#dim ignition

Instead of answering, Ash sets two beat-up backpacks down on top of the desk. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they belong to. “The only things these kids stole were essentials: off-brand toiletries, some canned goods, bottled water, protein bars. Nothing expensive, no electronics or cigarettes. Their phones are burners, no numbers saved in them, no personal info, no pictures or identifying items in their bags.”

“Do you think they might be hiding something in their clothes?” Fetch asks, frowning. 

“Possibly. We did a pat down and didn’t find anything. I haven't done a strip search yet and frankly I’d rather hold off on doing so if I can, especially if my hunch is right.” 

Delsin exchanges a look with Fetch. One thing he’s learned is that nine times out of ten, Ash’s hunches are right. “What’s your hunch?”

“I’m getting to that. They look like they’ve spent a few weeks roughing it, but I don’t think they’re victims of any long-term neglect. The thing that did strike me is that they have no fingerprints.”

Delsin shares his wife’s frown now, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What, like they’re not in the system? That’s a good thing, right?” 

“No, I mean those two boys don’t have fingerprints. Their fingertips are scarred, like they were exposed to acid or hot metal, to erase any identifying marks.” Ash pauses and takes a breath, sinking into his chair. “I think they’re from a caravan.”

Both Delsin and Fetch go rigid. Not long after the emptying of Curdun Cay, nomadic groups of conduits started popping up all over the country. Some were freed inmates, while others were recently activated conduits who didn’t feel safe under the current government. Despite the new pro-conduit legistlation that has developed in the twenty years since Augustine’s defeat, the caravans remain. Eugene and Billy have been working to try and bridge the gap with varying success. 

“This poses a new concern,” Ash continues, “Most caravans are made up of adult conduits with a few non-conduits here or there. There are two exceptions, gang caravans and family caravans, the latter of which is somewhat rare. The gangs will pick up runaways and kids that have been kicked out, and are usually found closer to the Empire City ruins. Family caravans are exactly what they sound like, families grouped together for safety and well-being, and they are extremely protective of their children.”

“How are we supposed to know which type they came from?” 

“Given that they didn’t go for any major property damage and were only trying to escape, I’m leaning towards family. Which then begs the question of where the rest of their caravan is, and whether or not they’ll come looking for these two.”

If a group of conduits come roaring in, guns blazing, to find their missing kids, someone is bound to get hurt. Delsin wants to avoid that at all costs, both to protect the people of Salmon Bay and the other conduits. “Not to mention why the kids left in the first place.” 

“Precisely. Unfortunately, neither one of them will talk. They haven’t spoken a word to us since their arrest, and I doubt they’ll open up to either of you since you came in with us. As such, I’ve called in an outside source.”

“Who?” Fetch questions. They’ve all been doing this a long time, so Delsin trusts Ash’s judgement, but he’s still as curious as his wife. 

A knock at the door answers their question for them. Talk about timing. Ash hops up from his desk and peeks out, swinging the door open wide to let Billy step into the office, Bear close to his heels. 

“Hi Billy, thanks again for coming in. Sorry, I know it’s late.” 

The former deputy waves off the apology with a grin. “Please, I might not be part of the crew here anymore but the Center has me up at all hours of the night.” 

A handful of years after Reggie’s disappearance, Billy had stepped down as Sheriff to let Ash take over, and in the process had left police work behind entirely. Instead, he’d taken to helping Eugene and Alessia with changing conduit legislation and building Project Sanctuary further. Eventually, Sanctuary Centers began to pop up all over the country, and now he runs the one in Salmon Bay. It makes perfect sense to Delsin why Ash would call him. 

“Either way, I appreciate it.” Returning to his seat, Ash gestures to the security monitor. “Pretty sure we have a pair of caravan kids on our hands.” 

He brings Billy up to speed on the situation, recounting everything that's happened so far. Billy listens attentively, absently scratching Bear’s head. “Have they said anything to each other since you put them in lockup?”

“Let me check.”

Ash brings up the previous feed and cranks up the volume, fiddling with the recording some. “Ah, here.”

The braver teen peers up at the camera, frowning, then drops his head low and leans closer to his brother. “We've got at least three lions and two hyenas, but could be more. No skunks.”

The other teen glances at the camera too, chewing on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Any wraiths?”

“Not yet.”

Ash pauses the video and swaps back to the live feed. “That's all they've said.”

“Any idea what any of that means?” Fetch asks, the question directed at Billy.

“Yep. Lion in latin is Leo, in this case referring to L-E-O, the acronym for law enforcement officer. Hyenas refer to conduits who work with cops, picking through the ‘spoils’ after a caravan conduit gets arrested, and skunks refer to social workers from CPS.”

“Hm, wraiths are a type of ghost, right? A spook,” Delsin muses, gears in his head turning. “The Feds?”

Billy clicks his tongue and winks. “Bingo, you’re getting it. Caravaners are very careful with communication, but Eugene and I have picked up some of it when we've met with a few of the groups that have come through the coast.”

“Think they'll talk to you?”

“They might. Depends on what they need, and why they're here. I won't lie, it's really odd that they've come this way. Far as I know, there aren't any lighthouses in this area.”

Fetch looks at him like he’s suddenly grown a second head. “There’s a lighthouse right off the shore, but what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

Billy bursts out laughing. “Sorry, sorry, I should’ve explained. A lighthouse is a caravan safehouse.” 

So many questions, and none of them easily answered. It’s giving Delsin a lovely tension headache, but he understands why the two boys are being so careful. He only wishes he knew how to reassure them that he and Fetch want to help, that they’re safe here. “Well, either way, will you try talking to them?” 

“Of course. I’ll see what I can find out.”

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Two pairs of violet eyes snap to him the moment Billy steps into lockup. Setting a folding chair down, he takes a seat and a moment, studying the pair. The one closer to him, sporting bleached, springy curls, facial piercings, and a wary frown, shifts closer to his brother, angling himself slightly so he’s further between Billy and the second teen. The other boy is a little leaner than his brother and seems far more nervous, tugging at close-cropped curls and repeatedly pushing his glasses up his nose. They both bear the same strong features and an array of scars that allude to more than just teenaged mischief. Something about their features is forming an itch in the back of Billy’s mind, some needling feeling that he should recognize them, but for the moment he brushes the feeling aside. 

“Bit of a rough night?”

“We have nothing to say to you,” the braver teen says stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“That’s okay, I can talk for both of us,” Billy replies calmly. Loosening his hold on Bear’s leash, he gestures to the golden retriever. “If you’d like to pet the dog though, you’re more than welcome to.” 

The kid with the glasses perks up a little at that, his hand already rising off his knee, but his brother grabs his wrist and shakes his head. The long-haired teen definitely seems to be the one in charge, the other deferring to his judgement without question. 

“Ignore the police dog,” the brave one hisses. 

“He’s a therapy dog, actually” Billy says with a shrug. In his experience, caravaners can smell lies a mile away, and attempting to do so anyway only makes them more guarded. “You both seem extremely nervous, understandably so, and I want us all to have calm, level heads. You look like you’ve been through a lot.”

As expected, the one teen just scowls, but the nervous kid pipes up with a timid “What’s his name?”

“Bear, and I’m Billy. If you guys don’t want to tell me your names, that’s fine, I’m not going to make you. But eventually, you’ll have to talk if you don’t want to end up going to a juvenile detention center. And if you go there, you’ll most likely be separated.” Leaning forward, Belly rests his elbows on his knees and laces his fingers together. “I can’t be the light in the harbor to welcome you in, but I can offer sanctuary. There are saints among these sinners, if you know where to look.”

The tension leaks out of them both like balloons deflating and Billy silently cheers. Seconds tick by, and the braver teen gives a tiny nod to his brother, who immediately holds out a hand for Bear to sniff. Bear crosses the space between them and sits down, tail wagging and head in the teen’s lap. The kid strokes his fur gently, and even the defiant one can’t resist the allure of the golden retriever’s fluff. Hope, tiny and desperate, replaces his scowl. “You’re from Sanctuary?”

“I am, I run the Sanctuary Center here in Salmon Bay. That’s why Sheriff Nelson called me. Hard as it might be to believe, you got very lucky that you picked this town to get arrested in.” Maybe now he can get some answers. “Why don’t I bring Delsin and Fetch in and the five of us can-”

“No.” And they’re back to the scowl. Shit. “We don’t want to talk to Delsin.”

Hm. Interesting. Filing that information away for later, Billy holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m here for you, so if Delsin makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to talk to him. It can just be us. Why don’t we start with something simple, like your names?”

“...I’m Samuel, and this is Dakota.”

Dakota offers a tiny wave when Samuel gestures to him and Billy smiles. “Good to meet you both. Can I ask why you’re here in Salmon Bay? Do you have family we can get ahold of for you?”

He waits with bated breath while Samuel thinks it over, idly scratching Bear’s back. Dakota nudges him with an elbow. “She’s from Sanctuary too, right? He can help us find her.” 

That peaks his interest. “Find who?”

“We’re looking for another saint. The Patron.” 

Billy’s smile disappears faster than a candle being snuffed out, his chest giving a painful squeeze. “You’re… looking for Alessia?” She had always attempted to dissuade that particular nickname when it had cropped up amongst a handful of conduits.

“Yes, we need her help. Our dad said if we were ever in trouble to find her.”

Which means their dad is most likely someone Alessia helped in the past. “What kind of trouble?”

“Please, we need to talk to her.” 

Samuel noticeably avoids the question and Billy exhales heavily, pressing his fist to his lips. “Sia can't help you. You need to tell me what kind of trouble you're in and I'll do the best I can to help.”

“No, we'll only talk to her.”

“Well you can't.” Billy’s voice comes out sharper than he intends, making Dakota shrink against the wall. Samuel is unfazed.

“Why?” he demands, frowning. 

“Because she's dead.”

Most people think that Kody is too timid to get in Sam's face, but more often than not, Mac finds that Kody is in fact the instigator, a frigid comment or too sharp remark whittling at Sam's self control. Throw in conduit powers on top of that and it's a recipe for disaster. 

“Kody, dude, can you please stop leaving your shit on my side? This is like the third time this week.”

Kody doesn't even look up from his book. “If you've got a problem, you can move it.” 

Mac watches out of the corner of their eye while they chop up potatoes for dinner. Annie and Dahlia are at the laundromat and Rowan is outside working on something with the engine, leaving her and Chewie with the twins, who are supposed to be doing their homework. 

“I have been moving it. Repeatedly. I’m about to fucking burn it though and be done with it because obviously your shit isn’t that important to you.” 

That gets Kody to roll his eyes, giving his twin a cold, unimpressed look. “You’ll end up burning the whole RV down, dipshit. Your self-control is about as good as your ability to navigate, and you couldn't find your way out of a paper bag with a GPS.”

“Oh like your control is any better!”

“Who got a face full of metal on a whim behind Mom’s back?”

“Who has a higher bodycount?” 

The knife slices right through Mac’s hand but they barely feel it, too busy gaping at their little brother in shock. In a flash Kody’s out of his seat and lunging at Sam, the two going down in a flurry of fists and flying insults. Abandoning the potatoes, Mac tries to wade in between them, but she just got over being ill (again) and the twins’ most recent growth spurts mean that both now outweigh them. 

“What the hell is going on?!” 

The sudden booming voice makes Mac jump and the brawling boys freeze. Mac is gently but firmly moved aside by calloused hands covered in engine oil. The former sheriff wraps an arm around Kody’s torso and pulls the two apart, setting Kody behind him and grabbing Sammie when he attempts to lunge for his brother again, keeping the twins at arm's length. 

“Now, someone want to tell me what's going on?” Rowan asks, giving them each a stern look in turn. 

“He started it!” They both exclaim at the same time, glaring daggers at each other. 

Raising his eyes briefly to the ceiling, Rowan looks to Mac. “What happened?”

“Kody wasn’t picking up his things again, as he has been asked repeatedly. Sammie got upset about it, to which Kody made a crack about Sam’s control and piercings, and Sammie brought up bodycounts.” 

Rowan gapes at his son, who at least has the decency to look guilty when he blurts out “Okay what I said was wrong but Kody threw the first punch!”

“Maybe a good punch would fix your stupid face!”

“We have the same face, idiot!”

“Samuel Hemlock, that is enough!” Rowan barks, “I have no idea what’s gotten into you two but it needs to stop, now. And you are both absolutely grounded.” 

“What?!” Sammie screeches, “Why the fuck am I in trouble? He started it!” 

“Too bad you couldn’t finish it. Or anything else for that matter,” Kody taunts.

“Dakota Rex-!” Rowan snaps at the same moment that Sammie screams “FUCK YOU!” and lunges for his twin again. Rowan snags him around the waist and hauls him back. Mac notices the temperature in the room rising too late to give a warning, the sudden rush of heat and light making them flinch back, eyes squeezed shut. She hears Kody yelp and Rowan cry out, and then she’s left blinking spots from her vision as the light dissipates. What they find when their vision clears is… not good, to say the least. 

“Dad!”

“Rowan!” 

Mac’s at his side in seconds, choking back bile at the sight of charred skin.  “Shit, Kody, get the kit! Sammie, find the morphine!” 

Kody darts past her into his parents’ bedroom, scrambling to find the enormous first aid kit their family keeps stocked to avoid needing a hospital. Sammie doesn’t move and Mac looks up, ready to repeat themself, but the terrified, teary-eyed expression on his face makes them pause. 

“Dad, I didn’t-” Sammie cuts himself off, swallowing thickly, and then he’s out the door before Mac can stop him. 

“Sammie!”

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Mac turns off their bike and scans the treeline ahead of them. Once Dahlia got home and took over treating Rowan’s burns, Mac grabbed her keys and went to find her little brother. Luckily, Sam had his phone with him when he left the RV, so following the GPS link was a simple enough matter. 

“Sammie?” Mac calls out, the full moon thankfully providing plenty of light. They check their phone again and start walking. Eventually, muffled sniffles reach their ears, and they find Sammie sitting under a pine tree, legs hugged to his chest and face buried in his knees. His shoulders are shaking and Mac’s heart sinks. “Sam?”

His head snaps up, tear tracks staining his cheeks and eyes red from crying. “Mac?”

Kneeling in front of him, she sets a hand on his knee. “Hey, it’s late, and everyone’s worried about you. Why don’t we go home?”

He shakes his head vigorously, expression crumbling as he starts to ramble, chest heaving. “I can’t. Mom’s gonna kill me and Kody’s still mad at me and now Annie’s gonna be mad too and I burned Dad and I didn’t mean to and-” 

His voice cracks and Mac swiftly tugs him against her chest, hugging him tightly. “Shhhh Sammie, it’s okay, it was an accident. Your dad’s more worried about you.”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear.” It comes out as a wail and Mac decides height be damned and pulls him into their lap. 

“I know, baby. I know. It’s okay.” They gently stroke his hair, ignoring the way their shirt grows damp where Sam’s face is buried against their shoulder. They stay that way until his sobs quiet to shuddering sniffles once more. Mac’s gaze strays upward to the pine tree’s branches and the stars beyond. “I know how it feels.” 

Sniffle “How what feels?”

They’re quiet a moment, chewing on their lip. “Has your dad ever mentioned why I came to stay with you guys?” 

A muted headshake is their answer.

“...I was in the hospital, getting radiation treatment. I ended up having a huge seizure, and that’s what woke up my conduit powers. Unfortunately, in that same instance, I also exposed that entire wing of the hospital to high levels of extremely strong, extremely dangerous radiation. Over forty people got sick, including my dad, and seven died. I ran away, and eventually ended up with your family. I don’t know if my dad ever got better, and at this point I’m too scared to go back and find out. But your parents always tell me it wasn’t my fault, that it was an accident.” They leave out the worst parts of the story, brushing over the months and years of dealing with a depressed, sick teenager that Dahlia and Rowan shouldered without a lick of complaint despite having three other children all under ten. 

“...Mine’s different,” Sammie whispers. “I got mad. You didn’t.”

“Baby, you’re fourteen. Teenagers get mad, they get moody. Your dad knows that, your mom knows that, I know that. You would never hurt someone on purpose unless you were trying to protect yourself.” Of that, Mac has no doubt. 

“...Am I dangerous?”

“No, absolutely not,” Mac replies without hesitation.

“... Do you think you're dangerous?”

The breath is knocked from Mac’s lungs by that single question. They both know the answer, but Mac can't, won't give it to him. Sammie doesn't deserve that burden. “Only with Taco Bell.”

Sammie accepts the answer for the time being, which Mac is grateful for. Helping him up, they walk back to the bike together. 

“What about Kody?” he asks quietly as she hands him the spare helmet she brought. 

“Your mom is talking to him. He’s sticking with me and Annie in the other camper for a few days so you two get some space.”

“Who needs enemies with a brother like mine?” 

Mac blinks at him, then rolls their eyes with exasperated fondness when they see the small smile on his face. “Yea yea, in two weeks you’ll be back to terrorizing Annie together and then I’ll never know peace.”

“I give it a week.” 

“I’ll take that bet. Loser does the dishes.” 

“Yea, might be in for a blizzard, but we’ll be okay. Cabin’s pretty sturdy,” Dad reassures him, already working on building the fire back up in the fireplace. “Can you go check on Kody and Mac while I check on Mom and Annie?” 

“Sure thing.” He grabs a couple bottles of water and slips into the small, dark bedroom where Mac and Kody are sleeping. The smell of sickness hangs heavy in the air and as much as he hates waking either of his siblings, Sam gently shakes both of their shoulders. Kody curls up tighter under the blankets, groaning, while Mac musters up a tired smile, their eyelids heavy.

“Hey Samsonite. How you holding up?” 

“Well, I’m not sick yet, so there’s that,” he whispers, drawing a laugh from her that turns into a dry, raspy cough. “Here, I brought you some water. You need anything else? Tylenol, tea, applesauce, crackers?” 

“Some crackers would be nice, I think I can keep them down.”

Kody just shakes his head when Sam asks him the question too, falling back asleep before he’s even left the room. Quietly padding to the end of the hall where Mom and Annie are sharing the big bedroom, he holds a hand up to knock when the sounds of a whispered conversation reach his ears. 

“-fine, Dhalia. We’ll figure things out. Worry about being sick, let me worry about our finances.” 

“And what if we’re stuck here for a while?”

“Baby, we are stuck here for a while. There’s already several inches of snow on the ground and it’s still coming down. We have enough groceries and such to last us for a while, and we’re stocked up on meds too. Things will be alright.” 

“But-” 

“Dahlia. Let me worry about things. Go back to sleep, okay?”

“Okay…”

The cabin wasn’t originally part of the plan for this winter. Technically, they’re supposed to be camping out in Florida with Uncle Zeke right about now. But everyone in the caravan came down with the flu, and losing so many drivers made it impossible for them to move, forcing them to find another option. Staying in one place for too long is dangerous, both because of the financial strain and because it increases the risk of being discovered by Gatherers. 

Sam is so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t realize the door has opened until Dad nearly knocks him over. 

“Sammie?”

“Oh, uh, hey Dad. Mac asked for some crackers. I was just going to check if Mom or Annie wanted anything.” It’s a feeble attempt to cover his own ass, and his dad (as always) sees right through it. 

“You heard most of that, didn’t you?” Dad asks tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sammie, we’ve talked about eavesdropping.” 

“I’m sorry, I really wasn’t trying to.” Sam looks down at his socked feet, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Are we really going to be okay, Dad?”

“Yes, Sammie. Leave the worrying to me, okay?” He pats Sam’s shoulder and steers him into the living room, handing him a pack of crackers for Mac and making a couple simple sandwiches for the two of them for dinner.

Sam nibbles at his, trying not to get crumbs on the couch that is currently acting as his bed. “Mom said that you used to be a big worrier. Back when she first met you.” 

Dad doesn’t answer at first, taking his plate and Sam’s to the sink and laying back down on the other couch, frowning thoughtfully at the ceiling. Sam is about to prompt him again, wondering if maybe he didn’t hear, when Dad finally shrugs. “I still am, kiddo. Just got better at keeping it to myself. Someone’s got to stay positive for the family, keep us on track.” He fixes Sam with a stern look. “But that ain’t anything you need to concern yourself with, Sammie. That’s part of my job as your dad, understand?” 

“Yes sir.” 

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Sam sits on the couch, knees hugged to his chest. He woke up not even ten minutes ago to the sound of retching and Dad bolting down the hallway to get to his brother. The sound of throwing up finally stops, followed shortly by the sound of Kody crying and Dad’s quiet, comforting murmurs. 

He’s debating with himself over whether or not he should go help when Dad peeks his head out of the bedroom. “Sam, can you come here for a minute?” 

He obediently pads down the hallway. “Yea?” 

Dad’s in the middle of setting Mac down on the nearby rocking chair and tilts his head towards the bathroom door. “Sit with your brother for a minute while I change the sheets, he's in the tub.” 

“Okay.” 

Kody has his head pillowed on his arm on the edge of the tub, half-lidded eyes red and skin ashen, faint tremors running through his body. Sam sits cross-legged on the bathmat and rubs his twin’s arm, noting with alarm that his nail beds look almost gray. 

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good,” Sam whispers, feeling guilty. Kody always gets hit the worst when a bug sweeps through the caravan, while Sam rarely feels sick for more than a day. Maybe it’s cause he can run hotter? Though granted that’d only explain the time since he got his powers. Hm. 

Kody doesn’t answer, just curls up tighter in the bath, the smell of vomit lingering in the air. Sam is searching for something to say, some kind of reassurance, when Dad comes in, towel in hand. “Thanks Sammie, you can go back to bed now. I’ll take it from here.” 

Feeling like he needs to help somewhere, Sam peeks into the tiny laundry room, finding a pile of soiled bedding sitting on the tile in front of the washer. Holding his breath, he scoops up the pile and sets it inside, finding the bottle of detergent that Dad bought on his last grocery run and dumping it in as well. After that, he adds more wood to the fire, poking at it to get it going again. He could use his powers to make the process go faster, but he needs the physicality of it. 

“Thought I told you to go back to bed?” Dad’s voice makes him jump, he’d been so distracted that he didn’t hear him coming. Amusement colors his tone, and Sam offers a sheepish smile.

“Couldn’t sleep yet. I just… needed to do something, I guess. I started the washer for you.” 

“Thanks, kiddo.” 

A hand ruffles his hair, but before Sam gets the chance to complain, there’s a shout down the hall. “Dad! Mom’s puking again!” 

Dad’s shoulders droop for the briefest of seconds. “Be right there, Annie!” 

“Is there anything I can do, Dad?” Sam asks, brushing soot off his hands.

“Make me some coffee? I feel like it’s going to be a long night.”  

“Yessir!”

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Sam wakes to find Dad still passed out on the other couch, though given how late he’s been staying up with everyone else Sam isn’t the least bit surprised. The windows are dark outside, the snowstorm raging for the fourth day in a row. Double-checking the fire, Sam peeks in both rooms, finding his siblings and Mom all fast asleep. The laundry’s clean, so he makes quick work of folding it and scrounges together some odds and ends out of the fridge for breakfast. 

Setting one of the plates on the coffee table for when Dad wakes up, Sam wraps himself back up in his blankets and halfheartedly munches on his food. There’s power in the cabin, but no signal and no wifi, so he’s stuck with offline games and downloaded movies. 

Halfway through his Lord of the Rings marathon, Sam catches movement coming from the other couch. Dad winces as he sits up, rubbing his lower back. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“About three in the afternoon. Everybody else is sleeping, but Mac was up earlier. They seem like they’re doing a little better,” Sam reports, eyeing his dad with a frown. “You feeling okay, Dad?”

“Fine, Sam.” 

He sure doesn’t look fine, though Sam isn’t sure if he should say so. 

“Dad!” 

Dad goes to stand up when Annie calls for him and almost immediately sinks back onto the couch, looking a little green around the gills. “Can you go see what your sister needs? I’ll be right behind you.” 

Twenty minutes later, after Sam holds Annie's hair back while she throws up and changes her pillowcase, Dad still hasn't appeared. Worried now, Sam washes his hands and hurries back into the living room where he finds his dad hunched over the trash can in the kitchen, shaking like a leaf, hair plastered to skin shiny with sweat.

Shit.

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Sam isn’t sure whether to scream or cry. Everyone but him is sick, they’re just about out of medicine and the few foods that sick stomachs can keep down, and they’ve got only one bottle of pedialyte left. Dad keeps trying to get out of bed to help, but he’s too weak at this point and Sam is more worried about him falling and hitting his head. 

“Dad, please just try and sleep, okay? I’ve got things handled.” He doesn’t, but if Dad knows that then he’ll push himself harder. “Here, take these.”

Sam presses the last two tylenol tablets and last pepto tablet into his dad’s hand, keeping the empty bottles out of sight. He’s certain Dad will refuse to take them if he finds out they’re the last ones. 

“I’m sorry, Sammie, you shouldn’t have to be doing this. Not your job to take care of everyone,” Dad mumbles tiredly, taking them with a few sips of water. 

“It’s not your fault, Dad.” 

Once Dad’s asleep, Sam searches his bag for an extra pair of socks and his wallet, tugging on an extra sweater as well for good measure before emptying the bag onto the couch. He’ll need it to carry everything. His boots are pulled from their place beside the door and laced up tight. Jacket and gloves come next, and a scarf to cover his face. A sharp burst of cold air smacks into him when he tugs open the front door, darting out and yanking it shut. 

Fuck it’s cold. And dark. Ducking his head to try and avoid the harsh flakes cutting into his skin like shards of ice, he tries to remember which way to go to get to town. The RV was there, and the cabin was there… If he misses, he’ll be in serious trouble. Taking a few steps forward to make sure he doesn’t damage anything important, he closes his eyes briefly. “Please let this work.”

Opening his eyes, he fixes his gaze on a point forward and lets the heat in his body rise, flames flickering in his peripherals. He lets them build higher, going off of some unknown instinct to signal when, and then he’s rocketing forward, the cushion of warm air around him evaporating the snow before it can hit his face. 

He passes the town’s welcome sign and slows to a stop. Back on his feet, he keeps his fire just warm enough to keep the snow off and melt a path through town. The streetlights offer some help in navigating, and once he finally spies the grocery store he nearly cries from relief. 

When he tries to open the door, and finds it locked, he does cry. “No! No no no please! Fuck!” He slams a hand on the metal frame, chest spasming with a harsh sob. He’s so fucking tired, and this is his only chance to get what they need. They can’t afford a hospital, and even then they don’t have the phone signal to call for help. 

Gritting his teeth, he places a palm on the door’s glass pane. It heats rapidly, then shatters, causing his heart rate to spike. “Shit!” He hadn’t meant to break the glass, he’d only planned to make a hole to unlock the door! Now there’s no way he can fix it, the shards are all over the place. 

“Not the time, Sammie,” he mutters to himself, stooping to get through the busted frame, taking care to avoid the shards. There’s nothing that can be done about it now, he needs to hurry and get what he came for and get back to the cabin. Keeping one hand lit like a torch to see better in the darkened store, relief fills him when he finds the pharmacy aisle. Snagging several bottles and hurriedly shoving them into his bag, he checks the list he’d written out on a scrap of paper and goes looking for pedialyte and applesauce next. He really hopes his savings will be enough to cover what he’s taking. 

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Sheriff Tucker sighs irritably as he steps out of his truck, bracing himself against the cold wind. He’d been rather comfortably tucked into bed with his wife when Mr. B had called, telling him that someone or something tripped the silent alarm in the grocery store. As extremely annoying as a raccoon or deer getting inside would be, there’d be far less paperwork involved, so he’s hoping for that. Hefting his shotgun from the rack on the back of his truck, he slots a flashlight into place against the barrel and flicks it on.  

Of course, that isn’t going to be his luck. The front of the store is slightly shielded from the falling snow, so he can see the spots where snow has been moved and stomped on in front of the broken door, footprints just inside. “Dammit.”

Reaching inside, he unlocks the door and pushes it open. Scanning as he steps inside, he spots an orange glow in the back of the store. “This is Sheriff Tucker! Whoever’s in there, come out with your hands up!” 

A clatter comes from one of the shelves, accompanied by running footsteps. The sheriff runs too, spotting a dark shape streak past. “Hey! Stop!” 

Whoever they are, they’re fast, but Tucker knows the store better, and manages to cut them off before they can reach the door, shotgun levelled at their chest and flashlight illuminating the terrified face of a teenage boy who couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen, a half-open backpack clutched to his chest. Something falls out of it and Tucker glances down briefly, surprised to see a bottle of tylenol. All the things a kid could steal, and that’s what he picks? 

Tucker doesn’t recognize him, but this storm’s been going for days now, so where could he have come from? He lowers the shotgun. “What’s your name, kid?” 

The teen doesn’t answer, hugging his backpack tighter to his chest, eyes flicking between Tucker and the door. 

“Don’t.” The teen stiffens and Tucker holds out a hand. “Lemme see it.” 

“See what?”

“The bag, kid.” 

“I was going to pay for everything, I swear but the store was closed and-”

“Now.” He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t bark, only sharpens his tone, and thankfully that’s enough. The teen wordlessly hands over the backpack and Tucker sets it on the nearest till, searching through while the kid watches nervously. 

Tylenol, pepto, pedialyte, crackers… There are a few more items, all basic things, and Tucker sighs, slinging the shotgun strap over his shoulder and resting a hand on his hip. “Who’s sick?” 

“No one. I just needed some things.” 

He answers too fast to be believable and Tucker fixes him with an unimpressed look. “Try again.” 

The kid looks nervous, like he’s trying to decide what to say, giving Tucker more time to study him. The sheriff’s eyes narrow as a thought occurs to him. “You with the people renting out the Briarglen cabins?” 

A hesitant nod. 

“Where are your folks?” No teenager should be out in this kind of weather, and Tucker finds it very hard to believe that the kid made it all the way from the cabins into town on his own. Someone has to be with him. 

“They’re both sick,” the kid finally admits, gaze dropping to his boots. “My whole family is, I’m the only one well enough to be up and around and we ran out of medicine, so I snuck out and walked here. I have the money to pay for everything, I was going to leave it on the register before I left.” 

Geez. Poor kid has to be freezing. Tapping his leg, Tucker frowns thoughtfully. “How many are in your family?”

“Six.”

Piling everything back in the backpack, he holds it out to the kid. “Wait here for a second.” 

Though obviously wary of him, the teen takes it back and stands quietly by the door. Writing out a quick note for Mr. B, Tucker slips it into the register drawer and grabs a couple grocery bags, shoving a few more things inside and holding them out to the kid. “You hold these, I’ll drive.”

“Drive?”

“Yes. I’ll give you a ride back to the cabin.” He holds the door open, gesturing for the kid to step out, and texts one of his deputies to come and lock up in the morning. Hopefully no one else is crazy or desperate enough to try robbing it a second time. The drive to the cabin is quiet, but slow, the teen keeping himself pressed as far away from Tucker as the cab will allow. 

“What's your name?” Tucker tries again, expecting it to be a futile attempt but needing to fill the quiet. 

“...Sam.” 

“Well Sam, you're one brave kid. Don't know too many who’ll risk going out in weather like this on their lonesome.” Brave or reckless. Maybe a bit of both.

Sam shrugs. “I needed supplies, and no one else could go.”

The cabin finally comes into view and Sam reaches for the bags. “Thanks for the ride. And the groceries.” 

The sheriff smiles ruefully, holding up a hand. “Ain’t getting off the hook quite that easily. I'm coming in with you. Besides, you look like you’re about to fall over and I can’t in good conscience leave a kid to take care of a houseful of sick people alone. 

The teen hesitates, biting his lip, and Tucker sighs again. He’s been doing that a lot today. “I’m going to make an educated guess that you and your family are part of a conduit caravan, so your folks probably don't trust cops, am I right?” 

Sam won’t meet his eyes. “Yes sir.” 

He’ll need to tread carefully then. He hasn’t had much experience with the caravans, but he knows they’re close-knit groups who don’t trust outsiders. Not that he can blame them. “I’ll try not to overstay my welcome.” 

He grimaces at the blast of cold after being snug and warm in the cab, letting Sam go in first and pulling the door shut tight behind him. The smell of sickness hangs heavily in the air, the room dim but for the glowing embers of a burned down fire. 

“Sammie! Where have you-” There’s a woman whom he assumes is Sam’s mother sitting on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a blanket. She cuts herself off when she sees Tucker, getting shakily to her feet and dragging her son behind her. “Rowan!”

The man sleeping on the other couch lurches upright and immediately squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass before blinking tiredly at the woman. “Dahlia? What’s wrong?” She gestures at Tucker and he goes rigid when he spots the sheriff.

“Sir. Ma’am,” Tucker greets with a nod. “Sorry for dropping in like this.”

“Whatever my son did-”

“He’s not in trouble,” Tucker quickly reassures them, raising his hands. “I figured anyone desperate enough to brave going to the grocery store in this weather must be in need of some help.”

“We’re fine, thank you,” she snaps, tone clipped. 

“...Yea, I can see that.” He pointedly glances at the dwindling pile of firewood and the bags of groceries that Sam dropped on the floor. “I know you both probably aren't too happy to see me, and I won't stay long.”

They're at an impasse. Sam’s nervous gaze bounces back and forth between his parents, his mother's lips pressed into a thin line and a frown on his father's face. Before a decision can be reached, a young, female voice calls from the back of the cabin. 

“Mom! Can you bring me some water? And the pepto?”

“Hang on honey, she’ll be right there!” The father (Rowan was it?) calls back. “Sam, go with your mom.”

“Rowan!” Dahlia (?) hisses at him.

“It’s fine, baby.”

After a moment, she relents, herding Sam out of the room and leaving the two men alone. Tucker clears his throat. “I’m not here to cause your family any trouble. But when I find a minor alone in the middle of a snowstorm robbing basic necessities from the grocery store, I gotta take a look.” 

“I know. If I’d had any idea or indication what he was thinking, I’d have stopped him.”

“He seems like a good kid.”

“He is… How much were the groceries? I should have cash in my bag.” Rowan starts to push himself up, but Tucker holds a hand up to stop him. 

“No need, it’s taken care of.” 

“Sheriff, I-”

“If you want, you can consider it an early holiday gift. Now if you’ll give me a couple minutes, I’ll have the woodpile inside stocked up again, then I brought some stuff to make soup. Not as good at it as my wife, of course, but her recipe’s easy on a sick stomach.” 

A ghost of a smile crosses Rowan’s face. “Feel like I couldn’t stop you even if I had the energy to.”

“Nope.” 

000000

Sam ends up falling asleep in Mom and Annie’s bed, waking up to find Mom and Dad talking quietly in the living room, the sheriff long since having left. They both look up when Sam comes in, a frown pulling down the edges of Mom’s mouth.

“Sammie, honey, what were you thinking?”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I thought I was being careful, I’m sorry.” 

“Your intentions were good, but what you did was dangerous. You could’ve gotten lost in the storm, or shot, or taken away from us. I don’t want any of those things to happen to you, so please, please honey, don’t ever do anything like that again.” 

Sam wilts. He only wanted to help. “Okay…” 

“Come here.” Mom holds up one edge of the blanket she’s sitting under and Sam doesn’t hesitate to sit down and lean into her side. She wraps the blanket around them both and kisses his temple. “That being said, we’re also very proud of you. Both for how you handled yourself with the sheriff, and for being so brave. You’re a good boy, Sammie.” 

“And we got soup out of it,” Dad jokes from the other couch, a bowl balanced carefully in his lap. 

Mom rolls her eyes. “Yes, and we got soup. Kody was able to keep some down, so that’s good.” 

“That is good,” Sam mumbles, closing his eyes. He slept for a good long while but still feels tired. Probably because he went outside in the cold and used his powers so much. He’s nearly asleep again when his stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch and he’s bolting for the trashcan.