#touched

Not forever—he’d never call it that—but something in him cracks the first night you scream inconsolably at two in the morning, tiny fists clenched, face purple with fury. He holds you against his chest like you’re going to slip away if he loosens his grip. Karen’s absence is a raw wound in him, and he can’t stand the thought of your crib being empty like the other side of his bed has been.

So the hunts stop. The books start getting organized. His phone rings more often than the front door does.

Hunters call for intel, lore, translations, old contacts—and he answers every one with you tucked into the crook of his arm. You babble against his shirt while he recites binding rituals and burial rites. You squeal, and he mutters, “Yeah, yeah, kid,” rubbing your back as he warns someone in Minnesota not to salt the wrong kind of bones unless they want a pissed-off spirit.

Jody Mills stops by the house like it’s part of her patrol schedule—and maybe it is. She brings casseroles wrapped in foil, coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead, and the kind of sharp-eyed concern Bobby hates being on the receiving end of.

“You eat today?” she asks, every damn time.

“Course I did,” he snaps automatically.

She lifts the empty coffee mug he’s been pretending is full. “Uh-huh.”

She doesn’t push, not at first. She just slips into the kitchen, kicks the door shut behind her, and starts cooking like she owns the place. When you’re big enough to stand, she squats down and holds out her arms to you, smiling that warm, easy smile—and Bobby swoops in like she’s about to run off with you and vanish into the night.

“I got her,” he says, too fast, too rough, pulling you against him. You blink up at him. Jody blinks at him. You don’t understand why his hands shake.

Jody does, though. She’s seen grief gut people from the inside. She sees it in the way he keeps you pressed tight to his shoulder, like breathing room equals danger. She sees it in how he rarely lets anyone else carry you, how he doesn’t trust the world with anything he hasn’t already lost once.

“You know,” she says gently one afternoon, “you can put her down long enough to eat a sandwich.”

Bobby grumbles something that sounds like don’t wanna.You tug his beard. He pretends not to melt.

Sometimes, on the good days, he sets you on the living-room floor among old lore books and wooden blocks, and he tries to get through a half-hour of research. But you crawl faster than he expects—curious, swift, drawn to things you shouldn’t be able to notice yet—and every time he looks up, you’re halfway to a doorway or climbing a stack of books that should’ve been moved days ago.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he mutters, scooping you up again.

You giggle like that’s the funniest threat in the world.

And even though his life is smaller now — no long drives, no hunts, no nights chasing monsters across county lines—he keeps you tethered to him, heartbeat to heartbeat. You’re all he has left of Karen. You’re all he’s got left of the reason he ever imagined a softer life.

His arms are your world. His grief is the air you grow up breathing. And even as a baby, you feel the way he watches the door—daring the universe to try taking one more thing from him.

You’re two years old when it becomes clear you don’t move like other toddlers.

You have balance you shouldn’t have—eerie, steady, almost predatory. You scale the back of the couch like you’re climbing a tree, little fingers curled around the fabric, toes gripping like they’ve got minds of their own. And when you jump, you land soft. Always soft. Light as a kitten landing on a bedspread.

Bobby watches it all with a frown that never quite deepens into worry.

“Parenting magazines say kids climb,” he mutters, flipping a page while you scramble up a stack of books you shouldn’t be able to reach. “’S normal.”

You leap from the chair to his lap, a perfect arc, tiny body twisting midair so you land facing him. He jolts.

“…Normal-ish,” he amends.

Your hearing sharpens before your language does. You turn your head when a car rolls by on the road three houses down. You chirp when mice move in the walls. Bobby blames the old house, not your ears. And the way you track movement? The way your pupils go wide when something flickers at the edge of your vision?

“Just got her mama’s eyes,” he grumbles, kissing the top of your head. “Always lookin’. Always thinkin’.”

You drool on his flannel. That settles the moment.

And then Thanksgiving comes.

November 1986 — Age TwoThe house feels smaller with all the cars in the yard. Jody’s the first one through the door, balancing grocery bags on each hip and a look on her face that dares Bobby to argue with her.

“Move,” she says, hip-checking him until he steps aside.

You trail after her, fists clutching the hem of her jacket, because her energy is warm and steady and smells like coffee and lavender soap. She looks down, smiles, and taps your nose.

“You supervising me today, kid?”

You squeak—something between a giggle and a chirp—and she laughs.

John, Mary, Dean, and three-year-old Sam arrive next. Dean bursts inside like the cold’s chasing him, cheeks apple-red, breath fogging as he stamps snow off his sneakers.

He spots you and brightens. “Hiya! You remember me?”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, then toddle over like you’re debating whether to pounce or greet. He holds out a toy truck, and you take it, sniff it, then hand it back with solemn, toddler judgment.

“…She sniffed it,” Dean whispers to Mary. Mary ruffles his hair. “Toddlers are weird, sweetheart.”

Sam stands beside her, clutching an oversized plush moose by the ear. He doesn’t say anything at first—just studies you. Then he offers the moose with both hands, the ultimate toddler peace treaty.

You pat the moose’s head. Sam beams like you just knighted him.

Ellen and Bob show up with little Jo bundled in pink, cheeks rosy, fists flailing. Jo tries to eat her mittens the moment she sees you. You stare at her like she’s a small, loud forest creature. Ellen laughs, low and warm, and hooks an arm around Bobby when he comes down the stairs.

“How’re you holding up, Singer?”

He scowls. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you ain’t slept since Carter was president.”

“I’m fine.”

She kisses his cheek and moves on before he can bite back.

The morning of Thanksgiving is all prep—loud, messy, chaotic in a way your small body feels both overwhelmed by and drawn to.

Jody takes over the kitchen like a military campaign.

“You—” she says, pointing at John, “cut onions.” “Me?” “Yes, you. You’ve got the leather jacket and the attitude. You’re immune.”

John blinks, laughs once, and obeys.

“Mary, can you handle the stuffing?” “Gladly.” “Bobby, sit your ass down and peel potatoes.” “I can cook!” “Not today you can’t.”

Bobby mutters a string of curses under his breath but takes the bowl anyway.

You weave between legs and boots and chair legs, moving quiet as a whisper. Too quiet. You pop up in places you shouldn’t be able to reach—countertops, low shelves, the top of a stepstool nobody saw you climb.

Mary gasps when she finds you sitting next to the cooling pies, swinging your feet happily. “Bobby?”

“She got up there all by herself,” Mary says, half-delighted, half-worried.

Bobby looks over, utterly unfazed. “Kids like to climb.”

“Mmhmm,” Mary hums, eyebrows raised.

Dean becomes your shadow before dinner prep is even halfway done. He follows you like he’s the little brother instead of the older one, watching the way you move, the way you seem to know where someone is stepping before they do.

You’re his favorite kind of mystery—the fun kind.

He hands you a spoon. You hand him a wooden block. He laughs. You echo the sound perfectly. He freezes. “Mom, she copied me!”

“Toddlers do that,” Mary soothes.

But his eyes stay glued to you, like he knows something special when he sees it.

Even Sam seems to watch you, big eyes tracking you with the slow seriousness of a child who sees more than he can say.

And all the while, Jody orchestrates the kitchen, Ellen teases Bobby until he actually eats something, and the house—for the first time since Karen died—feels full.

Alive.

Warm.

You don’t understand any of it yet—not the grief that’s softened into something manageable, not the community forming quietly around your small, bright existence. You only know the smells, the sounds, the hands that lift you, the laughter that ripples around rooms, the way multiple hearts beating in one house feels safer than one heart beating alone.

You only know that you’re loved. And Bobby, watching the room from his kitchen chair with you curled on his knee, realizes he’s not raising you alone after all.

The next week, the house settles back into its usual rhythm, but you keep surprising Bobby.

You’re toddling near the front window when a stray cat jumps the fence outside. It’s the same one that’s been haunting the junkyard for months. You spot it, go still, pupils blown wide—then you drop into a perfect little crouch. Shoulders low. Weight forward. A hunter’s coil.

And then you sprint.

The cat yowls and bolts, fur puffed, and you’re already halfway behind the couch by the time Bobby’s brain catches up. He freezes, one hand half-raised, stupidly late to intervene.

A cold ripple works down his spine. His daughter—two years old and barely tall enough to reach a doorknob—just hunted a cat like instinct had grabbed her by the bones.

He tells himself it’s normal. Kids mimic animals. Parenting magazines exaggerate. Toddlers are weird.

“Yeah, sure. Normal,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. But he makes a mental note—a real one—to keep a closer eye on you.

That afternoon, Jody stops by and finds him pacing with worry, you propped on his hip like a shield he refuses to set down.

“You can’t hover forever,” she says, voice soft but with that cop-edge she can’t turn off. “She’s not going to break just because you blink.”

“I… I know,” Bobby grumbles. “But she’s… fast. Clever. You know?”

Jody doesn’t argue. She just crouches and holds her arms open. You wiggle, reach, and he hesitates—every muscle screaming at him to hold on tighter—but he lets you slide from his grasp into hers.

You giggle, tapping her shoulder, burying your face in the curve of her neck like you’ve decided she belongs in your tiny circle. Bobby watches, jaw tight, hands twitching before he forces them still.

It’s the first of a thousand micro-lessons: you’re his, but you’re not fragile. Not made of glass. Not the echo of a life he lost.

Later, while she’s working on dinner and you sit at the kitchen table swinging your feet, Bobby just… watches. Watches the way you track movement in the room. The sharp tilt of your head, more animal than child. The little sniff-sound you make when the breeze through the window shifts.

“You think she’s just mimicking that damn stray?” he asks, half hoping the answer is yes.

Jody glances from you to him, spoon tapping the edge of the pot. “Could be. Why don’t you mention it at her next check-up?”

He grunts, noncommittal. But she can see the worry rolling under his skin.

Jody stays later than usual, lingering in the doorway while Bobby gets you ready for bed, watching the little details he mentioned—the way you track shadow and sound, the way you seem to always know where he is without looking.

Once you’re asleep, warm beneath a flannel blanket and curled like a kitten, she corners him in the living room.

“She might be autistic. Or maybe ADHD,” she says gently, hands woven together in front of her. She’s not diagnosing—she’s trying to give shape to his fear. “It wouldn’t hurt to look into it.”

He exhales sharply, thumb rubbing the label of his beer bottle. His eyes flick toward the hallway—toward you.

“I’ll do some research,” he says.

And that? That he can do.

If he can track down lore older than the country, if he can help hunters stay alive with nothing but books and grit, he can damn well figure out how to help you.

Prologue -------- Chapter 2 The Wildheart Girl Master List Touched Master List Main Master List

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