The first night in a new house was always uncomfortable—it was something she'd been used to ever since she was six and was yanked out of her dad's house and put into the care of… how many new families was it now? She'd lost count, but it didn't really matter, she supposed. Families always got tired of her, or she became burdensome, and she was sent back to the foster people.

She was always insistent that she could take care of herself upon her return to the invariably stuffy offices of the foster ladies. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself," she'd announced with pride—which made their good humored chuckling and replies of "Little girls cant get apartments on their own" all the more annoying.

Maybe they decided that since families didn't want her, they'd pawn her off on someone without a husband or wife or kids. They'd chosen yesterday to pawn her off on Mr. Miles, who was old (all adults were) and had an accent like a nature documentary and got around in a wheelchair—not even a cool one with a motor, but a boring push one. The fact that Mr. Miles (who insisted she could call him Thomas but she knew better than to go by first names with adults) was old and in a wheelchair meant little to her—her messed up ankle was safe, since he couldn't kick, but that meant that he could probably hit, and hit hard. (Maybe that was why he pushed his chair—it made him stronger.)

That realization had kept Alice awake most all of her first night, leaving her cranky and (to her horror) in the care of Mr. Miles' older brother, who had apparently made a special trip all the way from California to help get them "settled." Alice thought it was a lot of bother to help get a kid that would get sent back before Christmas settled, but she held her tongue. Most her day was spent in the guest room (they could call it her room all they wanted, but she knew better) with her battered book of Greek myths, coming out precisely five times—breakfast, bathroom break, lunch, bathroom break, and dinner when Mr. Miles (the younger) returned from work.

He didn't tell Alice where he worked, and his sweater and pressed trousers and ID card on a necklace didn't reveal much. She was a little curious, naturally, but she didn't dare ask, nor did she respond to any attempts the brothers made in engaging her in conversation. When she excused herself from dinner, she could hear them whispering about her as she went.

That had been a few hours ago; now, the apartment was very quiet, and it was nearly nine at night. She'd long ago changed into her thin shorts and oversized T-shirt, the only pajamas she had, and carefully tucked her ankle brace under her pillow where no one could come steal it. She was sitting cross legged under a tent of her quilt, her eyes naturally adjusted to the dark from years of practice, as she re-read the story of Theseus and Medusa for the millionth time.

From outside the closed door, there was a knock. "Miss Alice?" Alice stiffened when she heard Mr. Miles call her name. "May I come in, please?"  

Alice fumbled to break down her tent and readjust the lay of the blankets. "Yeah," she replied after a moment, quickly correcting herself to—"Yes sir." 

The door creaked open and after a moment, Thomas wheeled himself inside. Sometime between dinner and now, he'd changed into his own pajamas, a matching set, light blue in color, and a bathrobe and slippers. He looked comfortable, and Alice couldn't fathom why he wanted to come see her if he was so comfortable— 

Then she saw the book in his lap, and she felt herself breaking out into a cold sweat. "What is that?" she asked impulsively, pointing to the book.

He glanced down, as if he'd forgotten that the volume was even there (maybe he couldn't feel it and really did forget), before looking back to her and smiling. " I found this at work," he explained, "at the library, so I brought it home for you." 

"…A present?" she ventured warily. No one ever gave her presents…

"Not quite," he replied. "If you'd like, I can read it to you as a bedtime story."

Alice's brow furrowed. "A bedtime story?" she echoed.

"If you want," Thomas stressed. "I know you're a young lady—probably far too old for bedtime stories. I just thought I'd offer."

Alice squinted at him, trying to interpret his motives. When he spoke, he wasn't using any reverse psychology crap on her—he sincerely believed that if she said no, he wouldn't read to her. Having someone listen to her wishes was a foreign concept, and she was tempted to decline solely to see what would happen. But at the same time… What did being read to feel like? "If you want to, you can," she finally said slowly, lying on her side and tugging the blankets up under her chin.

He smiled and wheeled himself a little closer before holding up the book so that she could see the plain brown leather cover. The title and author were printed in plain gold lettering—"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll."

Alice found herself making a face, which she concealed by burying her face in her pillow. "Sounds boring," she pronounced, the words muffled. It was a gamble, mouthing off, but she'd rather take that risk than hear someone read her namesake out loud to her.

"It might be," Thomas agreed, "but we'll never know until we read it, right?"

Alice lifted her head and nodded. "Yeah, I guess…"

Thomas offered her a warm smile before turning the book around and opening it to the first pages. "'Chapter One—Down the Rabbit Hole,'" he recited. "'Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do. Once or twice, she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book," Alice thought, "without pictures or conversations?"'"

At this, Thomas paused and turned his attentions to the Alice in front of him. "What do you think, Miss Alice?" he asked.

Alice shrugged, impartial. Undeterred by her silence, he continued to read, describing the White Rabbit (and using what Alice thought was a pretty funny voice for him), and her journey through the rabbit hole and falling down and down and—"'She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labeled Orange Marmalade'—"

"What's marmalade?" Alice interrupted before biting her cheek. He still had the book in his hands, and it was hardcover and would hurt when it hit her with it.

"It's like jam," he explained, looking up from the pages before continuing.

As he read, Alice found herself reflecting on this—not the information about what a marmalade was, but about the fact that he'd answered her question and not hurt her. It was a far departure from when she was little, and even though she'd never been hit in any of the homes before this, it was always something she feared. Seeing that he had no interest in hurting her, Alice found herself… relaxing, almost melting into the bed as she listened to the story.

•

"'…Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way. So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.'" As he finished the sentence, Thomas closed the book and tucked it between his thigh and the side of his wheelchair. "What did you think, A—"

He paused when he caught slight of Alice. Sometime during the course of his reading, she'd drifted off, and was lying on her stomach, one arm hanging of the bed, and her breathing was slow and even. All the defenses she seemed to throw up around adults in general and him in particular seemed to been gone, and she looked vaguely peaceful in sleep.