I felt the subtle movement of roots beneath me, shifting through soil to create a nest of sorts around where I sat. Not restraining me—never that—but forming a protective circle, a boundary between me and potential threats.
I exhaled slowly, some of the tension finally easing from my muscles. My hand moved to my shoulder, touching the spot where Rooster had indicated the bite would go. The spot that had triggered my panic and flight.
What was happening to me? In fifteen years of solitary survival, I'd never let anyone get close enough to matter. Yet somehow, in just one night, the red-haired cook with gentle hands had slipped past my defenses. Had made me care enough to fight for him when he was attacked.
Had made me feel something I couldn't even name.
I leaned my head back against the pine trunk, too exhausted to sort through these unfamiliar emotions. The trees continued their silent communion, branches swaying in rhythmic patterns above me. Their presence was the one constant in my chaotic life—the one thing I could always count on when humans failed me.
As my eyelids grew heavy, I wondered if I would ever find my way back to the clubhouse. Back to Rooster. Or if I would simply disappear into the forest as I'd done so many times before, becoming just another shadow among the trees.
I don't remember falling asleep against the pine tree, but the nightmares found me anyway. They always did when I let my guard down. I curled tighter into myself, arms wrapped around my knees as if I could physically hold the memories at bay.
But they came anyway, washing over me in waves of remembered terror. Not dreams, not imagination—my actual past, preserved with the cruel clarity of a child's memory.
I was six, maybe almost seven, sitting cross-legged in our small backyard garden. My father had planted tomatoes that year, and I'd been fascinated watching them grow from tiny seedlings to sprawling vines heavy with fruit. That day, I was talking to them—not the childish babbling of make-believe, but actually conversing with the gentle vibrations I could feel coming from the plants.
"Your leaves are getting yellow here," I'd said, touching a spotted tomato leaf. "Too much water makes you sick."
I remember the exact moment my father found me—the sudden shadow falling across the garden, his sharp intake of breath.
"What are you doing?" he'd asked, his voice tight with something I couldn't identify then but now recognize as fear.
"Talking to the tomatoes," I'd answered honestly. "They said they're getting too much water and—"
His hand had clamped around my upper arm, yanking me to my feet with bruising force. "Plants don't talk. What's wrong with you?"
That night, I'd heard my parents arguing behind their bedroom door. My mother's voice high and frightened: "It's notnormal, Paul. First the thing with his eyes changing color, now this? What if he's... not right?"
My father's voice, disgusted: "No son of mine talks to weeds."
I pressed my cheek against the moss-covered tree trunk, the memory so vivid I could feel the phantom grip of my father's fingers on my arm. The forest floor beneath me shifted slightly, roots moving in response to my distress, forming a more secure cradle around my huddled form.
Three nights after the garden incident, I'd been woken from sleep, told to dress quickly and pack a small backpack. "We're going on a trip," my mother had said, not meeting my eyes. Her hands trembled as she helped me put on my jacket, though the night was warm.
The bus station had been nearly empty that late. My father had bought a ticket—not for all of us, just one. He'd pressed twenty dollars into my hand and told me to wait for the bus.
"Where am I going?" I'd asked, confused and frightened.
"Away," he'd answered simply. Then they'd walked out, leaving me alone on a hard plastic chair in a dingy station at midnight.
The bus never came—at least, not before I'd panicked and fled the station, running blindly into the unfamiliar city streets, the twenty dollars clutched in my small fist.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory, but that only made the images sharper. The trees sensed my increasing distress, their branches bending lower as if trying to embrace me. I focused on their presence, trying to anchor myself in the now, but the past wouldn't release its grip.
Those first few weeks alone had been a blur of hunger and fear. I'd slept in parks, behind dumpsters, anywhere I could make myself small and invisible. I'd learned quickly how to scavenge food, how to avoid adults who might send me to fostercare or worse. But I hadn't yet learned to avoid other street kids—especially the older ones.
They'd found me huddled in a makeshift cardboard shelter during a rainstorm. Three boys, probably no older than fourteen but seeming like giants to my seven-year-old self. They'd seemed friendly at first, offering to show me a better place to sleep, somewhere dry. Desperate and naive, I'd followed them.
Their "better place" had been an abandoned building where a group of homeless teens had established a territory of sorts. I still remember the smell—mildew and unwashed bodies and the sickly-sweet odor of cheap wine. They'd given me food, the first hot meal I'd had since being abandoned.
Then they'd explained the price.
"Everyone who stays with us goes through initiation," the oldest boy had said, his smile revealing teeth stained brown from cigarettes. "Gotta prove you're tough enough to be one of us."
Before I could run, two of them had grabbed my arms, pinning me to the filthy mattress that served as communal seating. The leader had leaned over me, his breath hot on my face.
"Don't struggle. It'll hurt more if you fight."
