shorty had gone to sleep, Indy walked past a campus, lights dimmed and voices silent. He had wandered further than he had in their two weeks in the city, lost in his thoughts and worries. He glanced at the campus with a smile, thinking of his own university waiting for him in Jersey.

On further inspection, Indy spied the name on the gate. It was not, in fact, a college, as he suspected, but rather an all girls boarding school. He was surprised to see a school in such good condition, with such sprawling lawns and gorgeous brick buildings.

The thought struck. Indiana couldn't pawn Shorty off on a strange family, but he could entrust Shorty to seasoned educators. A school. The idea was so relieving he could have kissed the iron gates that inspired it. Shorty would have a warm, safe place to sleep, teachers to care for and teach him, and food he could freely eat.

Indy knew he had to find a great school for Short Round, so he called Marcus to ask for yet another favor. He needn't have worried about bothering the man about this, for Brody seemed delighted to help.

Weston, Marcus Brody's own alma mater. The Harold Weston School for Boys was its full title. It took children of all ages and kept them through graduation. Marcus adored the institution. Couldn't say a bad thing about his time there, about his teachers or the other boys he befriended.

"Don't you worry," Marcus told him on the phone, "I can call the headmaster tonight and get your boy Li in there right away. There will be fees, of course, but I'm sure we can get scholarships and…"

Indiana didn't care much about the cost, and so tuned out Marcus' spiel. He'd pay whatever he needed, even if it cost him everything he earned from his adventuring—past, present, and future—in order to ensure Shorty's safety and education.

He found that he couldn't tell Shorty when he returned that evening, or in any of the few days that followed. Though Jones was ecstatic to learn that the headmaster welcomed Shorty to join school though the semester was already a week in, he knew that Shorty may not be as thrilled as he was.

And admittedly, he wanted to enjoy the last week in Delhi—something he knew he wouldn't be able to do if Short Round spent the entire time angry with him. They explored the sprawling street markets, eating parathas (Indy's favorite) and jalebis (Shorty's favorite) until they were so full they collapsed on a bench outside the Lodi Garden. At night, they explored the well-lit temples and dark, shrouded ruins, listening to the music as Bhangra dancers delighted the late-night sightseers. At the end of every night, Shorty would be so exhausted he could barely stumble back to the hotel, where he would unceremoniously collapse on the floor, already asleep.

Usually, this would not be where Indiana Jones would end a night. A city like Delhi was bustling with nightlife not fit for children. Flashing, blaring clubs and candlelit speakeasies—a fertile hunting ground for drinking and making bad decisions, which was one of the doctor's favored pastimes. He could certainly find a few women to flirt with, and maybe one he'd go home with. This routine was as much a signature "Indiana Jones" move as his adventures themselves.

Yet, Indy didn't do this even once. Sure, sometimes he'd take a late night stroll after Shorty went to sleep, but he never ventured toward the lights and sounds that usually beckoned him.

Most nights he wouldn't even leave at all. After Shorty knocked out, Indy often turned on the dim oil lamp on the bedside table and wrote in his journal. He spent the time slowly working his way through a detailed account of the adventure to Pankot Palace—or as Shorty called it, the "Temple of Doom."

The truth was, it was difficult to just up and leave Shorty in the hotel. He wasn't sure what the protocol was, and perhaps it was fine to leave Shorty in the locked hotel room while he went out. But Indiana's mind was filled with "what if"s. What if someone broke in? What if Shorty woke up and thought Indiana had left him there? What if, when finding no trace of the archeologist, Shorty decided to leave? What if Shorty got scared, or had a nightmare, or got sick? Indy knew what it was like to wake in the middle of the night at that age and want nothing more than comfort or reassurance, and he had never received that from his father.

Shorty slept through each night, but Indy always felt better for having been there in the morning.

The night before the flight, when Indiana returned to the room, Shorty wasn't sleeping at all. He jumped on one of the mattresses, full of energy and excitement for his next adventure. Indy felt his resolve slip, but he straightened his posture and clenched his jaw. He'd leapt from planes, escaped jungle cats, even been in a pit of snakes—he could tell an eleven year old that he had to go to school.

"Shorty, hey, sit down for a minute would ya?"

The boy did, jumping into a seated position and still wriggling around. "Of course Indy!" he said dutifully.

Indiana sat opposite him and pulled off his hat, rubbing the brim between his fingers restlessly. "I want to talk to you about tomorrow."

"I'll be good, promise Dr. Jones!" Shorty said with a steely nod.

"I know you won't be," Indy jested, ruffling the kids' heads. He brought his hand back to his hat, his expression leveling. "Listen, Shorty, you remember how we're going to London?" Shorty nodded. "Well, London is a great place. And my good friend Marcus found a school for you."

Shorty's face fell so fast that Indy felt his heart tug at his chest, but he retained his calm expression.

"School? I don't go to school, Dr. Jones. I already smart!"

"You are. You're super bright, kid. But—"

"No but!" Short Round protested. "I don't want school! School is in London! You said America! You said!"

"I know kid," Indy said regretfully. "But London is better. You’ll be with other kids your own age, and—”

“I want to be with you Indy!” Now Shorty was tearing up, and for all Indiana prepared himself for, this caught him off guard.

Indy shook his head, feeling his eyes prickling. It was a foreign concept—not that he never cried, but rather that he rarely did, and was surprised that it was happening now. He made sure he didn’t thought; if he got emotional, he might lose his credibility.

“I know, kid. I’m sorry. But you’ll like school! My friend Marcus promised that it was the best school you could possibly go to.”

“You just want to get rid of me! You give me to school so you don’t have to deal with me no more!”

Indiana blinked, surprised once more. He had expected Shorty to be mad about school because it was, well, school, and no kid liked school. But he hadn’t expected Shorty to cry, and he didn’t think Shorty would think something like that.

He found that, in the face of such an accusation, the archeologist was rendered speechless. When a few seconds had passed without a rebuttal, Shorty seemed to deflate. All of the fight seemed to flow out of him, and he slowly sunk to the floor, crawling to where his pillow was and turning his body.

Indy pinched the bridge of his nose, his stomach in knots. He knew the conversation would be hard, but he hadn’t thought it would be that hard. He was once more reminded that he had no idea how to talk to children.

When they had been in the mines beneath Pankot Palace, it was easier. They shared an adventure and had the same goal: survive, and free the children. And while Indy had been reminded quite frequently that Short Round was only a child, it was still easier. All he had to do was protect him and in return, Shorty helped him to free both himself and the village kids. But talking about school? The future in general? Indy was a far better friend than a responsible adult.

“Shorty?” Indiana finally spoke. The child didn’t turn or even move in acknowledgement. All Indy could see was the back of his head. “Shorty, c’mon.” Still no response. “I know you’re not sleeping, kid.” Indiana sighed, defeated and upset. “I know you’re mad at me, but whether or not you understand it or even like it, this is the best thing for you.”

Giving up, Indy turned the oil lamp off, shrouding them in darkness. He stretched out on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the distant sound of music coming from the window. The background sounds of Delhi had narrated their peaceful vacation, but the evening’s conversations now seemed to sour it. With a growing pit in his stomach, Indy began to wonder if the entire trip would forever be associated with the bad note they were ending it on instead of all of the fun they’d had. He slept very little that night.

As the plane took off the next morning, Indiana was unsurprised that Shorty was still upset. The doctor reasoned that he too would be upset if he was starting out as a new kid in school in the middle of January. If there was any other reason Shorty was angry with him, Indiana didn’t think much of it.

With an eight hour flight ahead, Indy really didn’t want to spend it in this awkward silence. “Do you want anything to eat? You didn’t have anything at the hotel.”

Grumpily, Short Round continued to ignore him. Against his better judgment, Indiana found himself growing impatient. “Alright Shorty, look, are you not going to talk to me ever again? Am I only worth responding to when you want to argue about your hat?” The last bit was an attempt at lightening the mood before Indy said something cross.

Luckily, it seemed to work—or perhaps Shorty was just tired of being angry, because Indy saw the kid’s reflection in the window and a small smile fought its way to his lips.

Indiana grinned in victory. “Maybe I should ask the stewardess where they keep their rafts, ya know, just in case we need to make a quick exit,” he joked.

Shorty finally, finally turned to make eye contact with Indy for the first time since he turned away the night before. “You ask her where they keep the chickens!” he teased with a big smile on his face.

The joke earned a genuine laugh from Indiana, so loud and boisterous that many of their fellow passengers turned to look in judgment or curiosity. Indy’s face turned red and he quieted himself quickly, but this response only set Shorty off to where he was the one cackling and drawing everyone’s attention.

The flight passed far too quickly. They regaled one another with stories of their previous adventures and general mischief as London loomed in the west.

“Look Dr. Jones!” Shorty said as they flew over the English Channel. “The buildings look all funny!”

It occurred to Indiana then that Shorty had never been anywhere other than Shanghai—before the journey to India, of course. And now Short Round was further from his home than he’d ever been.

“That’s England, Shorty.”

“England?”

“The country. London is a city in England.”

Indiana pretended not to notice how Shorty’s face fell. “We at school already?”

Indy patted the kid’s hand as it sat on the arm rest. “Almost.” The word was as foreboding to the scientist as it was to the kid, but Indy did his best not to show it.

They were both silent as the plane landed, though Indiana continuously sent Shorty encouraging smiles. Shorty didn’t seem angry or sad now, he just seemed nervous.

As they walked off the plane and into the airport, Shorty tugged on Indiana’s sleeve. “Indy?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Is school hard?”

Indy stopped walking and knelt beside him, meeting him at his height. “Hard? Yeah, definitely.” Shorty’s anxious expression morphed into one of pure fear. Indiana flicked the brim of Shorty’s cap. “But guess what? Walking through a hall of bugs into a room of spikes was way harder. So was standing up to those mean Thuggee guys and swinging onto a rope. And it was definitely way harder to fight off all those guys with a torch—especially when I was one of those guys! And fighting that kid in order to save me again? Super hard! If you can do all that, then I think you can take on school.”

Shorty beamed at him. “Thanks, Indy,” he said as they continued walking.

The moment was short-lived as they collided with a well-groomed, lanky British man who had been running right toward them. “Dr. Jones?” the man asked tentatively.

Indy gave Shorty a conspiratorially baffled look. “That’s me. Sorry, do I know you?”

The man smiled warmly at both of them, and Indy spied the large embroidered “W” on the breast pocket of the man’s shirt. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Reginald Craft, and I’m one of the instructors at the Harold Weston School for Boys. Headmaster Mayfield told me that a new student would be arriving at the word of one of our most cherished alumnus, Dr. Marcus Brody. Marcus was a friend of mine—we graduated in the same class at Weston. I thought I could offer our newest pupil the full Weston welcome by meeting you at the airport and taking him straight to the school!”

“Oh,” Indiana said lamely, glancing down at Shorty who eyed the man with wariness. “Sorry, I assumed I’d be dropping him off.”

Mr. Craft waved a hand through the air in dismissal, his large and rather disarming smile still plastered on his face. “Nonsense! I want to make sure our new student gets the best introduction to our school, so I’ll provide him with a tour and the full Weston background during our journey!”

Shorty made a face at this proposition, but Craft dutifully ignored it. He turned his attention to the child. “And you, of course, must be Mr. Wan Li! It's lovely to make your acquaintance Wan.”

Shorty scrunched up his nose and Indy winced. “It’s Li, actually. Wan is his surname,” Indiana gently corrected. Mr. Craft had the decency not to look embarrassed or ashamed, instead only smiling wider.

“Of course! Li it is. My humblest apologies, Li.”

“It’s Short Round!” Shorty corrected them both stubbornly.

“It’s a nickname,” Indy explained, almost embarrassed to say so. Indiana scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. Despite the unending friendliness of the teacher, Indiana couldn’t help but feel as though he and Shorty were out of their element here. Though Indy was an educator himself and could whip out that business formal outfit with ease, he was currently underdressed compared to Reginald. Shorty’s attitude definitely placed him in a far distant hemisphere as well, lacking the manners that Mr. Craft had in spades.

Mr. Craft was unphased. “Well, I’m sure your instructors will prefer to call you by your proper name, but while we’re getting to know one another, I’ll call you Short Round. That is, of course, if you promise to call me Reggie.” Craft made a funny face as he said his own nickname, crossing his eyes and wrinkling his nose. Shorty laughed, which put Indiana at ease. “When we’re in class, I’ll call you Li, and you’ll call me Mr. Craft. ‘Short Round’ and ‘Reggie’ can be our little secret, okay?” Shorty nodded, and Indiana tried not to look too outwardly relieved.

Exchanging a meaningful glance with the teacher, Indy turned to look at Shorty. “Hey, kid, why don’t you grab one of those big pretzels you saw back there?” Indiana prompted the child, handing him a wad of cash.

“Oh boy, Indy!” Shorty said, eyes widening at the—perhaps excessive—roll of ones. “I buy the biggest one!” If Shorty understood that Indiana wanted to speak with Mr. Craft alone, he didn’t care in the face of a snack.

As Short Round scampered off, Indiana turned his attention to Mr. Craft, still just as smiley without the child there to witness. “I didn’t realize that someone would be here at the airport,” he began awkwardly.

Mr. Craft’s face faltered a bit. “Does that upset you, Dr. Jones? I did think it would make it easier for you to remain here to embark on your connecting flight. Weston is still a bit of a drive.” Indiana knew that Craft was right—this way Indy wouldn’t have to take a taxi to and from Weston. It would have been a tight timeframe. Yet he still found himself a bit disappointed that his journey with Shorty ended so abruptly. “Also,” Mr. Craft continued, “I’ve found that for first-time students, it’s best to separate them from their guardian early on so that they may have some time to acclimate. It helps to avoid meltdowns or scenes from the younger students. I want to ensure Li has as smooth a transition as he can.”

Indy nodded. “And his English? I know you guys run a fancy kind of place, so…”

Craft shook his head adamantly. “At Weston, we accept boys who show promise and excellence from all over Europe. While we do not often host students who travel from so far away, Li will not be the only student where English is a second language. Our goal at Weston is to help mold young minds into a shape prepared for career excellence!” The last part was clearly some kind of pamphlet mantra.

“Good. That’s good,” Indy replied awkwardly. “The uh… the money went through?”

“Of course, Dr. Jones. You really needn’t worry, everything is handled.”

“Right. Of course. Sorry.” Indiana didn’t appreciate how his words were failing him. He was notoriously good at networking, but he found himself wringing his hands and remaining in long, awkward pauses. Mr. Craft didn’t seem bothered by it. “They have phones, right? And you guys have my number?”

Craft nodded. “We have your home number, office number, and the name of your institution. I doubt there will be any emergencies you’ll need to be informed of, Dr. Jones. We run a tight ship.”

“Good, yeah,” he replied lamely. “So… does that mean I’m done then? There’s nothing else I have to take care of?”

“As far as we’re concerned,” Mr. Craft said. He cocked his head slightly, and Indiana caught the man’s subtle appraisal. “I must admit, Dr. Jones, I have done some research about you in preparation for taking in Wan Li. Standard procedure, of course. You are a man of much acclaim in the archeological world.”

“Thanks.”

“You must have a plethora of tales to delight, am I wrong?”

Indiana narrowed his eyes, confused. “Well, sure. I’ve gone on a few adventures that make good fireside stories.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’d love to hear some one day! And… you met Li on one of these adventures?”

"Yes, I caught him trying to—trying to help someone… uh… cross the street." He figures it was best not to lead with pickpocketing.

"I see," Craft said, not giving away whether or not he believed Indiana's cover-up. "And you brought him with you? On an adventure?"

"Yes," Indy said, now uncomfortable under Mr. Craft's unrelenting stare.

"I see," the teacher repeated. "Well, I'm sure that makes quite a story, Dr. Jones."

Indiana felt his face grow hot as his confusion morphed into a mix of shame and anger. "What are you implying, Reggie?" Perhaps he was being immature, but he suddenly felt a load of resentment for the man before him.

"I mean to imply nothing," Craft said, his composure intact and his expression annoyingly placid. "I only wish to understand where Wan Li comes from so that I may anticipate any difficulties that may arrive as he adjusts."

"Okay, so what do I have to do with any of that?"

"Hardly anything, Dr. Jones," Mr. Craft lied. "Where he comes from matters very little. I will spend our first weeks together helping Li to build his confidence and become independent. I think that will prove useful."

"Trust me, Shorty is already pretty damn confident and independent."

"Perhaps, but starting in a new school in a new country in a new continent, Dr. Jones… I certainly wouldn't want him to feel… underappreciated."

Indiana felt as though he had been slapped. Craft's implication was plain to him—he may as well have just said "abandoned," for it was obvious that's what he meant.

The scientist opened his mouth to defend himself, but clamped it shut just as quickly as Shorty returned with a soft pretzel larger than his head.

"Here you go, Indy!" Shorty said, dutifully sticking out his hand with the money.

Indy closed Shorty's fingers over the money with his hand. "Keep it. Just in case," he said with a wink. As Shorty nodded, grinning from ear to ear, Indiana realized how much he was going to miss him.

Indiana knelt once more to be level with Shorty, ignoring Mr. Craft and his insults. "Listen, Shorty, Reggie is going to take you to school now. But I'm not coming with you, because I have to make my next flight." To this at least, Short Round seemed unsurprised, and Indy puffed a small breath of relief.

"Reggie is nice," Shorty said, sending Mr. Craft a small smile that the man warmly reciprocated.

"Yeah, he's a real joy," Indy said through gritted teeth, but he put on as genuine a smile as he could manage. "You better behave for him, okay? And for all your teachers."

"Even dumb ones?"

"Especially the dumb ones," Indiana told him, ruffling his hat one more time.

In the momentary pause that followed, Indy didn't know what to say. Luckily, Shorty beat him to it, lunging forward and wrapping his arms around him. "I love you, Indy," he said, his voice small.

Indiana returned the embrace tightly, fighting the lump in his throat. Say something, he urged himself. Come on.

But Shorty began to unwind his arms and step away, and Indiana couldn't say anything. Nothing meaningful, at least.

Craft put a hand on Short Round's back, guiding him away. "Have a lovely flight, Dr. Jones," said Mr. Craft as they turned away from him. Indiana flipped him off. He thought that though Craft couldn't see him do this, that perhaps the teacher was smart enough to know it was happening anyway.

The teacher and student stepped on the descending escalator that would take them out of sight. Right before they disappeared, Shorty turned back to look at Indiana, but the archeologist swiveled his head away, ashamed.

Chapter Text

“Can you believe he said that? Where does he get the nerve?”

“Indiana, I’m sure he didn’t mean—”

“Oh please, Marcus. He meant it.”

Indy paced his classroom as Marcus sat behind the desk. Marcus had only arrived in New Jersey two days after Indiana, which Indy was grateful for. He needed someone to fume to. The only issue that Indy hadn’t considered was that Reginald Craft was Marcus’ friend. Still, the archeologist was determined to make Marcus understand the insult from the airport.

“What were his exact words? Not the ones you exaggerated.”

Indiana rolled his eyes. “When I told him about adventuring with Short Round, he said it made for ‘quite a story.’”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “Well, it does, doesn’t it?”

Indiana looked over to him exasperatedly. “Yes, maybe, I don’t know—it doesn’t matter! It’s how he said it, Marcus, don’t you get that?”

The older man sighed. “No, Indiana, I don’t think I do. It was probably a compliment.”

“A compliment? Are you growing senile in your old age Brody? That was no compliment. And get this—I haven’t even told you this part yet—Craft said he wanted to make sure Shorty didn’t feel underappreciated. Underappreciated, Marcus! He may as well have spit in my face!”

Marcus barked out a laugh that left Indiana stunned. Quickly, Marcus covered his mouth with his hand guiltily, but he was still grinning humorously. “I’m sorry, Indiana, really. But you must hear how you sound!”

“What the hell?!”

“Reginald saying that he wants to make sure a student feels appreciated? That was somehow an insult to you?” Seeing Indy’s reddening face, Marcus regained his composure. “Indiana, I have known Reginald a long time. And he can be many things, but hardly cruel. He’s a kind man, a compassionate one.”

Indy crossed his arms, furious with his friend. How could Marcus take Craft’s side? The teacher may have smiled and been well-mannered, but Indiana was not a fool. He knew when he was being insulted. Craft may not be one of the murderous thieves that Indiana usually encountered, but the man was smart—which was far worse.

Seeing Indiana’s growing frustration, Marcus relented. “Why don’t you tell me what you thought Reginald meant?”

Indy glared at him for the way he said it, but he was still grateful for the chance to explain. “He wasn’t pointing out that taking Shorty with me would make a good story—he was accusing me of it. He thinks that Shorty was just some way to pass the time, or to make my adventure seem more interesting. That’s why he said ‘underappreciated.’ He was implying that once my adventure ended, I was just dumping Shorty onto someone else. Getting rid of him.”

Marcus nodded, mulling over Indy’s words. “Alright, I can’t attest to what Reginald actually meant, but I can admit that your assumption doesn’t seem entirely without a foundation. Still…” Marcus hesitated. “Ah, nevermind.”

“What? You can say it.”

“Indiana… why would that implication bother you so much? You don’t care what other people think of you.”

Indy deflated a bit, his anger thawing. Marcus had a point—Indy didn’t care what other people thought of him. Why should Mr. Craft, a virtual stranger, be the exception?

Yet he was. For reasons unknown to him, Craft’s words sunk into his skin and gnawed at him. It didn’t make any sense. Reginald Craft was a teacher who lived and worked an ocean away. His words shouldn’t mean a thing.

-

And yet, two weeks later, they still did.

Indiana returned to his apartment after a long day of failing to read undergraduate essays. It was the first day of February a blizzard inched in along the horizon. If he was lucky, the university would close tomorrow and he could spend all day in bed.

There was often an adjustment period after his adventures—times when working as a professor seemed so small in the grand landscape of the world. But those instances were usually categorized by bouts of restlessness. This time was different. He felt lethargic, dispassioned. As always, he was easily distracted, but it was only because it was so hard to focus on students and lectures when he felt so apathetic.

There had never been a time in his life where he didn’t yearn for the next adventure. But now, the idea of traversing the globe and jumping out of planes… wasn’t so appealing.

All he could think of in his silent moments of isolation was Reginald Craft. Indiana practically considered the man to be his antithesis, and spent a sizable portion of time coming up with comebacks and insults he should’ve hurled back at the airport in London.

Marcus seemed to take his old school buddy’s side, so Indiana didn’t mention anything else on the matter after the elder man rendered him speechless with his logic. Not that it mattered—in fact, it made it far worse. Knowing how odd it was that Craft’s passing insult rattled him did not reverse the effects. Rather, it only made Indy more angry with Craft and more ashamed for feeling so.

He needed to break from this funk. He needed to clear the haze so he could return to normal. He needed someone who would be honest with him, even brutally so.

He dialed Willie Scott.

“Why, Dr. Jones,” Willie’s sharp, midwestern accent seemed to fill the empty room around him as she picked up. “To think I started believing you forgot about me?”

“How could I, doll?” Indy quipped back. “You made quite an impression.”

“You flatter me, Indy. But considering the distance, I doubt this is that kind of call.”

Indiana chuckled. “You’re right, Willie. I need your advice on something.”

“The great Dr. Jones, chaser of fortune and glory, needs advice? Must be serious.”

“It kind of is.”

“Is everything alright?” Her teasing tone was gone, replaced with surprise. “You sound a little off your game.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“You’re an open book, Indy.”

“Promise me you’ll take this seriously.”

“I promise. What’s going on?”

“A man insulted me in an airport and now I can’t focus.”

Willie blurted a laugh through the speaker that was so loud Indiana had to draw the phone away from his ear quickly, but he was smiling. He had been deliberately trying to show both her and himself how ridiculous it was.

“Alright, alright. Sorry for laughing. I made you a promise. Besides, I’m sure that’s not the whole story.”

“Yeah, no. Not really.” Indiana then began to tell Willie the story—the whole story, just to ensure an honest response. He started from when they parted ways in Delhi, sharing his two weeks of fun with Short Round, his plan for Weston, telling Shorty about the school, the plane ride, and finally, meeting Reginald Craft. While Indy kept certain details to himself—notably, his failure to respond to Short Round in the hotel room and his failure to give Shorty a proper goodbye in the airport—he still told Willie as much as he could.

“Wow, Indy.”

“What?”

“I mean—well, first of all, I agree. That teacher was definitely making a dig at you.”

“Thank you!” Indy really did feel validated by Willie’s concurrence. It wasn’t that Marcus made him doubt what Craft said, but rather that being the only one who believed it was isolating.

“But...”

“Oh god. But what?”

“I don’t know Indy… it’s not as if Mr. Craft was really out of line.”

Frustration flooded through him. Why wouldn’t anyone just agree with him? “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not attacking you, okay? But maybe instead of thinking that Mr. Craft is some devious asshole, you might want to ask why he’d even say that to you. Think about it, what does he have to gain, huh? He doesn’t know you, you’re not some competitor or anything. So why would he insult you?”

“Because he’s a dick.”

“Or because he cares about Shorty.”

Indy barked out a laugh. “This has nothing to do with Shorty. This is just about that man deciding to be—”

“Oh my God, Indiana Jones, you’re not being serious?”

“What do you mean?”

“Of course this is about Shorty.”

Indiana fidgeted uncomfortably, grateful that Willie wasn’t in the room, staring him down. “Wills, come on.”

“Dr. Jones, I may not have known you for a long time, but you know something? I know when you’re bullshitting. And you’re not bullshitting me, you’re bullshitting yourself.” She sighed. “I know that you didn’t tell me all of that stuff about your weeks in Delhi with Short Round for no goddamn reason. And Mr. Craft? He was probably just looking out for the kid.”

“How the hell was he looking out for him by disparaging me, huh?”

“Maybe because he saw a kid, freshly plucked from the streets of a foreign country, being dropped off like a package. Mr. Craft knew that you would just be going back to Jersey, same old life, same old Indy, but everything is different for Shorty.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Indy responded defensively. “I can’t just keep him! He’s not a pet! And I live a busy life, Willie. A dangerous one!”

“I never said you had to keep him!” Willie snapped back. “You brought that up. Why?”

Now Indiana was not only frustrated, but confused as well. “I don’t know! Maybe because everyone is mad at me and blaming me for all of this shit!”

“Who is ‘everyone’? I’m not mad at you! The way you tell it, neither is Dr. Brody. And Mr. Craft was little more than passively bothered by you. There’s no uproarious mobs at your door, you dramatic asshole!”

“You sure sound mad at me!”

“Well, I am now! I’m mad because for a man so smart, you’re actually pretty dumb!”

“Why is that?! What key piece of information am I missing, doll?”

“If you thought about it for more than two seconds, you’d know damn well! Tell me, Indy, why haven’t you been focusing at work? Why are Mr. Craft’s words sticking with you? Why exactly haven’t you wanted to go gallivanting after another dangerous artifact? Why do you think everyone’s mad at you? There’s one answer here!”

“You know what? Calling you was a horrible mistake. I guess I forgot how annoying the sound of your voice was!”

“Yeah? Well, why don’t you call me back when you get your head out of your ass?!”

Indiana slammed the phone back onto the receiver, assuming Willie was probably doing the same. Where did she get off, saying that he was dumb? He was a goddamn professor! And if not for this “dramatic asshole” she’d be dead in a lava pit beneath Pankot Palace!

Well, technically it was Shorty that rescued her, because the dramatic asshole was the one who was lowering her into the lava pit in the first place. Actually, it was the dramatic asshole who took her to Pankot Palace, who took her from her life in Shanghai. It was becoming a bit of a pattern.

As furious as he was as threw back a whiskey in his kitchen, he was angrier because he had no idea what Willie meant. She said there was one answer for why Indiana was in a rut, but failed to tell him what it was. And he wanted to know so badly. Still, he couldn’t call her back. He was still too mad at her and he doubted she’d pick up anyway.

She said if he thought about it, he’d know. But he thought as hard as he could, and came up with nothing.

-

March peeked its head around the corner and the snow on the Weston lawn finally began to melt.

Boys of all ages were bustling around the campus, running late to their classes, play-fighting, and otherwise enjoying the sunshine. The temperature was still bitter, but that wasn’t enough to keep them inside.

Short Round was supposed to be on his way to Mr. Creighton’s history class, but he was instead hiding in the rose garden behind the kindergarten dormitories—possibly the most private spot in the entire school.

He discovered the garden one day as he was running from Alain and Michel, the terror twins. Shorty had only been at Weston for a week when the young French aristocrats made themselves known. Aged fifteen, the twins were the most popular boys at Weston as far as the younger students were concerned. The older students nearing graduation lost all desire to form social hierarchies, so Alain and Michel deemed this year theirs. Of course, for the young Chinese boy who joined a week late to their second semester, they became his tormentors.

Shorty was frustrated with himself for hiding from them. When he lived in Shanghai he was accosted by grown men, and now he let pimply, pasty teenagers get to him? Weston was foreign ground in more ways than one, and Shorty longed for the familiarity of going to bed hungry and cold.

At Weston, it wasn’t simple. In Shanghai, Shorty could play dirty. He could hit, kick, bite, you name it. He wasn’t ever very good with his words—even in Mandarin, but especially in English. But when he punched Michel in the nose for calling him a name, Shorty was the one who got in trouble. When the headmaster asked him what Michel had said to warrant such a reaction, Shorty repeated the word. Headmaster Mayfield clamped his hands over his ears and looked at Shorty in disgust.

“Young man, no proper Weston student would ever say such a thing! Those boys are proper gentlemen!”

The term “those boys” was not lost on Short Round. He was not included in “those boys” because “those boys” were white and rich and their accents weren’t “funny” or “ugly,” like they claimed Shorty’s was—they were “proper.”

Shorty hated that word.

In truth, the name that Michel called him was a word Shorty hadn’t heard before, but based on Headmaster Mayfield’s reaction, he could hazard a guess as to how “proper” it was to say. For whatever reason, being Chinese singled him out. He may have been poor and pretty low on the social ladder in Shanghai, but his race was never an issue. Practically everyone was Chinese in China. No one was Chinese at Weston.

He wondered often if Headmaster Mayfield felt tricked. He had accepted Shorty sight unseen, after all, with not even a name to go with the student. Brody’s boy, he had called him. Not that Shorty had ever even met Marcus Brody. It didn’t matter much, because from the moment he punched Michel “for no reason,” Shorty’s new name became “you know, that student.” Unfortunately, Shorty knew what it meant. Two months ago, he would have been blissfully unaware.

So, unable to fight back using the typical methods, Shorty was reduced to hiding from the boys altogether, which seemed impossible. The rose garden was safe because no one went near the obnoxiously loud kindergarten dormitories except for the kindergarteners themselves, and the entrance to the garden fell into such disrepair, hidden and ignored as it was, that one could hardly see past the overgrown bushes and rusting iron to see a lush, private paradise.

On this particular day, Shorty was not hiding from the terror twins, he was hiding from Mr. Creighton's class. There was nothing to like about Mr. Creighton, with his wrinkly face and scary eyepatch. However, despite his harsh appearance, there was nothing that made Mr. Creighton any worse than his other teachers.

All of his teachers were… not like Mr. Craft. When Shorty met Mr. Craft, he was friendly and helpful. Shorty didn't even mind calling him Mr. Craft or being called Li in turn. When Mr. Craft talked about "proper" things, Shorty listened, because Mr. Craft did not say it as though it excluded him like everyone else.

Most of his teachers still called him "Mr. Li," which was fine, except that they were assuming "Li" was his last name, which it was not. But no matter how often he tried to correct them, they thought he was being stubborn or troublesome. When Mr. Craft heard Mr. Creighton call him "Mr. Li," he corrected the other teacher for him, and Mr. Creighton immediately apologized and fixed it. But Shorty had been telling him that for weeks, and Mr. Creighton never believed him. It was nice of Mr. Craft to help, but Shorty wished that he didn't have to.

The rustling of the overgrowth by the gate startled Shorty out of his thoughts. Mr. Craft appeared, brushing his wool jacket to straighten it. Shorty frowned, caught.

"Well, Li, I see you've been skipping class again. I had a hunch I'd find you here."

Shorty crossed his arms. "I hate history," he grumbled. "It's dumb."

"Well now, history isn't dumb! History teaches us where we've been so we know where to go."

Shorty rolled his eyes. He'd heard this spiel from Mr. Craft a dozen times. It tricked him the first couple times, but Shorty knew better by now. History was just boring.

"I don't want your history! What about me? Shanghai history? We don't talk about China!"

"That's true. And unfortunate," the teacher acquiesced, sitting on the bench beside Shorty. "But you have to learn history, Shorty, even if it's not yours exclusively. How's English going?" Shorty looked at his shoes, not answering. "That good, huh?" Mr. Craft nudged Shorty's arm with his in a friendly gesture.

"It's so hard!" Shorty complained. "I speak good enough!"

"Well enough, Shorty."

"Indy never corrected me!"

"Yes, but Dr. Jones was not your English teacher. I am. It's my job." He smiled at Shorty, feeling pity. "Look, next week is spring break. Why don't we study together?"

"Spring break? What's that?"

"You don't have to go to classes because they're all canceled for a week. Isn't that nice?"

Shorty disagreed. He could skip class just fine, but what would he do if Alain and Michel didn't have class to distract them?

Reading his mind, Mr. Craft added, "plus, you'll have the campus to yourself. Practically. Most students go home over breaks. A few stay because their parents don't think it's worth it to fly them out for only a week. Mostly it's the older kids who stay so they can keep studying."

This was a relief. An entire week without the twins? Shorty definitely needed that.

"So… everyone go home?"

"Yes. Or to visit friends or see the sights. The older kids who don't stay often travel together to visit Paris or Amsterdam or go up north to their ski chalets."

Shorty narrowed his eyes at Mr. Craft in disbelief. "They leave? They don't have to ask?"

"Well, no. So long as we know that they're leaving, of course," Mr. Craft explained, but Shorty had stopped listening.

"They take plane? Alone?"

"They're responsible enough, so yes."

"I could do that. Ride in planes."

Mr. Craft laughed lightly. "Yes, I'm sure you could Li. I met you at an airport, remember?"

Shorty smiled. "I've been in chicken plane too!"

"A chicken plane?"

"A plane full of chickens."

"Ah. Well, it's a little on the nose. When were you on a chicken plane?"

"With Indy and Willie. The pilots left, and the plane crash! But Indy's super smart, and we jump in a raft! Indy blows up raft while we fall and…" Shorty used his hand to illustrate his point, waving it through the air in a downward motion. "BAM! We land on snow and slide down mountain! Then, in water, we fall off a cliff! Big splash, Mr. Craft!" Shorty had a giddy smile, recalling his adventure. "I thought we gonna die!"

Though Shorty was laughing and smiling, Mr. Craft was not. His eyebrow raised to his hairline throughout the story. Working with kids had trained him to be skeptical of tall tales, but he had researched Indiana Jones enough to know that, if anything, the child probably left even crazier stuff out.

"Well… that sure is something, Li."

"Can I ride in a plane? With the big kids?"

Mr. Craft offered a small smile. "Sorry, Li, but you have to be sixteen to go with them. But don't worry, we'll have a lot of fun here."

"Yeah, sure," Shorty replied, but his mind was busy mulling over an idea.

-

The snow in Jersey was melting into everyone’s favorite time of year: fake-spring. This was the season that popped up after real-winter but before second-winter. The snow turned to mud, revealing all of the gross leftovers that had been buried under the snow since Christmas.

Indiana could finally sigh a breath of relief. After a tumultuous term of the professor struggling to keep up with papers and grades, he had a week to himself to change his attitude. Refocus.

Indy hadn’t called Willie back since their upsetting conversation nearly two months prior. He took her seriously when she said not to call her until he got his “head out of his ass.” And he didn’t feel like he had.

Things had improved, obviously, but not nearly enough. When the university was given a three day weekend for President’s Day, Indiana thought it would be a good idea to get back in the field. But even in the deserts of Botswana, Indy felt apathetic and dispassionate. He returned to New Jersey empty-handed, and avoided explaining himself to Marcus.

It was Monday, the first day of break, but Indy was at the college, sitting in his office. The professors usually still came in on the first day of break to have an uninterrupted work day to get ahead of midterm submissions. Though Indiana respected his colleagues, this was one tradition he could do without.

There was a knock on his office door. "Come in," Indy called, knowing already who it would be.

"Surprised to see you today, Indiana!" Marcus said cheerfully as he joined the archaeologist in the cramped space. "I thought perhaps you'd be readying yourself for a week of thrill and danger!"

Indiana scoffed. "Nope, not this time. If I want to keep my job I should probably just get caught up." Of course, this was not the reason, but it may as well have been. Indiana needed to recoup and refocus, maybe even find the source of his fleeting attention.

"That surprises me!" Marcus told him. "I would have thought you might return to Botswana."

"Yeah, definitely not. I think I burned a few too many bridges there."

"Well, even the great Indiana Jones is allowed to occasionally be off his game," Marcus offered. "I only popped in to say goodbye! I think I'll head home a little early today, enjoy some of this sunshine. You might consider doing the same, Indiana. You wouldn't want to spend too much time cooped inside." The words were pointed, but Indiana ignored them.

"I might, Marcus. Thank you. I'll see you next Monday."

When Marcus left, Indy looked out the window at the green lawn beyond him. Marcus was right, of course. Indiana had been spending too much time boxed in his office, classroom, and apartment. Maybe a good way to break out of his funk would be to go out, force himself into his old haunts. He hadn't been by the Newark Museum of Art in a long time, and there was a park near his apartment where he loved to read.

The more he thought about it, the more relaxing it seemed. Maybe this week would finally put everything in his life back to where it was supposed to be.

His phone rang.

The shrill sound of his office phone dampened his spirits once again. He didn't want to be bothered by a student panicking about their midterm grades, and there was always the chance that it was a call from the people he pissed off in Botswana.

He decided that once he answered the phone, he'd be done for the day. Just this one last thing.

"Hello?" He tried not to sound as annoyed as he felt.

"Yes, Dr. Jones?"

"Speaking."

"I hope I'm not interrupting your afternoon. My name is Dr. Gryffon Mayfield, and I'm the headmaster at the Weston School for Boys."

Indiana felt his face grow pale, and he sank in his seat. Weston? He'd never received a single call from Weston. That meant this could only be a bad thing, right? God, what could have happened? It had only been two months, surely nothing terrible could have happened in two months!

Indy calmed himself. What was he thinking, jumping to conclusions? Mayfield must have found some discrepancy in Indiana's semester payment, or something like that. It was likely something he could fix right away. He needed to relax.

"I'm aware that you are not Wan Li's legal guardian—and that he has none—but I do have it listed that you wished to be contacted as though you were such, in case of emergency."

All of Indiana's relief was washed away once again. There was no way this was about a money wiring issue.

"In case of emergency? What emergency?" Indiana attempted to keep his voice level. A dozen worst-case-scenarios buzzed around his head, whizzing past like bullets.

"It pains me to share this with you, but Li has gone missing."

Chapter Text

"I'm sorry, he's missing?"

"Unfortunately, Dr. Jones. His English teacher, Mr. Reginald Craft, went to his dormitory this morning and discovered that he was no longer there. It seems as though in the hubbub of students leaving for spring break, Li saw an opportunity."

Indiana was furious. "You lost a kid? You run a goddamn school! Keeping kids safe is supposed to be the one thing you can do."

"Dr. Jones—"

"Don't!" Indiana shouted. "Why wasn't I called this morning? You said Craft couldn't find him this morning!"

"I understand your frustration, sir—"

"Oh, sure you do!"

"Dr. Jones, please!" Mayfield's voice was stern and commanding. "You're upset, I can hear that. However, we needed to make certain that the child wasn't simply messing around or hiding on our campus. He has a reputation for being a… troublemaker."

Though that came as no surprise, Indy didn't like the way he said it. "But he's gone. Actually gone?!"

"Yes. We've already coordinated with the local police to search for him, and I can assure you that we will rest at nothing until we find him."

Indiana felt faint. The police? He knew this was bad, but something about that added a new layer to it. It felt less like a "troublemaker" running away and more like a true crime case.

"What—uh, what can I do?" He was still angry, but now he was more worried than anything else.

"We have this handled, Dr. Jones. I'm afraid there's nothing to do. I can assure you that we will work to resolve the situation."

Resolve the situation. As if it were that easy. As if there was some perfect, magical solution that could undo this phone call, that could make things right.

It was only after a minute or so of Indiana's rumination that he realized he hadn't spoken another word, and Headmaster Mayfield had hung up.

In a fit of anger, Indiana swiped everything off of his desk and onto the floor. All of the work he'd done that day scattered to all corners of his office, something that would surely take hours to reorganize. He couldn't find it in him to care.

Short Round was missing. Anything could happen! What if he was kidnapped? No, that would be ridiculous. But not wholly impossible.

Indiana paced the office, his hands buried in his hair and tugging painfully at the roots. Once again, Indy felt buried in the dark, haunted by his own ignorance. Where could he be? If he left off his own accord, why? And where? Would Shorty return quickly, apologizing for the chaos he left behind? Would he run and run until his feet had carried him as far as he could go?

What if it was worse? What if the police found him, and he was hurt? What if something bad happened and he—

Suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of nausea, Indiana sat down again. He took steadying breaths, calming his racing nerves. It helped little to panic and exaggerate. Shorty probably ran off because he saw an opportunity to do something reckless and fun and exciting. Still, London was rife with dangers, and Indy blanched at the thought of Shorty getting lost, not able to return to the warmth and safety of Weston.

Indiana couldn't just sit around and do nothing. He cursed as he leapt to his feet and strode through the door. He was Indiana Jones, godammit, and he was a man of action. If Shorty was in danger, then Indiana would be there.

Getting into his car and beginning to drive, Indy made a plan. He would go back to his apartment, gather some things, and head straight back out to the airport. He'd buy the next ticket to London, and he'd find Shorty. Then, he'd give Headmaster Mayfield and Reginald Craft a piece of his mind.

The idea of finding Shorty was definitive. Indiana couldn't see a scenario where he couldn't find Shorty.

At his apartment, he parked just as recklessly as he had driven, and sprinted to the door of his building. He didn't wait for the elevator and instead bounded up the stairs, turning finally into his hallway.

He'd only grab the essentials, his hat and whip of course (he couldn't travel without them), and he would need his checkboo—

There was a lump in the hallway, lying against the door to Indiana's apartment. Indiana narrowed his eyes in confusion, momentarily thrown off. At first he thought someone had abandoned a coat, but then it rustled. Startled Indiana took a step back.

The coat sprung up suddenly, revealing the figure wearing it. "Indy!" Shorty called excitedly.

Stunned, Indiana just stared for a moment. Shorty was wearing a school uniform beneath a large, black coat. He had a small bag slung around his shoulders, no larger than a tote. Notably, he was grinning from ear to ear as though he hadn't the slightest idea the havoc he'd caused.

But then, Indiana realized, Shorty was here. Not lost on some London street, freezing to death or being attacked by knife-wielding criminals. He was here, safe in Indy's apartment building.

"Shorty!" Indiana finally said, but his tone was unclear. Was he angry? Relieved? Surprised? Stating his name was just admitting the most obvious thing: that he was here.

At the lack of any real indication of Indiana's mood, Shorty hesitated. Was Indy mad that he didn't ask first? Shorty hadn't even thought about that. Was that what people were supposed to do? Was that more of the "proper" stuff that Headmaster Mayfield was so obsessed with?

Indiana gave in as he watched Shorty's excitement flicker. He strode the distance and wrapped the boy in his arms. As he felt Shorty's excitement solidify through the tightening of the kids grasp and the jittery bouncing, Indy only sighed. He allowed himself to calm and fully understand that Shorty was somehow here, in America. As strange as that was, it mattered little in the face of him being missing in London.

"Jesus Shorty," Indy grumbled as he pulled away. "Do you know the trouble you've caused?"

Shorty looked confused. "What you mean?"

Indiana raised his eyebrows as he began to unlock his door. "Shorty, you can't just leave school! Your teachers were worried about you."

As Shorty followed Indiana into the apartment, he scoffed. "Yeah, okay," he said sarcastically.

"Well, Mr. Craft seemed to care when he couldn't find you," Indy told him. He noted the look of guilt on Shorty's face that seemed to break through his confusion.

"I don't understand," Shorty said with a frown. "Mr. Craft said kids visit friends. They can because they ride planes, Indy. And I told Mr. Craft I can ride planes too!"

Indy felt bad for how confused Shorty seemed to be. Indiana was confused too—he was still trying to adjust to what was happening. "Kid, Mr. Craft and I both know you can ride in a plane. That doesn't mean you're allowed to. And—Christ, kid, how the hell did you even get a ticket?"

"I took it."

"You took it? Shorty, we've talked about the pickpocketing!"

"Not that," Short Round shook his head adamantly. "Weston office has ticket if we have permission."

"You didn't have permission!"

"I signed Mr. Craft's name! That's permission!"

Indy ran a hand over his face. "Having a forged permission slip is not the same as having actual permission to hop on a plane to another continent!"

Shorty shrunk away from him. "You're mad!"

"Jesus, Short Round, what gave it away?"

"You should not be mad! I thought you be happy!"

"Shorty—"

"I won't stay!" Shorty declared in the name of peace, a look of embarrassment on his face. "I go somewhere else and wait for plane back!"

"No, Shorty. You will stay right here, where I can see you," Indiana said exasperatedly. He took a breath to calm himself once again, and he plopped onto the couch. "Come here. Sit." He patted the cushion next to him. Shorty shook his head, looking frightened. "Shorty, I'm not going to yell at you. I'm sorry. Will you sit? Please?"

Shorty acquiesced hesitantly. "Sorry," he said as he sat. "I made you mad."

"Yes, kid, I'm a little mad. But it's only because your school called me to tell me you were missing. That's not good, you get that? I was worried about you."

"You were?"

"Of course."

"But I'm fine on the street!" Shorty protested. "I grow up there!"

"True," Indiana agreed, "but it's still dangerous, especially for a kid. Even one as smart as you." Short Round offered a small smile. "You can't just run off, kid. You have to tell your teachers where you're going. Or you have to tell me, got it?"

Shorty nodded. "Okay, Indy. But I can't tell you."

"Why?"

"Mr. Craft says no calling. Says it's bad idea."

"Calling me?" Shorty nodded again, and Indiana felt his rage for the teacher return. That's why he hadn't heard from Short Round? He had assumed Weston had some kind of rule about it, but no. Craft had a rule about it.

Angry as he was, the topic reminded him of the reality of the situation. "Oh shit," he said, standing.

Shorty laughed. "Bad word Indy!

"Yeah, yeah. I have to call your school, Shorty. Tell them that you're not dead in a ditch somewhere."

"Can you tell them I am?" Shorty requested, to which Indiana returned a withering glare.

Indiana picked up the receiver and dialed as Shorty got up from the couch and began wandering around his apartment.

When the line picked up, Indy groaned.

"Weston School for Boys, Reginald Craft speaking."

"You get demoted to secretary, Reggie?"

"Dr. Jones," Craft replied coolly. "If you're calling for an update on Li, I should tell you to be patient."

Indiana bit back a rude reply. "Actually, Reg, I'm calling to update you. Shorty's here."

"What?!"

Indy had to admit, it felt good to hear Craft knocked off his game. He had begun to worry the man was ceaselessly unflappable, so it felt good to elicit a reaction.

"Yeah. I came back to my apartment to grab some stuff before heading to the airport and there he was. Seems he got a little confused as to what he was and wasn't allowed to do with his spring break."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"He thought that since he has experience in planes, that automatically meant he was allowed to travel on his own like the older students," Indiana assumed. "But he did forge your signature to get a ticket."

Craft was silent on the other end for a moment. "I… I didn't consider checking to see if he'd requested a ticket," he admitted, sounding surprised that he was capable of admitting such a fault. "I suppose… I apologize, Dr. Jones."

Normally, Indiana would tell him he had nothing to apologize for—Shorty was pretty good at getting what he wanted. But Indy couldn't help but dislike the man after everything.

"Well, Reggie, I'm sure we could have avoided this whole mess if Shorty had been able to call me, you know what I'm saying?"

Craft sighed, but otherwise ignored him. "Dr. Jones, may I speak to Li?"

"Sure," Indy said. "Controlling who he talks to is something you do, not me." He smirked at his own insult, wishing he could see the teacher's face. "Shorty, Mr. Craft wants to talk to you!" Indiana called, drawing Shorty's attention away from the archeologist's bookshelf.

"Oh no," Shorty's eyes widened. "He's definitely mad!"

"Maybe. Would you get over here?"

Shorty took the phone from Indiana very slowly. "Hello, Mr. Craft… no, I didn't! I said! I said I can ride plane! You said—no, no, you said—uh huh… maybe…" finally defeated by whatever the teacher said, Shorty sighed and hung his head. "Sorry, Mr. Craft," he grumbled. After a beat, Shorty held the phone out to Indy. "He wants to talk to you."

Indy was surprised at how quickly Craft seemed to defuse the kid. Still, he wouldn’t say impressed. “Hey Shorty, why don’t you go throw your stuff down in the guest room down the hall, yeah? I’ll be there in a minute.” Shorty nodded and disappeared around the corner. “Listen, Craft—”

“Dr. Jones,” Craft interrupted, his voice as level as always, “I will be in New Jersey on Saturday at the Newark International Airport so that I may escort Li back to London. It worries me to wonder how he ever got all the way from the airport to your apartment, though I’m sure he’ll delight me with such a tale on the plane back. I will not allow him to travel alone once more—and it was certainly not my intention to imply that he was allowed to—”

“Save it, Reggie,” Indiana cut in. “Shorty knew better, and I know damn well that you were duped. Me hating you doesn’t change that.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Shorty’s a tricky kid, he can—”

“No. Why do you hate me, Dr. Jones?”

Indy let out a bitter laugh. “Are you serious? It should be obvious. You’re poisoning him against me.”

“What indicators present that theory?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t try to throw me off with your fancy, eloquent speech and your annoying, fancy accent. I’m not some dumb, oblivious, American hick. I’m a professor, goddammit, and I have a PhD. Do you seriously think you’re tricking me with how polite you act? You insulted me when first we met, burying it beneath layers of condescension. Now it turns out you’re not letting the kid call me? Really? I don’t know what the hell you’ve been saying to him, but don’t you ever tell him the kind of shit you told me in the airport.”

It was hard to read Craft over the phone. “And what would that be, Dr. Jones?”

Indiana rolled his eyes. “Like you don’t know.”

“Of course I know, Indiana,” Craft said, much to the scientist’s surprise. Was he just admitting it? And why the hell did he stop calling him Dr. Jones. "And I knew you were smart enough to understand what I said. I would never make the mistake of underestimating you."

Indy fumbled for something to say. "Then… what—that's it? What the hell did I do to make you hate me?"

"Li is a student at my school. A student I have grown fond of. I'm only trying to protect him."

"From what?"

"You, Indiana."

The archaeologist's mouth gaped open like a fish, grateful that Craft couldn't see him. From him? Why would Craft feel the need to protect Shorty from him?

If he thought about it, it made sense. Mr. Craft was a teacher. He was dedicated to two things as far as Indy was concerned: being a dick and helping his students. And Indiana shows up at the airport, dropping off a kid he had nearly gotten killed a million times over in the span of three days.

Indy still hated the guy. Loathed him actually, but now it felt like it was for a different reason.

"Look," Indy said into the receiver, glancing behind him to make sure Shorty hadn't suddenly appeared. "I'll hand it to you, I made for a shitty guardian, alright? But you listen to me. I would never go out of my way to endanger him. I made damn sure he got out of Pankot Palace. Remember that I sent him to you, and he still went missing and got himself into danger."

"Your ill-fated adventures are the least of my worries," Craft confessed, catching Indy off guard. "That's not what concerns me. Believe me, Indiana, I meant what I said—I do not underestimate you. Li couldn't be in better hands when it comes to danger. But danger, Dr. Jones, is not what I'm worried you'll cause."

"Then what?" Indiana snapped at him. The conversation was starting to feel like his phone call with Willie in January. Yet again, he felt like he was failing to understand what the hell they were trying to say.

"I should go, Dr. Jones."

"Are you fu—"

"Do me a favor. You tell Li that I will be at the airport on Saturday. Make sure he knows that I will be there, and that the plane leaves on Saturday. I want to ensure that he knows exactly when he is coming back to Weston."

Indiana didn't get a chance to respond with something biting, as the line went dead.

The archaeologist took a few deep breaths, controlling his frustration. Reginald Craft was quite possibly the most infuriating human being he had ever spoken to. He hoped that he’d get a chance to tell him that, too.

But it didn’t matter now. He didn’t have to deal with Craft until at least Saturday, which was a blessing. It did however remind Indy that Shorty was here. And he would be here until Saturday. And on Saturday, Indiana could bring Shorty to the airport, perfectly healthy, safe, and otherwise unharmed. He could imagine the look of disappointment on Craft’s face now—knowing that Indiana beat him. Proved him wrong.

Whatever it was that Indiana might “cause” that had Craft so worried would never happen. Indy would prove it. About five days of babysitting—what could go wrong?

Indiana walked into the guest bedroom and cringed. It was more cluttered and cramped than the rest of the apartment. It wasn’t like he usually hosted guests.

Clearly, this hadn’t mattered to Shorty, who was busy snooping through the boxes of old papers that littered the bed. The kid looked up as Indiana entered.

“Mr. Craft was real mad,” Shorty said guiltily.

“Yeah, he was,” Indy agreed. “But who cares?” Short Round giggled. Indy couldn’t help but smile. Though unexpected and preceded by a little chaos, he really was happy to see the kid again. Happier than he expected to be. “Sorry about the mess, kid. I’ll clear this stuff off.” He began to pick up one of the boxes.

“You don’t have to!” Shorty piped in. “I sleep on floor!”

“Yeah, no. You’re not sleeping on the floor again.”

“But, in Delhi—”

“House rules, Short Round. People sleep on beds.” Indiana felt the need to enforce this now that Shorty was in his apartment. In Delhi, Indy had been baffled as they first entered their hotel room and rather than claiming a bed, Shorty claimed the floor. They had been exhausted, arriving late into the night, so when Short Round collapsed to the floor, shoes on and everything, Indiana thought he was just being melodramatic. But he refused to move when Indiana urged him.

“In case someone breaks in,” Shorty had told him as though the answer were obvious. “In case we need to leave in hurry!”

In the guest room, Indy noticed Shorty’s hesitance once more. “No one is going to break in,” Indiana told him. “You’re safe here, Shorty. I promise.”

The last two words seemed to seal the deal, as Shorty let out a breath and relaxed his shoulders. “If you say so, Indy,” the child agreed.

His heart clenched. Why did this kid trust him so much? He didn’t really think he’d done anything to deserve it. Yeah, he got them out of Pankot Palace, but he also brought them there. And, as he’d reminded himself so many times before, Indiana would have killed Willie and the Thuggee would have slit Shorty’s throat if not for the kid figuring out how to free him from the Black Sleep. All in all, he didn’t deserve for Shorty to look up to him as much as he did. Their Pankot Palace journey hadn’t been one of Indiana’s better adventures.

Indiana was pulled from his guilt-ridden stupor by a loud rumbling sound. He raised an eyebrow at Shorty who only laughed. “I’m a little hungry, Indy,” he said jokingly.

Indy, however, only felt more concerned. “Jesus, kid, when’s the last time you ate?”

“I have no money!”

“Christ,” Indiana mumbled to himself. “C’mon, kid, we’re going out.”

Chapter Text

The car ride to the restaurant reminded Indy of all of the questions he should have asked Shorty the second he saw him. Notably, how the hell did he get here from the airport? Craft had answered the question of which airport on the phone, but Indiana lived over an hour from the Newark airport.

He waited until they were seated in a booth at his favorite diner before barraging Shorty with his questions.

“So.”

“So?”

“How did you get to the airport in London?”

“Office man set it up when I got ticket.”

Okay, not bad. Not dangerous or troubling. “And why didn’t the driver or office guy tell your headmaster that you weren’t missing?”

Shorty shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably left for break.”

Fair enough. “How did you find my apartment?”

“Office man. He asked where to fly, and I said America. He figured out.”

“Makes sense. But Shorty, how did you get here? From the airport?”

“Cabs.”

It made sense—Shorty had driven cabs for two years in Shanghai with boxes on his feet, so cabs were what he knew. Still, it felt intentionally vague, and Indiana was sure he knew why. “Uh huh. And you didn’t have any money to pay for food, but you had money to pay for a couple of cabs?” Short Round looked in his lap sheepishly, and Indy was unsurprised. “You just hopped out and ran? Shorty, that’s technically stealing. We talked about this in Delhi.”

“I know,” Shorty grumbled guiltily. “Sorry, Indy.”

Indiana sighed, leaning back in the seat. “Well, we can’t do anything about it now, can we? But you can’t do it again, okay? If you ever find yourself in a situation where stealing is your only option, you call someone. Call me, or when you’re in London, call Mr. Craft.” He hated saying it, but he distaste for the English teacher paled in comparison to Shorty getting picked up by cops.

Shorty nodded dutifully, and looked relieved when the waitress came carrying menus. Indiana knew the waitress well—he was a regular at this diner for many years, and Darla practically ran the place. She was a petite woman in her sixties, and Indy loved to hear her tell stories about her grandchildren. "Howdy, Indiana," she greeted with a smile. "I haven't seen you since around New Year's—I was beginning to think you'd found a new spot," she told him with a faux pout.

Indiana flashed her one of his infamous smiles, making her blush. "And leave you behind, Darla? Never." He hadn't realized it had been so long, but it was unsurprising considering the sour mood he'd been in the last couple months.

She giggled. "Oh Indiana, you flirt! I'm old enough to be your mother, young man!" They both laughed. "And who on God's green earth is this little slice of apple pie? What's your name, sugar?"

"Short Round!" The kid declared proudly.

"He's visiting for the week," Indiana continued. He hoped that Darla wouldn't ask how they knew each other because that was a question he didn't know how to answer. Yeah, he met Shorty on an adventure, but who was Shorty? How did he explain that dynamic?

Luckily he was spared as Darla only smiled warmly at the child. "Aren't you a lucky one, then. Getting Indiana to yourself for a whole week! I'm a bit jealous," she said with a wink to the professor.

"Hey, now who's the flirt?" Indy laughed. Darla shrugged, a devious glint in her eye, and left them to look through the menu.

Short Round looked at his with wide eyes as the heavy, laminated pages fell open. “Holy moly, Indy!” Shorty exclaimed. “How they make so much food?!”

Indiana chuckled. It was probably Shorty’s first time in a restaurant; in Delhi they always ate from carts and windowed stalls. “Ask me if you don’t know what something is.”

Short Round held the menu up high, squinting at it. “I don’t know any of it.”

The doctor plucked the menu from his fingers. “Then why don’t we start you with something super American, okay? You trust me?” It may as well have been rhetorical, but Shorty nodded with fervor.

When Darla came back, Indy ordered two cheeseburgers, with extra everything.

Admittedly, he was excited to have Shorty try such an American “delicacy.” In Delhi, they had so much traditional Indian street food that their stomachs bursted. But now it was Indiana’s turn to share stuff he loved with the kid—or at least, the stuff he loved about his Jersey college town.

At first, he had wondered how exactly he was supposed to entertain a kid, but he reminded himself that he did just fine in Delhi. The key was not to overthink everything. Yeah, Shorty was eleven, but he was still a person who liked to have fun and honestly just wanted to do anything Indy wanted to do.

When the food arrived, Shorty devoured his with all the tact of a rabid dog. "So better than school food!" Shorty said with his mouth full.

Indiana grinned. "What do they feed you at Weston?"

"Green! Everything green!"

The archaeologist chuckled. "They want you to be healthy, Short Stop," Indiana teased, and Shorty crinkled his nose.

"Short Round, Indy!"

"I know what I said." Indiana said with a smug smile. Shorty enacted his revenge swiftly; Indiana lifted his water to his lips before getting lightly spritzed when a splish came from the cup. He narrowed his eyes at the french fry that Shorty had tossed into the cup. The kid began to howl with laughter. "Good aim," Indy conceded.

As Shorty continued to laugh, a french fry hit him directly in the nose with a plop. He brought his fingers to his nose and touched something wet. He pulled his hand away to see the bright red ketchup.

Now Indiana was the one cackling. The red ketchup-nose made Shorty look like a clown, or Rudolph.

However, this seemed to be an act of war. Shorty removed a tomato from his burger, already smeared with ketchup, and threw it point blank at Indy's white button-up, hitting him directly in the heart. The tomato slid down his shirt, leaving red streaks in its wake.

"Oh, it is on," Indy said, narrowing his eyes. He put his hand on the full bottle of ketchup on the table. Unfortunately, Shorty had the same idea, and both of their hands were locked around the bottle.

They stared at each other in challenge for a minute, waiting to see what the other would do. In a moment of impressive synchronicity, they both tugged, willing the ketchup bottle toward them.

What they didn't realize in the moment of competition was that if two people are tugging on the same bottle of ketchup, they will in fact squeeze it and send a red rivulet shooting into the air like a rocket.

They each let go of the bottle in shock, but were too late. The stream had shot upward and hit the ceiling, leaving a small, circular red stain. The remaining ketchup rained down in an arc that directed away from both of them. They could only look on in horror as it curved toward Darla—returning upon hearing the commotion—and landed directly in her hair.

Shorty clamped a hand over his mouth, horrified. Indy knew he must have looked similar, staring at the waitress with his mouth agape.

Darla stood stunned for a moment, looking up as if to see both the stain on the ceiling and the ketchup in her hair.

"Darla, I'm so sorry. I didn't—" Indiana was cut off as a stream of mustard smacked him straight in the face. Darla had whipped out her own bottle from her apron pocket, drawing it quickly like a pistol. She smirked as Indiana wiped the yellow sauce from his eyes, and blew on the tip of mustard bottle as if it really were a smoking gun.

"You've got a little something," Darla said sweetly, gesturing to Indy's face.

This was the last straw for Shorty. He fell out of the booth and onto the floor, laughing so hard he was crying. Darla raised an eyebrow. "You think that's funny?" She asked, and then squirted the bottle onto the child rolling on the floor. He shrieked and held up his hands to block the attack, but to no avail.

Indiana couldn't stop laughing. He realized that he hadn't laughed this hard in a long time. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this happy.

-

"I like your friend!" Shorty said as they walked out into the parking lot. It was dark by the time they had finished cleaning up all of the condiments for Darla. Indiana's shirt was probably ruined from the tomato, but he couldn't find it in him to care.

"Yeah, she's fun, huh?"

Shorty nodded. "Even though we cleaned mustard. She started mustard!"

Indiana chuckled in response as he unlocked the car. "Ah shit. I mean—don't tell Mr. Craft I said that."

"Why 'ah shit'?"

"And don't repeat it either!" Indiana reprimanded light-heartedly. "I left my wallet on the table. Be right back." He started the car so it would heat up, locked the doors, and jogged back to the diner.

Darla looked up at the bell chiming on the door. "Forget something?" She said, dangling his wallet in her hand.

"Thank you," Indiana said gratefully.

"Anything for my second-favorite customer."

"I thought I was your favorite!"

"Sorry. I think your little guest beat you out."

"Aw, bested by an eleven year old? I can't fight against that, Darla."

Darla glanced out the windowed walls of the diner to Indiana's car. "Indiana, is this why you've been gone so long?”

“What do you mean?”

Darla leveled him with a glare. “Boy, I’m old. And one of the few perks of being my age is that you don’t miss much anymore. You really think I didn’t notice you were gone? You’ve been coming in here at least once a week for the last six years. And yes, you go on your adventures, but you’ve never been gone as long as you were this time. So spill.”

Darla could be intimidating when she wanted to be, and Indiana felt properly caught. “Short Round just got here,” Indiana explained, “but yeah, I’ve been in a bit of a funk.”

The older woman softened. “You can tell me about it,” she said sweetly. “Lord knows you’ve heard plenty of my complaints over the years.”

“I would,” Indy promised, “if I knew what it was. Honestly, I don’t know, Darla. And it pisses me off because it seems sometimes like I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

Darla creased her brows sympathetically. “I’m mighty sorry, Indiana,” she said earnestly. “But hey, I can’t speak for how you’ve been, but I can tell you that you seem good now. You’re really good with that boy. And I think he’s good for you.”

Was he? Indiana had to admit that he’d had more fun tonight than he’d had since Pankot Palace. And it was probably the most wholesome and non-dangerous fun he’d had since… he couldn’t remember when.

“Thanks Darla,” Indy said with a smile. “I best be going before he gets impatient and steals my car.”

She chuckled. “A handful, huh? Not too unlike you, I bet.”

“Far better than I ever was," Indy admitted. "Good night."

"Good night."

When Indiana returned to the car, Shorty was fast asleep in the passenger seat. He was curled up like a cat on the seat, with only the rise and fall of his shoulders proving he was alive. Indiana was unsurprised—Shorty must have had a very long, very exhausting day.

Indiana quietly reached across the seat to grab the seatbelt and he gently pulled it across the sleeping child and clicked it in place. It probably wouldn't do much good with the kid curled in a ball like that, but Indy didn't have the heart to wake him up.

He drove home silently, with only the sound of the engine rumbling to keep him company. Shorty slept like a rock, unphased by even the most severe potholes and turns.

Finally, at the apartment, Indy glanced over at the kid, unsure how to wake him. Sure, it would be easy, but he didn't want to. The kid had journeyed here from another continent today, fueled by nothing other than his stubbornness. He had earned the right to slip into a little food coma.

Indiana got out of the car and rounded to the passenger side, opening the door. Shorty hadn't stirred. Struck by an idea, he carefully unlatched the seatbelt and wrapped Shorty up in his arms.

The child was incredibly light, and it felt akin to carrying a small animal rather than a human being.

Short Round still didn't stir, so Indy made his way into the building, upstairs, and into his apartment. He gently laid Shorty on the bed, taking off his shoes and pulling the blankets over him.

As Indy crept from the dark room, he sent one last glance to the sleeping child. Shorty seemed none the wiser to his locale change, but he unconsciously turned and curled around his pillow.

Indiana smiled. It felt good to take care of someone. Really, it felt good to take care of Shorty. It had probably been a really long time since someone had.

No, he scolded himself. They took care of him at Weston. That's what Indy was paying them to do, after all.

Still… was Headmaster Mayfield taking Shorty to diners and buying him cheeseburgers? Was Reginald Craft carrying him to bed and tucking him in?

Indiana shook his head, retiring to his study. It didn't matter. Shorty was getting the best education he could possibly get. He was staying in well-funded dormitories and he'd never be in want for warmth or food again. Weston was great.

-

"Weston sucks."

"Ah, c'mon, Shorty," Indiana sighed.

They were sitting on a bench outside of a museum where Indiana gave many of his smaller pieces. He wanted to keep a few closer to home, so the ones with smaller price tags littered New Jersey or Utah museums. When coming up with something to do with Shorty, he thought they could go to one of the local museums to see some pieces Indiana had discovered.

Shorty had been thrilled by the prospect. The sun was setting as they'd finished a full day of traversing four museums. Short Round wanted to hear the stories about everything, and he seemed genuinely intrigued by all of the pieces, not just the ones Indy found.

They were eating sub sandwiches outside of the final museum of the day, and Indiana thought he'd ask an innocent question. "How's Weston?" Of course, he should have known that Shorty wouldn't appreciate it.

"It does," Shorty argued with emphasis. "No one like me."

"That's not true," Indy protested.

"It's really true," Shorty said in turn. "Teachers all call me Wan. They don't believe when I say it's not my name. They believe Mr. Craft, not me!"

Indy scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah, I guess they're not super worldly."

Shorty continued, on a roll. "Everything's so hard. Teachers don't like me, students don't like me. Only Mr. Craft like me, but his class is the hardest! He say I'm learning, but other teachers must not agree. They say my English still bad. They all obsessed with 'proper.' But they not all proper! The twins not proper at all."

"The twins?"

"Yes. They so mean! But I get in trouble for hitting them!"

"Shorty, you know that you can't just hit people you don't like."

"But I not great with mean words! They are," Shorty said with a pout. "Hitting is what I can do to get back at them. If I try say mean things back, mine sound stupid."

Indiana sighed. He felt bad for Shorty, he really did. And he was angry to know that kids were picking on him. "Whatever they make fun of you for, it doesn't matter. You're way better than they are."

"It does matter," Shorty argued. "You don't get it."

Indiana laughed. "You know, when I was your age, kids used to make fun of me for—"

"They don't call you bad word!" Shorty interrupted angrily. "They don't call you word Headmaster says is bad!"

Indy wanted to argue back and say that he had been called loads of bad words, but he felt like there was something else to what Shorty was saying.

"What bad word, Shorty?"

Short Round shook his head. "Bad word," he repeated. "Word I not even know, but Headmaster know. Indy, they don't make fun of you because you Chinese!"

As the realization set in, Indiana felt his blood turn cold. He now had a pretty good idea of what "bad word" the kids called him.

"Shorty, that's not okay."

"I know!"

Indy was fuming. "And you told the headmaster?" Shorty nodded. "What did he do about it?"

Shorty rolled his eyes. "He say they didn't say it. He say they too proper to say the bad word."

"He didn't believe you?"

Shorty cocked his head in thought. "I think maybe he do. I think he believe me but don't want to say so."

Indiana narrowed his eyes. "Why would that be?"

"He don't like me too much. Nobody at school like me. If he say he believe me, he have to get Michel in trouble. He don't want that."

Indy was furious, but he did his best to keep it from Shorty. The last thing the kid needed was a lesson on irrational anger. Not that it felt very irrational at the moment, but he still tried to remain calm.

"Shorty, listen to me. What that kid said is not okay. And what Headmaster Mayfield did wasn't okay either. They're terrible things. And I hope that you hit that kid really hard."

Short Round beamed. "I punch him."

"Was he bleeding?"

"A little."

"Atta boy," Indiana said, ruffling Shorty's hair through his hat. "I'll call your headmaster tomorrow and tell him—"

"Please don't!" Shorty protested. "He hate me already!"

Indy grit his teeth. He really wanted to give the headmaster a piece of his mind, but he didn't want to make things worse for Shorty at school. He was conflicted.

-

At the apartment that night, Indiana mulled over what Short Round had told him outside the museum. It wasn't that Indy hadn't considered that Shorty might experience racism outside of China, but rather he only worried about racism in America.

Weston was supposed to be a cure-all. The minute Indiana had the idea, everything was fixed. Of course, the archaeologist forgot that people can be shitty in any continent, and from any social class.

He knew he should call the headmaster, regardless of Shorty's opinion on the matter.

Still, did he really want to stir the pot?

No, dammit, he had to do the right thing here. He'd make sure Shorty wouldn't get in trouble for Indiana's meddling.

He checked the clock—9PM. The headmaster probably wouldn't even be in the office. Still, he wanted to coast off his righteous anger, so he'd at the very least leave a nasty message.

"Weston School for Boys," came the tired voice on the other end.

Jesus Christ. "Reggie, do you live in the office?"

"Dr. Jones, is something wrong?"

"Yeah. Why are you answering the phone? You're a teacher."

"We allowed much of our staff to take this break for themselves. I'm chipping in. What's wrong?"

"I don't want to talk to you, asshole. Is the headmaster still in?"

"He's burning the midnight oil, but I can assure you that whatever is wrong, you can tell me and—"

"Headmaster Mayfield, please."

Craft sighed. "Dr. Jones—"

"Headmaster. Mayfield. Please."

He could have sworn he heard Craft curse under his breath before the line clicked, putting Indy on hold. He felt slightly victorious.

"Dr. Jones," Mayfield's voice interrupted Indiana's celebration. "I do hope everything is alright."

"It's not," Indiana cut to the chase. "Shorty tells me that something happened at school with another student."

"Ah, well, yes. There was an altercation. I assure you, it was handled."

Indy heard a small sound, like a click over the line, and he furrowed his brow. Ignoring it, he continued, "how exactly was it handled?"

The headmaster was silent for a moment. "Well, Li punched a student in the face, Dr. Jones, and he was sent to speak to the counselor at lunch every day for a week as punishment. He knows now not to resort to physical means."

"And the other boy?"

"Sorry?"

"The boy he hit. What did you do about him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shorty told me he said a bad word. And he said he told you that word. And listen, I get letting a kid say 'shit' or 'damn,' but this wasn't that. At all."

"Dr. Jones, I assure you, it is unlikely that the student said the word that Li told me. No Weston student would be so improper as to say such a slur."

"Except Shorty, right? Because he said it to you without knowing what it meant. So tell me, how else would he have learned that word?"

The headmaster was silent for a moment, cornered by Indiana's words. Again, Indy heard a strange line over the phone, the smallest puff of breath, something that mimicked… a laugh. Indiana knew exactly what the sound was this time, and who it belonged to, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Mr. Jones," Mayfield said, now with a condescending air as he let go of the formal "doctor." "I'm telling you that my students wouldn't have said that word. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go." And with that, the line clicked.

Indiana was stunned. That was not how the conversation was supposed to end. Indy was supposed to put the headmaster in his place, get an apology, and change things for Shorty going forward. Instead, he was given the same pathetic rhetoric that Mayfield had used against the kid.

Indy sat in the silence for a minute, not hanging up. He remembered the clicking and the breath and was cognizant of his silent audience.

"Handled, huh?" Indiana asked. No response. "I know for a fact that Shorty didn't make that up. And I think you know it too." Still nothing. "I know you're still there!" Nothing again. "Christ, Craft, do you really not give a shit about him?"

"Of course I do," Craft finally relented, his voice quiet and small.

"Then do something, you asshole." With that, Indiana hung up.

Chapter Text

When Short Round darted to Indiana’s room Thursday morning, the archaeologist was still asleep. Shorty checked the clock—7 AM, Indy was usually up. Yet, the man was still as a corpse in the bed.

Shorty backed out of the room quietly. He wouldn’t bother Indy if he was tired. They'd been having so much fun since Shorty came by that the kid felt he owed it to Indiana to give him some personal time.

He had barely been able to contain his excitement all night. Indy told him they were going to a carnival that was stopping in town this afternoon, and Shorty couldn’t wait. Indy promised there would be games, rides, shows, and all the food a kid could eat. Shorty recalled the big pretzels from the airport and salivated at the prospect. He hadn’t had any time to get one on Monday, and he was determined to get one at the carnival.

But what should he do now, while Indy slept? Short Round loathed boredom. Indy had been doing a great job coming up with fun ideas, so Shorty had never been left to his own devices before. At least, not in New Jersey.

The thought gave him an idea. He'd never been in New Jersey, so now was the best time to explore! That way, Indy could sleep in as late as he liked, and Shorty would be out and about, getting a fun start on the day.

Careful not to make any noise to wake him, Shorty slipped out the front door.

Once he was on the street, he made a plan. He would leave some trace behind him everytime he turned to avoid getting lost, like a trail of breadcrumbs. He glanced around for something to use and his eyes landed on a bush of red roses, just like the ones in the garden he hid in at Weston. Perfect.

He didn't want to be disrespectful to whoever planted them, so he only took two. He figured he could leave the petals behind rather than entire flowers. He also bent and grabbed a handful of sticks. No petals would blow away if he stabbed them into the grass. It was genius.

See, Shorty had learned his lessons in Shanghai. When he first found himself on the streets, there were many times where he'd wander too far from his previous shelters to ever find them again. And while Shorty was fairly confident he could find Indy's apartment again—since he found it all on his own in the first place—he still didn't want to risk it.

He began his exploration, picking a direction and setting forth. He had no idea what he was looking for—something fun, he hoped.

And it was fun. He got to pet four different dogs, got a free sample of a chocolate croissant from a booth outside of a café, and watched a street juggler. With every turn, he staked a rose petal in the dirt and found something else exciting.

Soon, an hour had passed and he realized that he should probably head back. Who knew what Indy might come up with to do today?

His breadcrumbs led him well, and he huffed in pride as he returned to familiar streets.

His attention was caught by the sound of laughter. Always one to follow the fun, he stepped from his original path and crossed the street. He followed the sound down a grassy hill until he saw it—a park. It couldn’t have been more than a five minute walk back to the apartment now, so Shorty allowed himself the diversion.

Situated in the park was a long, mowed field. Certainly not professional regulation, but flat enough that three boys were enjoying a football game. Or soccer, as Indy called it.

The field was fenced in, so Shorty came right up to the wire and peered through curiously.

The boys were clearly about his age, no older than twelve and no younger than ten. They were shockingly dissimilar to the Weston students that Shorty had grown so used to. They were dressed in casual clothing, for one. Their hair was messy, they already had mud on their shoes and pants even though it couldn't be any later than eight in the morning, and they were playing. Weston students didn't play. When they did sports, there was no playing, only competing. But these boys seemed to be having fun.

He also noticed that the group wasn't nearly as pale as the boys at Weston. One boy was white, with really scraggly blonde hair. The shortest boy had dark brown skin, with his hair shaved down to his head. The tall, lanky boy had lighter brown skin than his friend, and his hair was obscured by a baseball cap. Shorty was delighted to realize that he was wearing a Yankees cap, the same team as Shorty's, even though it was a different design than his own.

Shorty watched as they kicked the dusty soccer ball around the field. They seemed really good at it, all competing with each other. At one point, the tall one slipped as he ran to kick it, and his leg flew in the air, his body flailing to the ground. The other boys just started laughing, which made the boy who fell laugh right along with them.

Shorty couldn't help it, he laughed too. But apparently it was too loud, as all three boys turned their heads to look at him. Shorty froze, flushing. I can just run, he thought to himself.

"Sorry!" He called to them. He turned to flee the scene, but he was stopped as he heard one boy call "wait!"

When Shorty turned around, all three boys were jogging up to the fence. "You wanna play with us?" The tall boy who fell asked. He had an accent, just like everyone at Weston, but it was one he hadn't heard at school.

"I…" Shorty hesitated. "I never played before."

Though he expected some exiling with that, the short boy just shrugged. "That's cool! You can't be worse than Will. He sucks!"

Will, the blonde kid, punched his friend in the arm. "Hey, Rigoberto is the one who just ate grass.”

“I can outplay you and Colin any day,” the tall kid, Rigoberto, spat back.

Shorty smiled as he watched them bicker. They were friends. And they didn’t seem to mind the teasing—they embraced it. And it wasn’t mean like Alain and Michel at school. They made fun of each other for tripping and losing, not for the color of their skin. Shorty had just started to assume that kids who looked like Will were supposed to hate kids that looked like Colin and Rigoberto. Kids that looked like Shorty.

“Come on over!” Colin continued, ignoring the other two. Shorty didn’t round the fence but rather climbed it easily, swinging his legs over the top, and landing on his feet. “Whoa, dude!” Colin said as the other two looked at him in approval. “How’d you do that?”

Shorty shrugged. “Easy,” he said simply. “You have to be climber when run from people.”

“Run from people? Dude, who are you?!” Will asked, but it wasn’t accusatory—he was impressed.

“Hey, if you’re a good runner, then football will be easy,” Rigoberto chipped in.

“Soccer, Berto.”

“Football.”

“Soccer.”

“Football.”

“No one cares!” Colin interrupted. “Sorry about them, they’re idiots,” Colin said conspiratorially to Shorty, making him laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Short Round,” he answered. “But everyone call me Shorty. Or Li, at school.”

Will grinned. “Well, we’re not at school Shorty,” he said, spinning the soccer ball in the air. “Let’s split into two teams.”

“I’ll take Shorty,” Rigoberto volunteered. “I’m way better than you two, so he’ll learn better from me.”

The other two grumbled their assent, and Rigoberto smiled down at Shorty. “Here’s hoping you’re a quick learner.”

-

It turned out, he was.

Short Round had already developed a pretty mighty kick for someone his age back in Shanghai, so all he needed to work on was direction.

Playing with Colin, Rigoberto, and Will was fun. He’d only known them for a few hours, and yet he was closer to them than to anyone at Weston. They laughed and messed with each other, but they were nice and they clearly liked spending time together.

Soon enough, they were picking on Shorty too. But unlike Alain and Michel, they never said anything about him being Chinese, or having a “weird” name, or any of the myriad of other topics they chose from. They only picked on him for kicking the ball so hard it got stuck in a tree, or for kicking it in the wrong direction. But it always ended with laughter, and friendly punches to the arm and pats on the back.

Berto was particularly patient with him as he learned, and very open about how impressed he was when Shorty turned out to be a good kicker, and complimented how quickly he improved. Even though it was still cold, too early in the year for the sun to warm their skin, all the running around heated them up and their jackets were long-abandoned.

Around 11AM, Shorty had been playing with them for hours, now nearly as good as the three of them. But after Will scored yet another goal, Shorty’s new friends collapsed to the ground, exhausted.

“What’s wrong?” Shorty asked, confused.

“Dude, we’ve been playing for three hours. I’m done,” Colin said, the other two chiming in with a laugh.

Shorty smiled and sat down with them. Rigoberto narrowed his eyes at him as he propped himself up on his elbows. “How are you so… not tired?”

Shorty thought on this. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I just run a lot.”

“Apparently we need to step up our game if we want to keep up with you,” Colin added with an approving grin. Shorty felt proud.

“Alright, we get it, Shorty is super cool,” Will interrupted. “But are you cool enough to pick a place for us to eat? I’m dying here!”

Shorty smiled. “I know place!”

-

Darla was thrilled to see Shorty at the diner again, giving him a big hug when they walked in the door. She sat the four boys down, took their orders, and scurried off to the kitchen.

“So, Short Round, where are you from?” Will asked, sipping on his Coke.

Shorty hesitated. They boys hadn’t said anything about his accent or appearance yet, but what if they didn’t like that Shorty was from China? What if just uttering the name ruined the friendships he just made?

“Shanghai,” Shorty said instead, hoping it would throw them off.

“Oh, cool!” Will replied, eyes widening. “Berto, isn’t that where Yìchín’s parents are from?”

Rigoberto shook his head. “No, Yìchín’s family is from China, but not Shanghai. You’re thinking of Fen.”

“Right! Sorry,” Will said sheepishly. It took Shorty a minute before he realized that Will was embarrassed. He was embarrassed that he got the cities mixed up! Shorty barely knew a student at Weston who could point at Shanghai on a map. But Will and Berto knew other Chinese kids.

“You know kids from China?” Shorty asked, shocked.

Colin nodded. “Of course! Why does that surprise you?”

“Oh god, do you go to Ford Hill?” Rigoberto asked, looking mortified. When Shorty looked confused, he added “it’s a private school at the edge of town. Super white—no offense, Will.”

“None taken. Ford Hill is super white.”

Colin snorted, looking out the window ruefully. “If Rigoberto or I even stepped foot on the grass outside Ford Hill, those teachers would probably call the cops.”

Shorty bit his lip and looked down, feeling thoroughly scorned. Will noticed, and asked “shit, do you go to Ford Hill?”

Berto cut in first. “He’d never heard of it,” he reminded him. “Do you go to school in Shanghai?”

Shorty shook his head, preparing to disappoint them. “No. I just start at Weston.”

“Weston?” Colin asked.

“Sounds fancy,” Will remarked. “But I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s in England.”

“England?” Colin asked as the three boys stared at him with wide eyes.

“You don’t look British,” Will said.

Colin punched his arm. “How do you look British, dumbass?”

“Shorty,” Berto cut in. “Why did you look embarrassed?”

“Weston is boarding school.”

“Boarding school?! Holy shit!” Will exclaimed, his eyes bugging out of his head. “That’s like… rich rich!”

“I know,” Shorty agreed before Colin could scold Will again. “Everyone but me.”

The three boys shared a glance. “I don’t get it,” Berto finally said.

“My friend pay,” Shorty tried to explain. “He’s definitely not rich rich, but he make enough.”

“Why boarding school?” Will asked. “I mean, if your parents wanted you to go to a good school, why not just use your friend’s money to send you to a much cheaper private school? Why send you to another country? Do your parents hate you that much?” It was clearly supposed to be a joke.

“My parents are dead,” Shorty said simply, his voice deadpan. This seemed to be a mistake, as he watched the three boys' faces morph in horror.

“Jesus Christ Will! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Colin shouted.

Will shrank in his seat. “Shorty, dude, I’m so sorry.” Rigoberto and Colin both continued glaring at him.

“It’s alright!” Shorty continued, trying to cut the tension. “They die when I was really little! That’s why I go to Weston now. My friend send me there so I have place to live.”

Rigoberto cocked his head. “So… you’re from Shanghai, you go to school in England… what are you doing in New Jersey?”

Short Round was interrupted from answering as Darla returned to their table with the food. Shorty immediately dug in, unaware of the other boys just staring at him impatiently.

Wiping his mouth after a moment of chewing, he noticed that the others hadn’t touched their lunch. He swallowed, embarrassed yet again. “Well, I visit my friend. Indy.”

“The friend who pays for your school?” Colin asked. Shorty nodded. “So, he’s a grownup?” Shorty nodded again, returning to his cheeseburger.

Rigoberto seemed displeased by this. “Okay, so this guy—who isn’t your family, he… what? Took you out of Shanghai and left you in a boarding school?”

Shorty shook his head with a frown. “Indy isn’t bad,” he clarified. “I could stay in Shanghai, but I lived on streets. Indy wanted me to be safe.”

Colin and Rigoberto shared a look that Will didn’t seem to notice, now preoccupied in his chicken sandwich. “Shorty… is Indy… white?”

“Yes, why?”

Rigoberto had a told you so look on his face that he aimed at Colin, who frowned and furrowed his eyebrows. “Come on, Berto,” said Colin. “It’s probably not like that.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t get it,” Shorty said, looking between the two of them. He glanced at Will, who only shrugged.

Rigoberto turned to face Shorty with his whole body. “Listen, I might be wrong, but you don’t like Weston, right?” Shorty nodded enthusiastically. Hate would be a better word. “Does it have anything to do with you being Chinese?”

Shorty’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“Well, look at me,” Berto said with a dry laugh, motioning to himself. “Look, Colin and I know what it's like to be different. We know how hard it can be to walk around a bunch of white kids. It took me ages to learn English when my family moved here from Honduras. People still make fun of my accent on the street.”

“They hate it at Weston,” Shorty said bitterly. “They say I need to talk proper. I hate that word.”

“You and me both,” Will said in agreement. When they all just stared at him, he shrugged. “What? Just trying to be included. Carry on.” This made the whole table laugh, and tensions seemed to finally ease.

“That’s why we keep him around, in case you were wondering,” Colin joked.

After a moment, Shorty continued. “What’s your school like?”

“Less uptight, that’s for sure,” Colin answered. “And kids look a lot different. Sure, there’s still a ton of white kids, no offense Will—”

“None taken.”

“—but there’s also a lot of us. Kids from other countries, kids with different skin tones, kids with varying levels of English, you get it.”

“Chinese kids, like Yìchín and Fen?” Shorty prompted, recalling the names that they mentioned earlier. Colin nodded. “That sound… great,” Shorty said dreamily.

What would that be like? A school where he wasn’t the only one who looked different?

The kids ate for a while, changing the subject and talking amicably about sports and what they’d done on break.

When Colin and Will got up to use the bathroom, Shorty turned to Berto. “I have question.”

Rigoberto lifted an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

“Why do you ask if Indy is white?”

Rigoberto met his gaze, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Well, Shorty, I don’t have to tell you how dumb white people can be.”

Shorty let out a laugh despite himself. “Okay, but Indy isn’t dumb,” he clarified. “He’s a professor!”

“Dumb in other ways, Shorty. You know, like… oblivious.”

“Oblivious?”

“Will taught me that word. It's like a nice way of saying dumb, but it also means that they are just kind of… clueless. Like, someone who doesn’t get why a school full of white kids might suck for you.”

Shorty swallowed his last bite anxiously. “Indy not like that,” he defended. “He travel the world! He speak so many languages!”

“Yeah, but he’s white,” Rigoberto said stubbornly. “There are just some things that white people can never understand. I’m sure he’s nice, smart, and empathetic. But as much as he may like all people, regardless of race, he’ll never really know what it's like to be us, because he’ll always still be white.”

Shorty wanted to argue more, but Berto was basically repeating what Shorty said to Indy on Tuesday. He had grown frustrated with Indy insisting that he knew what Shorty was going through. Rigoberto was right—there were some things Indy could never understand.

“Hey,” Rigoberto continued when Shorty grew quiet. “I don’t mean to say that the guy’s racist or anything.”

“I know,” Shorty assured him. “He’s not. But he don’t get it, you right.”

“Have you tried telling him about your fancy school? Maybe if you talk to him, he can send you somewhere else.”

“Where?” Shorty asked miserably. “All boarding schools the same.”

Berto’s face brightened. “I got it! Go to school with us!”

Shorty’s eyes widened. It sounded great, but it didn’t really make a lot of sense. “I like that,” he allowed, “but I can’t sleep at the school here.”

“Well, stay with your friend!”

Shorty thought about this. Originally, he would have said of course not. But… maybe things had changed. Yeah, Indy was the one who sent him to England in the first place, but they’d been having so much fun together this week—maybe Indy would want him to stay.

He didn’t say this though, and only shrugged defeatedly at Rigoberto as Colin and Will returned, arguing about god-knows-what.

Darla returned to the table with the bill, and Shorty suddenly—embarrassingly—realized he had no money. He looked to the rest of the boys ashamed, but they didn’t seem to care.

“I’ll get it!” Will called, slamming a plastic card on the table. Shorty’s eyes widened. Credit cards were for grownups, but Will had one? “It’s my dad’s,” he explained, noting Shorty’s confusion. “These two idiots always forget to bring money, so my dad sends me out with his card if we get lunch.”

Colin and Rigoberto grumbled, clearly unhappy at being called out. Darla looked to Shorty as she took Will’s card. “I can’t believe Indiana of all people would have forgotten to give you money! He’s usually far more thorough.”

Suddenly, Shorty stilled, his face pale. His immediate silence and shock piqued the attention of the three boys and Darla, who looked at him, confused.

“Are you okay?” Colin asked him.

Darla was right. Indy would have sent him with money. That of course would be if Indy knew.

“I…” Shorty began, but he had already started panicking. “Indy was asleep, so I went for a walk… I go back when I find park… and…” Words were failing him as all he could recall were Indy’s words from the night he arrived.

You can't just run off, kid, he had said. You have to tell your teachers where you're going.

Or you have to tell me, got it?

“You ran away?” Rigoberto realized aloud.

“Oh Lord,” Darla said with a long exhale.

“I mean, he did tell us he runs from people, remember?” Will joked.

“I don’t mean to!” Shorty protested. “Indy gonna kill me!”

As Shorty scrambled from his seat, Colin grabbed his arm. “Wait, Shorty, when do you leave for England?”

“Saturday,” Shorty said distractedly.

“We play soccer at the park every morning when we don’t have school,” Will cut in. “Since it’s break, we’re still going to play tomorrow morning. You should come!”

“I can’t come. I am dead.”

“Then have Indy drop off your corpse,” Rigoberto said with a laugh. “Please?” All three boys looked at him expectantly. For a moment, Shorty was warmed by their desire to play with him one more time before he left. But then the panic of disobeying Indy set back in.

“Promise!” he called back to them as he sprinted to the door.

-

Shorty ran all the way back to the apartment and up the stairs. He threw the door open and it hit the wall with a bang, startling Indiana who was sitting in an armchair, sipping coffee from a mug over a book.

Short Round was altogether unaware of how wild and crazed he looked, breathing heavily as he flung the door open. He paled further as he saw Indy, and for the first time since he left the diner, he stopped moving.

Indy lifted an eyebrow at him, standing up. “Shorty—”

“Sorry!” Shorty shouted. It was loud for the small living room, and rang awkwardly in the air. “I mess up! I know you say I can’t run away, but I don’t mean to! It’s an accident! I promise, I leave for only hour, I just—”

“Short Round!” Indiana interrupted, raising his voice. He walked over to Shorty, and the child panicked. What was he going to say? “Come here,” he continued, his voice soft. Shorty was confused, but he followed as Indiana led him into his bedroom.

“When I woke up this morning, you were gone,” Indy stated the obvious. Shorty looked to his feet, but Indy put his hand to Shorty’s chin and lifted his head. “But tell me, Shorty, what do you see?”

Shorty looked where Indy guided him—to the window. He took a couple steps closer and gazed out the window. He was confused at first, looking over the street at the front of Indy’s building, and the pond beyond it. Then, as his eyes traveled further, he saw it. Beyond the street and the pond was a park. And though less clear than the street or the pond, Shorty’s gaze fell on a mowed, fenced-in field.

He had known the park was close to Indy’s apartment, but he had never looked around to see the building. It hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“I was about to run outside, but the second I pulled on my coat, I glanced out the window and saw boys out in the field. And you may have been really small from my vantage point, I picked you out in an instant.”

Shorty glanced up at Indy, who smiled softly down at him. “So you… you know? You not mad?”

“Well, you should have left a note, or you know, maybe asked my permission,” Indy said pointedly. Shorty shrunk slightly from the admonishment, but Indy placed a hand comfortingly on the boy’s back. “But,” the man continued, “I know it was an accident.”

“It was!” Shorty corroborated. Indy laughed and ruffled Shorty’s hair.

“Now, why don’t you tell me about your new friends?”

Shorty nodded wildly, sitting on Indy’s bed. “They awesome!” he said excitedly. “They teach me soccer-football, even though they don’t agree on name. Berto say I learn fast.” Indy sat down next to him, smiling just to hear Shorty’s excitement, but the kid didn’t notice. “Rigoberto—he is really good! He has Yankees hat, like me! And he have an accent too! Like me! Well, not like me, he’s from Honduras,” Shorty practiced the new country on his tongue. “And Colin, he…”

Shorty continued his story, telling Indy everything that happened. He talked about the game, all the jokes they made, the food at the diner—everything he could think of.

He didn’t tell Indy about his conversation with Rigoberto when Colin and Will were gone. The conversation where they talked about how Indy would always be too white to understand what life was like for kids like Shorty, Berto, and Colin. It felt like something that was just for him to know, not something to share with Indy. He knew Indy would nod along and say he understood—and Shorty wasn’t prepared for that. Truthfully, Shorty didn’t like that he felt like he was the last person to understand this. He didn’t like that it was something that he and Indy could never share.

He also didn’t mention Rigoberto’s suggestion about switching schools. He would have to think about that one.

When Shorty’s story was finally done, they left Indy’s room. “Keep your jacket on, kid,” Indy said, pulling his shoes on.

Shorty cocked his head in confusion. “Where we going?”

Indy raised his eyebrows. “The carnival, Shorty, remember?”

A huge smile broke across the kid’s face. He’d completely forgotten about the carnival! “Thank you Indy!” he shouted excitedly, rushing the man and wrapping his arms around his waist. Indy laughed and patted his back.

“Alright, alright, you’re welcome,” he said with a chuckle. “Now let’s go.”

As they walked into the hallway, Shorty turned to him. “Can I play with friends again tomorrow morning?”

Indy smiled. “Of course, kid. It won’t interfere with the surprise.”

“Surprise?”

Indy winked at him. “Let’s just have fun at the carnival tonight, yeah?”

“What surprise?!”

“You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

“So, what’s the surprise?!” Will asked impatiently.

It was Friday morning and the boys had just finished playing soccer for about three hours, same as the previous day. They were now swinging on the swingset in the park, just beside the field. Shorty regaled them with the story of the carnival from last night, and told them about Indy’s hinted surprise for today.

“I don’t know!” Shorty complained. “But it must be better than carnival, or Indy won’t keep it surprise!”

“Better than stuffing your face with a soft pretzel on a ferris wheel? Impossible,” Colin said with a scoff.

Rigoberto fiddled with his Yankees cap, buried in thought. “And it's tonight?” he asked. Shorty nodded. Berto considered this, and after a moment, a wicked smile formed on his face. “I think I know what it is.”

“You do?” Shorty asked excitedly.

“Yup. But I can’t tell you—it’d ruin the surprise.”

“What?!”

“You can tell us, right?” Will suggested. Berto seemed to weigh this before nodding, the three boys darting away from the swings and to the base of the slide across the playground.

“No fair!” Shorty whined as the three boys huddled, backs facing him. Even worse, Colin and Will both looked floored by what Rigoberto told them. When they ambled back, all three had giddy smiles on their faces. “Tell me!” Shorty demanded.

“Hell no,” Will said, sitting down on the swing next to him. “We can’t ruin that surprise.”

“I could be wrong,” Rigoberto reminded everyone. “It’s just a guess.”

“Yeah, a great guess,” said Will.

“Oh yeah, its definitely that,” Colin agreed. “Shorty, you’re one lucky dude.”

“I want to know now!” Shorty complained. “No fair you know and I don’t!”

“Hey, it’s no fair that you get the surprise and we don’t,” Will rebutted. “I’m jealous!”

“Really?”

“We all are,” Colin said, and Berto nodded. Shorty pouted dramatically, making them all laugh. Truthfully, if the surprise really was as good as they seemed to think it was, Short Round didn’t mind waiting.

“Dang it,” Colin said suddenly, looking down at his watch. "I’ve got to go, guys. I promised my dad I’d be back for lunch.”

“Aw boo,” Will said, sticking his tongue out.

“I should go too,” Berto added. “Today’s the last day my mom can run errands before school starts back up, so I promised her I’d help.”

“But hey, why don’t we play tomorrow?” Colin suggested. “We usually play on Saturdays anyway.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’m in. Shorty?”

Shorty frowned. “I can’t,” he said sadly. “Plane leave early tomorrow.”

“I forgot,” Colin said, his face falling. “That sucks.”

“It sucks,” Will repeated. “I don’t want to go back to having an odd number of players. Even if Shorty’s already making me look bad,” he added with a wink.

Shorty couldn’t help but feel awful as he watched Will’s attempt at humor fail to make everyone laugh. He was heartbroken that he’d finally made friends and now he only had two days with them. He couldn’t believe it was over already.

He couldn’t believe it was his last day in Jersey.

The boys slowly said goodbye. Colin shook Shorty’s hand, but Will tackled him to the ground in a hug. This opened the floodgates, as Colin and Rigoberto joined in on the group hug/dogpile.

Will and Colin walked away together, waving at Shorty and glancing over their shoulders until they were finally out of sight.

“Hey, I’ll walk you home,” Berto said, nudging his shoulder. “I know you don’t live far.”

As they left the park, they were silent for a minute, both in a melancholic mood. After a while, Shorty wanted to cut the tension.

“So, you really not tell me the surprise?”

Berto—much to Shorty’s relief—laughed. “Definitely not. I think your friend actually would kill me, like you thought he’d kill you yesterday.” Shorty rolled his eyes, still embarrassed for how dramatically he left the diner the day before. “Hey, by the way, did you talk to him?”

“About what?”

“You know, about staying in Jersey and going to school with me, Colin, and Will.”

Shorty was surprised to hear this. Yes, Rigoberto suggested Shorty go to school here and live with Indy, but it wasn’t that simple. And they hadn’t really had a chance to talk much about it before Shorty realized he’d accidentally run away.

“I—I can’t.”

Berto raised an eyebrow, but not in judgment. “Can’t?”

“It’s… different. Than you. Indy not… he not in charge of me.”

“Just a friend, right?” Berto clarified. “But, I mean, you’re here. Across the damn ocean!”

“Yes, but I not ask permission,” Shorty told him. “I lie to school to get ticket and surprise Indy. He not bring me here.”

“Huh,” Rigoberto said with wide eyes. He seemed surprised and a little impressed. “Still,” he continued, “he’s happy you’re here, right? I mean, it seems like you’ve been doing all these great things, maybe he would want you to stay.”

“I can’t,” Shorty said firmly. “Sorry,” he remarked as Berto’s face fell. “I—I don’t want Indy to say no. Make sense?”

Rigoberto nodded solemnly, defeated. “Sorry,” he said back. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I get it now—you don’t want to get your hopes up just to be disappointed, yeah?”

Shorty nodded. He hadn’t wanted to have to admit it, but he was scared. When Indy first told him that Shorty was going to school on a different continent, Shorty had been embarrassed to feel so… unwanted. But at Weston, Shorty had adjusted. He realized that he was being selfish.

He felt a similar fear when he arrived at Indy’s apartment and realized that the man was frustrated with him. He felt like he was being rejected, being sent away, and Shorty’s old insecurity from that night in the hotel in Delhi returned—the fear that Indy didn’t love him.

But Indy had given him a hug and told him he could stay. And Indy had spent the week making every day a fun new adventure. Shorty felt a pit in his stomach knowing that this time tomorrow he’d be halfway over the ocean in a plane that would take him away from his friends, from Jersey, and from Indy.

Staying was his biggest dream, but he couldn’t. Indy didn’t want him.

But… what if Berto was right? What if Indy really had changed his mind.

“I want to stay,” Shorty promised Rigoberto. “And maybe you right, but I don’t know. You think something about Indy, and Mr. Craft think something about Indy, and I think something about Indy—but I don’t know truth. Not really.”

“Who’s Mr. Craft?”

“English teacher. He’s super nice. He say that Indy… well… he say a lot about Indy.”

“What does he say?”

“Things I don’t believe,” was all Shorty told him. He didn’t want to get into his conversations with Mr. Craft about Indy. He hadn’t said a word of them to Indy himself, and it felt like what Mr. Craft had said was a secret for Shorty to keep.

They arrived outside Indy’s apartment and gave each other another hug.

“I’ll miss you, Shorty,” Berto told him. “Weird that we just met you yesterday, but it feels like we’ve known you a long time.”

“Thank you,” Shorty said, “for being friends. I don’t have friends at Weston.”

“Yeah, Weston sounds like it sucks. But hey, write to us! We’ll write to you there too, so we can still talk.”

Shorty sheepishly looked away. “I’m no good at writing English,” he admitted.

“Well, then have Mr. Craft write it for you. Because we’ll definitely be pestering you with letters.”

Shorty smiled. “I like that.”

-

Shorty had only been at soccer an hour when there was a ring at his doorbell. The intercom crackled to life as Indy pressed the button.

“Indiana! Let me in, my friend,” came the garbled voice.

After Indy buzzed him in, he stared wide eyed at the man at his door. “Marcus? What on earth are you doing here?”

Marcus Brody pushed his way into Indiana’s apartment. “I came to force you out of the apartment,” he declared. “Let’s go to breakfast, shall we?”

Indy crossed his arms stubbornly. “What makes you think I haven’t been leaving my apartment?” he asked, confused and a bit offended. In fact, Indiana had been incredibly active all week. Marcus happened to catch him the one time Indy was home and not preoccupied with the kid.

Marcus gave him a judgmental, are-you-serious kind of look. “Indiana, you’ve barely left your apartment for two months. I know that on Monday I teased you a bit for staying in, so I thought that if I’m to ensure that you’ve left this stuffy place, I should come. However…” Marcus’ eyes scanned the room, a look of mild surprise on his face. “Your windows are open. You’ve cleaned. This is not what I thought I’d walk into.”

Indiana had completely forgotten about his funk. He’d been so distracted with Short Round that his behavior from the past couple months had completely fallen to the side. He realized, for the first time since Shorty landed on his doorstep Monday night, that he hadn’t been in a poor mood even once. Sure, he’d been angry with Weston’s headmaster and that horrible Reginald Craft, but Indiana had completely overcome the stagnant, sour mood that had plagued him so incessantly. In fact, until Marcus arrived, Indy had all but shut out his normal, Shorty-less life.

He realized that (quite unlike himself) he hadn’t called Marcus to tell him Shorty was in town. He and Marcus were fairly enmeshed in one another’s lives, and Indiana had told Marcus all about Shorty—from meeting him in Shanghai, to their journey to Pankot Palace, to their two weeks together in Delhi. But when Short Round came to Jersey, he hadn’t even considered telling Marcus.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Indiana joked. He wasn't entirely sure where to begin. “Well, Marcus, I have been going outside. Short Round’s here.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes in confusion before widening them as it settled in. “Short Round? The child from Shanghai?”

“What other ‘Short Round’s do you know of, Marcus?”

“You didn’t tell me he was coming!”

“I didn’t know!”

“You didn’t know?” Now Marcus appeared even more baffled. "How could you not know that you had a visitor from another country?"

"Shorty didn't exactly ask permission," Indiana told him with a sigh. Marcus raised an eyebrow, but he didn't question it. “It’s a rather long story, Marcus.”

“I’ll bet,” the older man remarked. “Is he here now?”

Indiana shook his head. “He’s at the park, playing soccer with his friends.”

“His friends? He has friends here now?”

“Yes. Somewhat spontaneously, but yes.”

Marcus sat down at the kitchen table as Indiana leaned against the fridge. “I must say Indiana, this is not what I expected.”

“Understandable,” Indiana agreed. “I hadn’t expected it either. But it's been great, Marcus. I’ve taken him to all my favorite museums, we eat out nearly every night, I showed him my favorite movies—and don’t worry, I’ve actually caught up on my grading. I can’t say why, but in the few hours I’ve had to myself, my work has been enjoyable again. I didn’t have to force myself to trudge through it.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow—in appraisal instead of confusion. “My, Indiana, it seems as though my visit was unnecessary this entire time! Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Indiana supplied. “I suppose it was just—it was a lot, you know? It was all so crazy and sudden. Unexpected.”

“But, good?”

“Amazing,” Indy admitted, his gaze drifting. “Not at first,” he added, turning back to his friend. “You had only left my office a minute or two before my phone rang. Shorty hadn’t told a soul that he was leaving, so the headmaster called to tell me he’d gone missing. I panicked, and I raced to my apartment with the intention of packing a bag and going to London myself. But when I got there, Shorty was waiting for me in the hall.”

Marcus hummed in thought. “And how did you feel?”

Indiana’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? I was relieved! He could have been dead in the street somewhere!”

“Yes, of course. But how did you feel when that subsided? When you realized that Shorty would be staying all week?”

Indiana hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose I was happy. Why wouldn’t I be? I knew that I would have the chance to show him around Jersey. I could make him happy, give him the best break from school that I could.”

Marcus pondered this before changing the subject. “And how is school for the young boy? Is Weston treating him as well as it treated me?” the older man noticed how Indiana seemed to flinch. “What’s wrong?”

“It might be nothing.”

“Clearly you don’t believe that.”

Too true. “I think Shorty’s been having a hard time. It doesn’t seem like he’s been making friends.”

Marcus looked at him in disbelief. “But… he’s been here for four days and already made friends to play with.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Indy said, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “There was an… incident, as well.”

“An incident?”

“He got into a fight with an older boy. He hit him.”

“Oh dear.”

“But the older boy was picking on him. And he called Shorty a slur.”

Marcus’ eyebrows nearly reached the top of his head. “Excuse me?”

Indy could only nod uncomfortably, though his frustration and rage were returning. “The headmaster told Shorty that he didn’t believe him. And then he had the audacity to say the same thing to me when I called him about it. But it was obvious that he was lying to cover for the student. So Shorty was punished, but the little punk wasn’t.”

Marcus was left speechless for a while, and the two just soaked in the silence that had settled between them.

Indiana wondered if Marcus even believed him. Marcus hadn’t been entirely on his side when Indy told him about Reginald Craft. Now Indy was trying to tell him that the very same headmaster that Marcus respected would defend a racist student.

But when Marcus did speak, he surprised Indiana. “I can’t help but fear this is my fault,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Indiana.”

“What? How is it your fault?”

“When you told me your solution, boarding school, I immediately put forth my own alma mater. But in my excitement, I didn’t consider that it would be different for Short Round than it was for me. My parents were rather rich and, to be quite frank, rather white. I didn’t even think about how cruel young boys can be. Or how cruel anyone can be.”

Indiana felt nauseous. “So, what? Is there any place in the world I can send him where he’d be accepted?”

Marcus offered Indy a pitying smile. “Indiana, no matter where he goes, he will be accepted by some and rejected by others. I’m not sure that there’s anywhere Shorty can go that’s free of racism.”

Hearing Marcus say it only served to make Indy feel more miserable. Marcus must have seen this, because he continued. “But that’s his lot, and I think he’s probably been learning that. What matters is that he has people around him who do accept and love him. He has you Indiana. And that’s a wonderful thing.”

Indy liked the mentality, but something nagged at him. Did Shorty have Indiana? Certainly, Indy would be there for him no matter what. He’d do anything, give anything, lose anything for that kid. But when was the last time Indy had seen Short Round? Before this week, of course. He hadn’t heard a word from the kid since he dropped him off at the airport in London. In January. When Shorty was at Weston, he really didn’t have Indiana.

And in the morning, that’s where Shorty would be again. His flight left at six in the morning, so tonight was most of the time that Indiana had left with him. And then what? After this week’s scare, he doubted that Weston would lose sight of Shorty ever again.

-

Indiana spent the entire car ride trying to stifle his grins as Shorty begged him to reveal the surprise every two miles. As they drove into New York, Shorty’s eyes widened.

Shorty had been sad when he came back from soccer with his friends, and Indiana had been upset himself when Marcus left. Marcus was a good friend, and tried to lighten the mood, but it hadn’t worked. Indiana still felt that anxious knot of dread in his gut, all too aware of time slipping through his fingers like sand.

Still, even with the clock running in his brain, he couldn’t help but be excited for the surprise he was giving Shorty. It hadn’t even occurred to him until Wednesday night, and he called in an old favor to get these tickets. The idea of the surprise seemed to fix both of their moods once Short Round returned to the apartment.

When the stadium was finally in view, Shorty grew silent, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. It was probably the first time he’d been silent through the entire drive. Indiana had barely put the truck in park when Shorty swung the door open and stared up at the large building across the street.

“Indy? Is that…?!”

Indiana met him, rounding the truck and putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Yep. A real-life Yankees game.”

The scream of excitement that left the boy’s mouth was piercing, but Indy could only laugh, delighted. He remembered the first time he saw the Yankees play—but his father had made the experience miserable. Indiana was forced to translate all of the player’s numbers into five different languages and his father refused to buy any food, even though Indiana hadn’t eaten anything all day.

Indy was going to give Shorty the night at the ball game that he always wanted. Shorty could be as loud as he wanted, and Indy would buy him all the snacks and Yankees merchandise that they could carry.

Shorty was rambling as they entered the stadium doors. “Berto say he knew surprise, and he tell Colin and Will, and they all say surprise is so cool! And I not believe them, but surprise is even cooler! Berto has Yankees hat too! He know they play tonight!”

Though Indiana had indulged the both of them just the night before at the carnival, they went immediately to the hot dog stand in the interior of the stadium. Another rather American food that he needed to make Shorty try before he left.

The child devoured the hot dog as quickly as he inhaled everything. Indiana had noticed this habit in Delhi, and he was happy to see that the food he gave him in Jersey earned the same vigor.

When they stepped outside, where all of the seats overlooked the field, Shorty gasped. The child was rendered speechless at the enormity of the field, the sheer amount of people bustling around, and how high up they felt.

“Wow,” Shorty said in a breath, his voice a whisper barely audible beneath the sounds of all of the people. Indy beamed, flooded with warmth. Maybe it was their last night together, but it would definitely be a night that Shorty wouldn’t soon forget.

As they shuffled to their seats, they immediately flagged down the man selling cotton candy, and another one selling Cokes.

“This place incredible, Indy!” Shorty said, licking the sticky sugar off of his fingers. “My friends so jealous!”

Indiana laughed, all of his anger and sadness and confusion from the morning now mere memories.

The game passed in a blur of fun. After the second hot dog and the bucket of salty popcorn, they were too stuffed to buy anything else. That was, until the soft pretzel guy started walking around and Shorty demanded they get one, just like the ones in the airport. Short Round was thrilled to see the players, wearing the same pattern on their uniforms as the pattern on his hat.

Indiana wasn't a particularly devoted baseball fan, but he and Shorty were both immersed completely in the game. They cheered and booed and jumped to their feet and swore (apologizing profusely to the woman in front of them). Every time the bat hit the ball, the loud crack sent a rush of excitement through them. Everyone around them seemed to be having a similarly thrilling time.

To bring it home, the Yankees pulled a win in the last second after a neck and neck game with the Philadelphia Phillies. It had grown dark outside, and a fireworks display shot into the sky in celebration. Shorty watched it with wide eyes, enraptured by the lights.

When the fireworks had finished, they made their way back to the truck. Shorty was falling asleep on his feet and tripped more than once, so Indy put his arm around his shoulders to lead him back.

Once in the truck, Short Round was out like a light. He slept through most of the drive.

-

Shorty blinked his eyes open as the truck rolled to a stop. They were at a stop light, probably only five minutes from Indy’s apartment.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up,” Indiana laughed as Shorty sat up. Short Round giggled sleepily as he rubbed his eyes.

“That was fun,” Shorty said, beaming at Indy. The man smiled back at him.

“Yeah, it was.” He paused. “This whole week has been fun, yeah Shorty?”

Suddenly, Shorty felt a little self-conscious. “Is it fun for you?”

“Of course, kid,” Indy assured him. “You know, I would have been pretty bored if you hadn’t come.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah! I would have just sat around, grading papers, and taking naps.” Indy made a faux gagging face that sent Shorty into a series of giggles. They had arrived at Indiana’s apartment, and he put the truck in park. “I wish we could do stuff like that all the time, Shorty.”

Rigoberto’s words rang in Short Round’s ear. He’s happy you’re here, right? Berto had asked him. Maybe he’d want you to stay.

Could he be right? It sure seemed like it now. Maybe Rigoberto knew what he was talking about—maybe he knew something that Shorty didn’t. Shorty often felt like he was the last to understand something, so perhaps this was an example of that.

Yes, that must be right! There was no other reason for Indy taking him to all of these fun places. Indy wanted to share his favorite things with Shorty, prepare him for life in America. All Shorty had to do was tell Indy he wanted the same thing.

“We can do fun stuff all the time!” Shorty said. Indy had been reaching for his door handle to leave the truck, but his hand stilled. “I don’t have to go back.”

Indy was silent for a moment. “Yes, Shorty, you do,” he said, his voice calm. “You have to go to school, kid.”

“I know!” Shorty continued, feeling confident. “I could go to school here! With my friends! They way better than Weston kids!”

“Shorty…”

“We can have fun every week, and see Yankees play, and eat cheeseburgers and pretzels!”

“Shorty—”

“Jersey school sound much better than Weston! Berto say there are Chinese kids here, so I’m not the only one!”

“Short Round, will—”

“It would be perfect!” Shorty really believed that. A life with Indy? It was a dream come true.

There was nothing for him at Weston, Shorty knew that now. Maybe he’d always known but decided to pretend that wasn’t true so he didn’t hate school even more. But now he was sure, and there was no hiding from it: Weston was not his home. He’d never step foot on that campus ever again. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Here, in Jersey, this was where his future was. Rigoberto and Colin and Will, Yìchín and Fen, and Indy—the first person he’d met that ever gave a shit about him.

He’d live in Indy’s apartment, and they’d eat dinner together every night, and watch movies, and go to carnivals and baseball games. Shorty would go to the park to play soccer with his friends, and go to birthday parties and complain about homework. He could meet Yìchín and Fen and talk about China, and he’d never feel that bitter sting of otherness—at least, never so bad as the day Michel called him that word. Never so bad as every day at Weston.

This was the kind of American life that Shorty had dreamed about during those two weeks in Delhi, but even better. He never could have imagined how wonderful it would feel to have friends, or how good a soft pretzel tasted, or what a Yankees game was really like, or how it felt to be accepted and wanted for the first time in his life.

“It would be so—”

“Shorty, enough!” Indy’s voice was loud and commanding, and Shorty shrunk away. The dream he’d been living in suddenly dispersed, and he could feel the cold air that came into the truck with sharp recognition. He was no longer immersed in imagination, and was now more present than ever. “Just stop, okay?!”

Indy sounded mad. He wasn’t supposed to be mad. Where before Shorty had felt an unrelenting excitement, he now felt hollow. He knew what this meant. All of his dreams shattered like glass, and the disappointment turned to nausea in his gut.

“I thought—”

“You thought what?” Indy sounded exasperated. He ran a hand over his face. “Shorty, kid, I’m sorry. I really, really am. Jesus Christ, this is all my fault.” He mumbled that last bit to himself. “Kid, look at me.” Shorty didn’t want to, but he turned, making sure his face was unreadable.

Looking in Indy’s eyes, it seemed as though they were in a standoff. It felt like some weird distortion of the first night in the diner where they had a standoff over the ketchup bottle. Neither seemed willing to give an inch, to let the other see how they were really feeling. It was a lesson in stoicism and self-control.

“I’m sorry,” Shorty said, keeping his voice level. Indy opened his mouth to speak but stopped as Shorty quickly left the truck and stalked toward the door.

Shorty glanced back only once he was in the lobby to see if Indy had followed him, but it seemed Indy hadn’t left the truck. Good. Shorty didn’t want to see him.

How humiliating. Shorty wanted to find Rigoberto and punch him in the nose, just like he punched Michel at Weston. He knew it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t Berto’s fault. It was his own.

How could he be so stupid? Of course Indy didn’t want him! Shorty had been thinking that everyone at Weston was wrong this whole time, but they weren’t, were they? Shorty wasn’t proper, just like they always said. He was bad at English, constantly skipping class, hitting people who were mean to him—and worst of all, he apparently couldn’t leave Indy alone.

Indy never asked Shorty to come. He never talked about seeing Shorty again when he dropped him off in January. Shorty had just forced his way back into Indy’s life without permission, like Indy said the night he arrived, and then what? He just expected Indy to let him stay?

Shorty locked the guest room door behind him—because that’s all he was, a guest—and he curled up under the covers, covering his mouth in an attempt to stop the sobs from escaping. It didn’t work, and Shorty became angrier, which only made him cry harder.

As sad and embarrassed and angry with himself as he was, his resolve only hardened. In a few short hours, Indy would fetch him and take him to his early morning flight back to London. Indy would pawn him off to Mr. Craft, who would sit next to him and scold him for leaving, and then Shorty would be right back in his shared classrooms with the twins, embarrassed to say anything out loud for fear of them making fun of his accent.

No. He meant it earlier—he wouldn’t go back to Weston. He couldn’t. That would be admitting defeat, and as upset as he was, as small as he felt, he refused to give up.

If he couldn’t stay here, and he couldn’t go back, he’d just have to think of something else.

Chapter Text

Indiana didn’t know how much time passed sitting in that truck, in the parking lot of his own apartment.

Shame filled him to the brim, and he wanted nothing more than to simply disappear. If he’d been in a funk for the last three months, then it had certainly returned full-force now.

One week. He’d had one week of fun, of not feeling stressed, of having a purpose, of being happy. Even Marcus had noticed how new and improved Indy seemed. All of that, gone in an instant.

Why did Shorty have to ask? Why did he make Indy ruin this week for the both of them?

Logically, Indiana knew that this wasn’t Shorty’s fault. It was Indy’s. Maybe he’d been too nice, too fun, and now Shorty thought that meant that could be life forever.

But it couldn’t be. Even if Shorty was in Jersey for another week, he’d see that. Indiana would have to return to work, and he couldn’t afford to go to carnivals and baseball games every week.

Frustrated, Indy knew he couldn’t go inside. Shorty might be asleep by now, but Indiana couldn’t even handle the thought of walking past his room. The guest room, not Shorty’s room, he reminded himself.

Come on Indy, he thought frustratedly. This is your apartment. No one can scare you away from your own apartment.

Indiana drove away. Apparently, one person could scare him away.

He wasn’t sure where he was going until he got there. He sat in his truck for a while still, in the parking lot of the diner.

The diner was his happy place. His calm place, at the very least. He’d been coming here at least once a week for as long as he could remember—save for the last three months. If he couldn’t go to his apartment, then naturally, this was the place he’d end up.

Of course, even with hundreds of memories of coming to this diner—grading papers, reading books, bringing friends—all he could think about now was coming here with Shorty. Taking the kid here on the first night of the week, ordering burgers, fighting over the ketchup bottle—

A rap on his window startled him, and he jumped in his seat. Darla looked at him with a raised eyebrow through the glass. Indiana finally took the key out of the ignition and opened the door, but he didn’t get out yet.

Darla’s eyebrow lifted higher. “My, Indiana, you look rather guilty. Have I caught you doing something? Because to me it just looked like you were sitting outside my diner without budging at four in the morning.”

It was four already? He’d have to be back in an hour if he was going to get Shorty to the airport in time for his six o’clock flight. “Sorry, Darla.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Again, what’s going on? Why are you apologizing? What did you do, Indiana?”

Indy smacked his head down on the steering wheel and sighed. He prepared an answer, but apparently he didn’t need one. Darla placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, boy. It’s freezing out here. Let’s go inside.”

Indiana allowed himself to be led inside and to his usual booth. When Darla had him seated, she sat across from him. “Alright, Indiana, tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Darla!”

“Indiana, I am sixty-six years old. I am allowed to curse. And another thing that my time on this earth has given me is intuition. But for you? All I need is a pair of two eyes—and mine don’t even work that well anymore, so I’ll say it again, Indiana, tell me what’s wrong young man.”

Indiana was a bit taken aback, and properly chastised. He glanced around, and upon seeing the diner empty, he sighed again, resigned. “I messed up, Darla.”

The old woman folded her hands together on the table. “Is this about that boy?”

Indy’s gaze snapped up. “How did you know?”

“Indiana,” she said sternly. “You are not a father.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Will you let me finish?” She snapped at him. “What I mean is, you are not a father. In fact, children make you uncomfortable. I remember when my grandson was visiting me at the diner during your weekly dinner last year and you practically recoiled from him.”

“He was sticky. Why was he so sticky?”

“And yet, you came into my diner this week with a child. How did that happen?”

Indiana paused. “Well, it’s a long story, but I was in Shanghai—”

“Don’t give me all the gory details, Indiana. I know how strange your adventures can get. I’m not asking how you met him, hon. I want to know how you changed from a man who was scared of children into a father.”

Indiana blinked at her. “Short Round isn’t my kid, Darla.”

“Whaaaaat? You mean the Chinese boy you brought in isn’t your biological child?” she asked sarcastically. “I’m not saying he’s related to you, hon. There are more ways to be a father.”

“He’s not adopted—”

“Are you even listening to me?” her tone was clipped and frustrated, so Indy clamped his mouth shut. “You met a child who changed your life, Indiana. And I know it was unexpected, and it’s scary, but it’s what happened.” She paused for a moment, and narrowed her eyes. “Answer something for me, hon. When did you meet Shorty?”

Indiana didn’t know where she was going with this. “January. Why?”

Darla looked as though something clicked. “Why haven’t you been in my diner for the past few months, Indiana?”

The man shrugged, somewhat defensively. “I’ve been in a funk, I guess. I haven’t been leaving the house much. But I told you about that already. Maybe it’s just the winter season.”

“Indiana, darlin’, tell me you’re not that naïve. You know why you’ve been feeling so down, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?” a familiar frustration bubbled up within him. He felt adrift again, surrounded by people who knew more about him than he did. The words of the people he’d spoken to bobbed around in his head, and he desperately tried to find purchase on any of them.

Why would that implication bother you so much? You don’t care what other people think of you.

But danger, Dr. Jones, is not what I'm worried you'll cause.

If you thought about it for more than two seconds, you’d know damn well! Tell me, Indy, why haven’t you been focusing at work? Why are Mr. Craft’s words sticking with you? Why exactly haven’t you wanted to go gallivanting after another dangerous artifact? Why do you think everyone’s mad at you? There’s one answer here.

Darla had been watching him patiently, waiting as his face changed while he mulled over the things he’d been told. When Indiana looked back up at her, he looked miserable.

“I can’t.”

Darla’s voice was now soft and sympathetic. “You figured it out, huh?”

“I can’t do it, Darla,” Indy continued, his voice cracking slightly. “Everyone knew it before me—even you, and it didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now. These last few months have been awful because I missed him. I missed that kid so much, and I couldn’t just go back to life as it was before. It wasn’t as simple as I thought it should have been. And I love that kid, and he’s my kid, but none of it, absolutely none of it matters.”

“Why’s that, hon?”

“Because he’s going to school! He’s getting an education! My life isn’t the life for a child! And I don’t know the first damn thing about parenting! I didn’t exactly have a stellar role model. And who am I to say that I can raise him? You said I was a father but I’m not, Darla, I’m really not. Keeping him happy consisted of carnivals and baseball games—I’m not some disciplinarian! He thinks of me as his friend, and I love being that, but his friend cannot raise him. I am unprepared and utterly unqualified to be his… his parent.”

Darla reached across the table and took Indy’s hand in hers. “Indiana, no one is qualified for parenthood. It’s hard. Even those mothers that pour over their childcare books like they're bibles, even they aren't ready once the baby comes. Raising children is something most of us don't plan, and those who do can't plan well, because it's impossible to know. It's the hardest thing I've ever done, you know that? My girls were terrors, Indiana. Absolutely wicked girls. Eleanor once told me that she hated me and wished I was dead. Midge became so angry with me for not buying her something that she ran off and told the nearest policeman that I had kidnapped her just so I would be punished. Children are fickle, sometimes cruel, and more often selfish and needy and clingy and sticky and terrible.

"Short Round will make you want to rip your hair out, he will make you long for a moment of peace, a moment to yourself, a moment where he is not incessantly nagging at you and driving you up the wall. Every moment he's away from your sight you'll wonder, maybe in the back of your mind, if he's okay, if he's hurt. He'll sneak off and make you sick with worry, he won't call when he's supposed to and he'll miss his curfew. And throughout all of that, you will love him anyway. You will never, not even for a second, regret him coming into your life. He is your kid, Indiana, and that is something that doesn't change with distance. No boarding school can make you forget that. He is your responsibility. You are charged with protecting him, with keeping him safe, with giving him a bed and food and water. And in return, he'll give you so much grief that sometimes you'll wonder if you've done something wrong—but you haven't, hon. You'll be bad at it, like we all were. You'll mess up, and you'll have regrets. But you'll never regret him, not ever. Because he will make you a better person, Indiana. I think he already is."

Indiana looked at Darla with reverence as she spoke. She voiced everything he'd feared, everything he needed to hear, everything that nagged at him and scared him.

Was she right? Was it more important to adopt Short Round than to send him back to Weston? Did it really not matter how prepared he felt?

She was right about one thing for certain—Shorty was making Indiana a better person. At the very least, Indy himself felt better. Shorty gave him purpose, but a different kind than his archaeological adventures. Indiana wanted to do right by him, and he thought that he was. He thought that sending him to Weston was the best thing he could do.

But it wasn’t. Marcus had been right this morning, about Shorty experiencing racism at Weston—it just wasn’t something either of them had thought about. And though America wasn’t exactly devoid of it either, Short Round would have a better chance at a school with kids like Rigoberto and Colin. They even told him there were other Chinese students, so Shorty wouldn’t be so alone. And could Indy really let Shorty stay at Weston? The headmaster was clearly complicit in the racism that ran rampant there, and it seemed his only ally was the obnoxious Reginald Craft. Indiana knew, and perhaps had known all week, that Weston wasn’t a good place for him, regardless of how fancy the dorms were or how qualified the teachers were. Shorty shouldn’t be somewhere he wasn’t wanted.

And Shorty was wanted here. It was terrifying, but it was true. Indiana wanted Shorty to stay, he wanted to take care of him—and he hadn’t done a very good job of making him feel wanted.

Suddenly, a slap in the face, Craft’s words from the airport back in January hit him. I certainly wouldn't want him to feel… underappreciated, Craft had said. It was a jab, that much was true, but he wasn’t wrong. Craft was an asshole, but he actually had been looking out for Shorty then. Shorty was probably at the apartment feeling miserable because Indiana had made him feel so underappreciated.

Darla watched him carefully. "You're scared, aren't you?"

"Of course!"

"My my, Indiana Jones is scared. I didn't think he was capable of the feeling. Tell me young man, how many planes have you jumped out of?"

Indiana thought about this. "I'm not sure. Too many to count."

"You hear that? Too many to count! If you can jump out of every plane imaginable, never knowing where you'll land, then you will be just fine."

"Jumping out of a plane is not the same thing as adopting a child, Darla."

"No, you're right. But it's not entirely dissimilar, is it? It's exciting, and it's terrifying, and you don't know where you'll end up, or if you've made some kind of mistake. But look at your life, Indiana. Look at how you've been acting and feeling for the past few months. The plane is crashing, hon. It's going down. You may just have to jump."

She was right. And if Indiana could jump out of hundreds of planes and survive, then he could do this. He was Dr. Indiana Jones, for christ's sake! He could do anything!

He checked his watch, and Darla grinned. “Damn, it’s almost five! I should go to the apartment before Shorty wakes up and packs.” He smiled at the older woman as he stood, and took her hands in his. “Thank you, Darla. I mean that. I’m going to go tell Shorty that he’s staying. Indefinitely.”

Darla beamed at him and squeezed his hand. “I’m proud of you, Indiana,” she said kindly. “And whenever you need to go out on your adventures, just know that I’m a wonderful babysitter.”

-

Indy threw the door to the apartment open louder than he intended. He winced, remembering that it was five in the morning and his neighbors probably wouldn’t appreciate a wakeup call.

Shrugging it off, he strode toward his guest room—Shorty’s room—and knocked on the door. “Shorty!” he called, trying to wake him up. He was met with silence, and Indy cringed, recalling the bad note they left off on earlier that night. “Short Round, hey, you up?” Still nothing.

Knocking to give the kid one more chance to yell at him, Indy opened the door and stepped in. He was surprised and alarmed to see that the bed was empty. Alarmed that it was empty, and surprised that it was made. In fact, the entire room had been tidied, Indiana’s old schoolwork and journals that had covered the room when Shorty arrived were now stacked neatly against the wall. Most notable about the room, however, was that Short Round wasn’t there.

Before Indiana could leave and check if Shorty was perhaps elsewhere in the apartment, he saw a piece of scratch paper on the pillow. Tentatively, indy rounded the bed and picked it up. It was written in Mandarin—thankfully, since Indiana was sure that Shorty’s English writing was likely still illegible. It read:

I took some money from your wallet so I could pay for the cabs this time. I’m sorry about last night. This way you don’t have to come to the airport, I’ll meet Mr. Craft there. I should never have come and bothered you, I understand that now.

Shorty was far more eloquent in Mandarin, and it only made Indy feel worse. How long ago had Shorty left? Would he already be at the airport? Was he too late? Had he really ruined everything—

The flight didn’t leave until six! Indiana could speed his way to the airport and meet up with Shorty and Craft—cutting them off and telling Shorty that he wanted him to stay. He really hadn’t wanted to deal with the obnoxious Reginald Craft today, but he would. As long as he found Shorty and apologized and brought him home, he’d deal with Craft’s insufferable, smug expressions and condescending accent.

He didn’t even lock the door behind him, and he practically flew down the stairs of his building, flinging himself into the driver’s seat once again. Perhaps he should be feeling tired considering he hadn’t slept at all, but he was being driven by adrenaline.

As Indiana tore out in the street, he cursed himself. Now Shorty was on his way to the airport, thinking Indy never wanted to see him again. And that was Indy’s fault, entirely. How come everyone else could figure out what was happening except Indiana himself? Marcus had understood that Shorty was the reason why Indiana had been upset, Craft—amidst all of his terrible qualities—had known the second he met Indiana that all he was capable of was letting Shorty down, and Darla had figured out that Indiana needed the kid in his life after only five days. And Willie? She knew the second Indiana called her in January. Hell, she probably knew back in India.

Wasn’t that what they fought about on the phone? Indiana hadn’t really understood at the time, but it made sense now. Sure, they quickly came to blows about most anything—they had matching tempers. But that phone call came with a fight that Indy didn’t realize he had even started. But Willie had been right, which was something he wasn’t thrilled to admit. Even so, Indy knew he’d have to finally call her again to let her know that she was right and Indiana was sorry.

He made the drive in about forty minutes, speeding when he could but still being careful not to be pulled over—he couldn’t risk losing more time. He hastily paid for parking and left his truck in the closest spot he could find.

It had started to rain when Indiana arrived, but he hardly noticed it. He had his glasses on when he drove but had to remove them as they became dappled with raindrops. He sprinted into the airport, and took a breath as he was inside.

Newark International was a rather large airport, but Indiana had flown out of here dozens of times. Though he didn’t know what gate Short Round’s flight would be at, once he learned the number he’d be able to find it easily.

People gave him odd looks as they walked past, not because he was soaking wet—they all were—but rather because he was full of energy as he wildly looked around and marched toward the help desk. Considering how early it was in the morning, he was likely the only person there that didn’t move about like a zombie.

Indiana’s impatience was showing as he groaned, seeing that the line already had about ten people in it. Of course, it was Saturday. It didn’t matter how early it was—of course there were going to be people everywhere!

He drummed his fingers anxiously against his arm, worrying about the time. What if Shorty and Craft had already gotten past customs? What if they were boarding early? Was he too late?

While he was catastrophizing, he didn’t even notice that the line thinned out. Fortunately, about half of them must have been one group, so they cleared out, leaving Indiana with a straight shot to the woman behind the desk.

“How can I help you today, sir—”

“Six o’clock flight to London. What gate is that?”

The woman was smiling graciously, despite Indiana’s harried interruption. “The gate number should be on your ticket.”

“I don’t have a ticket. I’m not going to London—I’m trying to find someone.”

The woman frowned. “Sir, for the security and privacy of our passengers, we—”

“It’s my kid,” Indiana cut in, looking at her desperately.

Though her eyes widened at the implication (and perhaps confusion), a look of understanding seemed to win the battle for her expression. “Gate 25,” she said simply, with no more fuss.

Grateful—and feeling as though he just skated by—Indiana reached into his wallet and pulled out a ten, setting it on the desk. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, offering her a tense but genuine smile as he darted off.

Gate 25, he knew about where that would be. Maybe he wasn’t too late after all.

Indiana sprinted through the terminals, on a mission. He received no strange looks for this, as he wasn’t the only person running around, scared of missing a flight—even if for a different reason.

He could see the gate number overhead, but he knew he couldn’t go much further without a ticket. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through all the way, but he couldn’t stop now.

He whipped his head around, looking desperately for Shorty. Of course, the kid’s head wouldn’t be easy to spot amidst all the adults twice his height.

Was this it? He didn’t want to give up, but he’d now gone as far as possible and he couldn’t see Shorty anywhere. If he missed it, what could he do? Maybe he could take the next plane to London and go to Weston, and yeah it might be—

“Thank god,” Indiana let out a breath of relief as he saw Reginald Craft standing outside the gate, tapping his foot and checking his watch. Though “thank god” was not Indy’s go-to response upon seeing the teacher he loathed so much, if Craft was still here, then Shorty couldn’t be too far off.

Where was Shorty? Another bout of brief panic slapped him across the face. Craft was checking his watch… maybe because Shorty Round hadn’t arrived. Had he gotten lost? Did Shorty lie about taking money to pay for the cabs and instead he tricked them again, but got caught? What would happen? Was Shorty old enough to be thrown in jail with—

“He’s in the bathroom, Dr. Jones,” Craft’s voice woke Indy from his stupor. While Indiana had been panicking, Craft must have noticed him and crossed the distance between them. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here.” Dammit, what had Shorty told him? Probably nothing that Indiana didn’t deserve.

“Look, Reg, the trip’s off,” Indiana told him, mustering as much condescension as he could. Still, it fell flat. Sure, Indiana didn’t like the man, but he was far too relieved to have caught up with them before it was too late to be angry just yet—though just seeing the man made his stomach begin to knot up in annoyance. Craft seemed to notice this, as his surprised expression didn’t seem to come from Indiana’s words but rather his defeated tone.

Even so, Craft asked, “why is that?”

“He’s staying here, in Jersey.”

“Dr. Jones, spring recess concludes tomorrow. Classes are starting on Monday—”

“I mean that he’s staying staying,” Indy amended, his usual frustration when speaking to Craft about anything returning. “He’s not going back to Weston.”

Craft’s eyes widened, but he managed to not look as shocked as Indiana expected. “Well, Dr. Jones, that’s quite a decision. Are you—”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you,” Indiana snapped at him. He felt emboldened by everything he had learned over the course of this one night; he was confident enough to finally confront Craft for being such an asshole. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You didn’t even know me when you decided you hated me. And then you spent this whole term convincing Shorty that I was some terrible person!”

“I never told—”

“You wouldn’t let him call me,” Indiana interjected. “And I know how you feel about me. You made it clear the day we met in that airport in London. So here’s the irony for you—now we’re in an airport in my turf and I’m telling you exactly what I think of you. And you are such a dick.”

“Indiana, this is—”

“Because you didn’t stick up for him,” Indiana interrupted once more. This time, Craft’s jaw slammed shut. “That phone call the other day, when you were eavesdropping on my confrontation with Headmaster Mayfield? You laughed. You laughed because you thought that what Mayfield said was ridiculous. Clearly, you knew that the kid Shorty hit deserved it, and that he had called him a slur, and you knew that Mayfield knew it too, just that he’d never admit it. You knew, all that time, and what did you do? Nothing. You were supposed to be his friend, his teacher, his champion. You were the one person at that school who was nice to him. That’s what Shorty told me, you know that? So if you weren’t going to stick up for him, who would? He’s outnumbered, Craft. So I’m not letting him do that anymore. He’ll stay here in Jersey, with me, where he’s wanted. Where he’s loved.”

Craft’s face had scrunched up into a mixture of shame and anger. “Are you really so naïve that you’d think Li can go anywhere and be free of children like Alain and Michel? Is America suddenly the world’s example for tolerance?”

“I’m not an idiot, and you need to stop treating me like one,” Indiana fought back. “America isn’t perfect. It’s terrible, in fact. But here, he has someone who won’t let things like this slide. You just let them get away with burying the problem. I won’t do that. I can’t end racism, Craft, but I can care about him more than you did. I can help him and defend him and make sure he knows that he is safe and loved.”

“Do you promise?”

Indiana froze. Craft’s voice wasn’t cruel, or condescending. It was a little sad, and hopeful. If Indy didn’t know better, he’d say that Craft was on his side.

Craft’s unexpected change in tone had taken the wind out of the archaeologist’s sails. “Of course I promise,” Indy replied. It was matter-of-fact, but devoid of any heat.

Craft looked away then, somewhat uncomfortably, aware of the halt their argument had taken. Indiana was a bit uncomfortable now too, and slightly confused. Stunned may be the operative word.

After a moment of sustained awkward silence, Craft furrowed his brow and checked his watch one more time. “He’s been in there forever,” he mumbled, not looking directly at Indy.

“How long until the plane leaves?”

Craft checked his watch. “Five minutes until it would be too late to board. Though I suppose that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Indiana said firmly. He wasn’t sure if Craft was testing him or anxiously double-checking—he wasn’t sure he understood Craft’s motivations anymore. “Still, he might be hiding or messing with you,” Indiana said thoughtfully. “I’m sure you could coax him out.”

“Good point,” Craft conceded with a sigh. “I’ll be right back.”

Craft turned the corner and left Indiana on his own again, lost in thought. What had just happened? He expected Craft to argue with him, or yell at him, or come up with some reason why he wouldn’t let Shorty stay in Jersey. And yeah, they fought, but what was that ending? Was Craft suddenly malleable? It was unlike him.

When Craft returned, he looked pale. And notably, he returned alone.

“Problem?” Indiana asked, hoping to god there wasn’t.

Craft looked down to his hand, where he held his wallet. Indiana gave him an impatient look. “This…he took it.”

Indy raised an eyebrow. “Okay, he’s known to do that. But here it is, so where’s Shorty?”

“He left this in a locked stall,” Craft continued as though Indiana hadn’t said anything. “I went in because I found this note on the floor.

On a small, ripped piece of paper, was the word “sorry.” The writing was jagged and clumsy. Unlike Shorty’s note in Mandarin, this one provided no further information. This was probably because the note was left for Craft—who didn’t speak Mandarin—and Shorty’s English writing left much to be desired.

“He took all of my American money,” Craft said, still clearly in shock.

“How much money did you have?”

“I don’t know—I like to be prepared!” Craft’s voice was defensive, so Indiana groaned. He knew that meant that the man had a lot. “I was traveling to another country! It would be remiss if I did not come equipped with enough local currency—”

“You’re rambling.”

“I’m panicking!” Craft shot back, his voice high. “I’ve managed to lose the same child twice in one week!”

“Relax,” Indy said, surprising himself. Still, he couldn’t look for Shorty and babysit an obnoxious British guy old enough to be his father. “Maybe he just changed his mind and he’s trying to stay and change my mind.”

“Why would he need the money?”

“To pay cabs?”

“I’m afraid I had far more than mere cab fare.”

Indiana thought on this. Shorty had left the apartment so early that he wouldn’t have to see Indy again. The archaeologist found it hard to believe that the child would have such a sudden change of heart and try to go back. So if he wasn’t going to Indy’s apartment, then where would he go? Shorty only knew two places—Weston and Jersey. And he wasn’t staying in Jersey and clearly he wasn’t going to Weston, so—

“Shit.”

“Shit?”

“Holy shit.”

“Use your words, Dr. Jones,” Craft said worriedly, seeing how Indiana paled.

Indiana ignored him, and booked it back toward the help desk. He was vaguely aware of Craft following him, but he had no desire to stop and explain things. He thought it seemed rather obvious, albeit awful.

There was no line this time, and the same woman as before gave him a quizzical but empathetic look. "Sir?"

"When’s the next flight to Shanghai?"