"Peter, just calm down!" shouted Brittany in anger, while whipping her tea-towel down hard against the kitchen table.

"Calm down? CALM DOWN?!" Peter clenched his fists and pounded his knuckles against his temples. "Do you not understand what I just saw?!"

"YES, Peter. I heard you the first three times you yelled it." Brittany approached her husband and grabbed his wrists, lowering them to his sides. "It's not a big deal -- They're probably just experimenting."

Peter's eyes widened, and the veins in his forehead bulged. "Experimenting? EXPERIMENTING? THAT was not experimenting. THAT was... was..." Peter dropped to his knees. His mind kept replaying the reoccurring dreams that he'd been having. "I knew something was going on! Why else would I..."

"Why else would you be what?" asked Brittany. "Stop acting like a child."

Closing his eyes, Peter recalled his dream -- his past. "You don't understand. It's disgusting. You didn't see what I saw!"

"You mean, I didn't live through what you did." Brittany lowered herself to the floor, next to Peter.

Turning his head, Peter stared into his wife's eyes. "The dreams keep happening. They won't go away," he pleaded, hoping that somehow his beautiful wife could make everything right again. "What am I going to do?"

Brittany sighed and placed her hands over Peter's ears. "First, you're going to apologize to your son. Then we're going to look up someone who can help you get over this."

Peter's face reddened. He could feel his nerves begin to tremble. "Look someone up? Like a shrink?" Peter grabbed Brittany's hands and forced them away from his head. "I'm not talking to no head doctor. And no son of mine is going to lay down with another boy."

Peter could hear himself talking, his voice trembling harder with every word, but the voice that was escaping his throat wasn't his own. It was that other voice. The voice from long ago. The one that he had tried so hard to destroy since the day he was released from the orphanage.

"My son will not go through what I went through!" said Peter, as he jumped back up to his feet. "We're going to call that doctor. But it's not going to be for me."

"Excuse me?" Brittany snatched Peter's arm and tugged with all her might. "You're saying that YOU'RE not sick, but YOUR SON IS?" Brittany flung her damp tea-towel across the kitchen and watched it fly through the air until it crashed against the window, above the sink, causing such a loud, hollow thud that she was surprised the glass hadn't broken. She then clenched her hand into a near-fist, with the exception of her index finger, and thrust it forward into the centre of Peter's chest.

"Don't you say a word!" She said, stabbing her finger into her husband's chest with every word. "Not a goddamn word, you selfish son of a bitch! I have stood by you for years, watched you struggle, helped you work this thing out -- and that was fine, then. But NOW I could care less about your feelings. This isn't you. THIS is your SON. You do not have the RIGHT to decide WHO he cares for. And you just think for a minute -- don't talk -- THINK. Because whatever you decide to do next will affect every single member of this family. It's not just you anymore, Peter. In fact, this has NOTHING to do with you."

Brittany spun around and stormed out the kitchen, leaving Peter alone, rubbing at the centre of his chest. As he heard her footsteps stomping up the stairs, he noticed James sitting on the couch in the living room. The boy's eyes were red, and tears were streaming down his cheeks, but when Peter gestured toward him, James ran away and followed his mother up the stairs.

"James come back here!" He shouted. "I'm not mad at you!"

"So, wait, we're actually going to do this?" asked Mark, walking down the street beside Brady.

"Why? Having second thoughts?" asked Brady with a smile. Although he was going along with Mark's idea, he didn't feel that they would actually go through with it.

Mark shook his head. "No. I mean, there's nothing here worth sticking around for, really. I just didn't think you'd go for it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Brady, looking over at Mark.

Mark shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing. So how's this going to work, anyway?"

"Well, we're going to go to my place and dig around for the camping gear. Then, we're going to sneak you into your house, grab your cash and some clothes, and then we'll hop the next train out of town."

"But... where are we going?"

"Dunno," admitted Brady. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not," Mark replied, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous. "We're really going to do this then? Me and you?"

Brady stopped in his tracks. In front of them, he could see his house, and his mother's car parked in the driveway. He felt his stomach drop and tighten inside of him, followed by a sudden rush of guilt. As he stood there, staring at his house, reality began to sink in. "Yeah," he finally said. "Looks like."

Mark didn't reply. He didn't have to. He could tell what Brady was feeling. In fact, to some degree, he was feeling it to. What would they tell their parents? How would they react? But most importantly, what if they actually pulled this off and no one found them?

"You okay?" asked Brady.

"No," said Mark, honestly.

"Do you want to back out?"

Mark shook his head. "No. We can't. If we stay, what happens to us? There's no way my dad will ever let me see you again."

"Then... I guess it's settled," replied Brady, resuming forward.

Mark followed Brady up the driveway and around his mother's car to the front door of the house. Brady stopped, his hand tightly wrapped around the doorknob, and looked back at Mark. "When we go inside, we run right up the stairs. If my mom sees us all bruised up again she'll freak."

Mark nodded. "Okay -- so how are we going to do this then?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. Just head straight for my room, and we'll figure things out from there."

Before Mark could reply, Brady opened the door and stepped inside. Within seconds they had both kicked off their shoes and were racing up the stairs as quietly as possible. Halfway up, Mark glanced over the banister and into the living room, catching a glimpse of Natalie sitting on the couch, turning her head toward him on the stairs. Mark almost froze when they made eye-contact and had to force himself to keep moving. "Hi Misses Jeston!" he said, trying to avoid any suspicion, and continued upward.

"What are you boys up to?" she asked, curiously. "Are you two hungry?"

"No Mom!" replied Brady, reaching the top of the stairs. "We're just grabbing a few things and heading to the park!"

Natalie stood up from the couch and casually stretched out her limbs. "All right then. I'll put your dinner in the microwave for later, Hun," she said, while walking toward the kitchen. "I'm heading over to the dry-cleaner's shortly, and then going for coffee with Anne from work."

Mark passed Brady, into the hall, as he stood at the top of the stairs. "Okay, thanks," he said, about to follow Mark into his room but then turned, placing his hand against the newel of the banister, and leaned forward. "I love you, Mom," he added, feeling guiltier than ever.

Brady heard his mother's footsteps come to a sudden stop, and for a moment he thought he had given himself away.

"I love you, too, Hun," replied Natalie, touching her hand to her chest while she thought. "What are you two up to?"

"Nothing," said Brady, looking down the hall toward Mark, whose face had become pale and troubled. "Just thought I'd let you know, that's all."

Natalie smiled and continued walking toward the counter. "Don't stay out too late you two. And whatever it is you're up to make sure it doesn't involve a two-a-m drive to come and bail you out."

Mark bounced his hand off of his forehead, attempting to silently express how dangerous Brady's conversation was becoming. "Dude," he hissed in a whisper and spun around and marched into the bedroom. "Come on."

"It won't," finished Brady, as he turned to follow Mark into the room.

When he arrived, Mark had fallen back, onto the bed in a nervous-huff. "You're gonna get us busted with all that mushy stuff," said Mark, watching as Brady walked across the room to his closet. "Don't you ever watch TV? That random 'I love you' stuff always leads to suspicion."

"Relax, will you? I say it all the time; it's no big deal."

"No big deal? Then why did she stop? Why did she warn us not to get into trouble? She knows something's up -- I bet you anything!"

Brady shrugged and tossed a duffel bag onto the floor. "What's it matter? She's going out right away, and we'll be gone before she gets back. It couldn't have worked out any better."

"Sure it could," said Mark, standing up and walking toward the bag. "We could have been more careful..."

"But we weren't. We got busted, and now we're running away," blurted Brady, having to force himself to stop as he felt his nervous-energy turning into anger.

Mark stared at Brady in silence, unsure how and if he should respond. Instead, he watched Brady circle the room, collecting clothes and a few other tidbits. "Can I do anything to help?" he finally asked. "I feel like an idiot just standing here."

"Uh," Brady stopped to think. "All I really need now is a toothbrush and towel. The rest will have to wait until my mom leaves, so that we can grab my wallet off of the fridge and get into the garage."

"Oh, okay," replied Mark, sitting back down on the bed.

"Any ideas how we're going to get you in and out of your house?" realized Brady as he passed his bedroom window.

"Umm -- no. I was actually hoping that we wouldn't need to go back there," he admitted.

Brady smiled and sat down next to Mark on the bed. "Well, you're going to need some clothes, at least. And a little extra money would be handy, too."

Mark sighed and leaned forward, running his fingers back through his hair. "Damn."

"Was it that bad?" asked Brady, sliding closer to Mark.

Mark laughed sarcastically, and turned his head to look up at Brady. "Dude... we're running away," he reminded him. "I think that sums up the situation."

"Okay, I'm sorry," Brady replied, feeling hurt. He then stood back up and walked toward the bedroom door. "I'll be right back."

"Shit," whispered Mark, realizing he had spoken a little too harshly, which wasn't his intention, or at least, not toward Brady, anyway. "Brady? I'm sorry -- I..."

"It's okay, I get it," said Brady, walking back into the room with a couple of towels and a small bag of toiletries. "No worries, right?"

"Yeah -- right."

Brady crouched down beside the duffel bag and zipped it shut, then glanced over at his computer, now collecting dust. He felt strange inside, like the computer was trying to pull him closer, and for a moment Brady allowed himself to forget everything that was happening. He recalled how different his life had been only a few short weeks ago, and to some degree he missed it. The Friday movies with his mom and the zero-chance of surprises, though uneventful, now seemed like a distant memory. On top of that, Lord Ghastly now felt as if he were a completely different person. Not so much a fictional character in a game, but, instead, a fading shadow of a friend that had moved several years prior.

"What are you thinking?" asked Mark, bringing Brady back to the here-and-now.

"Nothing. Just kind of trying to figure things out, I guess," he replied and stood back up.

"I think your mom just left. I heard the door close a second ago."

Brady looked confused and walked toward the hall. "She didn't even say goodbye."

The grief in Brady's tone caused his voice to squeak, like his body had suddenly decided to induce the forces of puberty on his vocal chords. After several awkward seconds of silence, Mark stood up and walked in behind Brady, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "You okay?"

Brady turned around, feeling the weight of Mark's forearms slide around his neck, until the two made eye contact. "Yeah," he said, while leaning forward and resting the unbruised side of his face on Mark's chest. He breathed in his scent in a slow, calming breath and exhaled with a heavy sigh. "I'm just a bit, I dunno, weirded out by all of this."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," said Mark as he moved his head upward and kissed the top of Brady's head.

The two held each other close for several minutes, allowing the other's warmth to penetrate and soothe their nerves. "We should probably get going," said Brady, kissing Mark's shoulder and stepping backward, ending their embrace. "You gotta get into your house somehow, and I need to dig the tent and sleeping bags out of the garage."

Mark sighed nervously and stepped closer to the door. "What if I get busted?"

"Well... I dunno. Why don't you just run in and out as fast as you can? They know you're angry, right? So they'll probably just think you're going to go and lock yourself in your room."

"Actually," Mark smiled and stepped into the hallway, "that sounds about right. But -- how will I get back out?"

"Quietly?" suggested Brady with a shrug. "Quit over-thinking everything. You need to get a few things, so just try and think happy thoughts..."

"Happy thoughts?" asked Mark. "I don't think I have any happy thoughts right now."

Brady grinned and picked up the duffel bag, throwing it over his shoulder, and followed Mark into the hallway. "Sure you do. We'll get to spend the night together without having to worry about anything."

"Will we get to snuggle?" asked Mark.

"Ummmm, no. Probably not."

"What?" Mark looked offended. "Why not?"

"'Cause you're not gay, remember?" teased Brady, walking down the hall toward the stairs.

"Nuh-huh, I am!"

Brady grinned and started to hop down the stairs. "That's not what you told me."

"But -- but I... I was confused," Mark tried to explain.

"Try telling that to your dad," said Brady, poking his tongue out at Mark.

Mark's shoulders dropped into a slouch. "Why are you being so mean?"

"I'm not, silly. I'm just messin' with you."

"Well... stop it!" demanded Mark, forcing himself to frown. "I'm under a lot of pressure right now."

Not giving Mark's attempt to look pathetic any attention, Brady continued down the stairs. "Get your butt over to you house. I'll meet you back here in fifteen minutes."

Mark swallowed an invisible mouthful of anxiety and walked down the stairs. "This isn't fair," he protested. "Why do I have to go alone?"

"Because four feet are a lot louder than two. Not to mention I'm probably not a person your dad wants to see around at the moment," explained Brady. "Now quit wasting time and go."

"Fine..." Mark sat down on the stairs and reached for his shoes. "But if I don't come back it's all your fault. And all for a couple of t-shirts and twenty bucks."

"Twenty bucks?" asked Brady, making sure he was hearing right. "Is that all you have?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah, well actually there is a bit more, but its still in pounds."

"Oh. Well maybe we'll find a place where we can exchange it, but whatever. Twenty dollars is still better than nothing."

"Better than nothing? You got some money, right?"

"Yeah," replied Brady. "About a year's worth of allowance, which sounds like a lot more than it actually is. But it should get us on a train or bus or something, and supply us with some food."

Mark finished tying his shoes and stood up. "Well, I guess there's no more avoiding it... I'll be right back." Mark opened the door and started to walk away, but then he stopped and turned back around. "And you might want to change out of that nasty, wet shirt you're wearing."

Brady looked down at himself and tugged at his shirt, which reminded him how wet it actually was. "Oh yeah -- right. I'll do that now," he said, pulling the shirt off immediately.

"Okay, I'm gone," said Mark, turning back around and running toward his house.

Closing the door, Brady turned around and walked into the kitchen to get his wallet. While doing so, he also grabbed a pen and notepad from the drawer beside the fridge and sat down at the table: