Davy whistled softly as he kicked the door shut behind himself and strolled over to the kitchen table; he unfolded the morning paper and scanned the headlines briefly, glancing up once to smile at Peter, who was already busily stirring up what looked like waffle batter.
Peter hadn't yet gotten around to setting the table, but Davy refolded the paper and dropped it at Mike's place anyway as he always did.
I suppose I could help, he thought, then immediately matched deed to word, nudging Peter out of the way so he could reach the cabinet where they kept the plates.
His thoughts wandered as he put himself on auto-pilot, scurrying around the table setting out the plates, napkins, silverware and glasses; memories of the pleasant evening he'd spent with Claire three nights before crowded his mind, and he smiled to himself, determined to repeat the experience again as soon as possible.
Once he'd finished that task, he turned to see if there was anything else he could help Peter with just in time to see Peter suck in a horrified breath as he turned and looked at the table. Davy darted a puzzled glance between Peter—who stood frozen, his face stricken with pain—and the table.
And then it hit him.
He'd set it for five.
He'd even tucked the newspaper neatly under the edge of Mike's plate.
As usual.
"Peter!" he gasped, appalled by his own insensitive blunder. "I'm sorry, man—I wasn't thinking! I was just—"
"It's okay," Peter replied in a low, shaky voice. "I understand. It was habit."
"Yeah," he nodded, relieved that Peter wasn't totally freaking out over this. "I was thinking about something else entirely, and..." he trailed off significantly.
"Just...put it away," Peter said, turning back to his bowl of waffle batter and stirring it again with more vigor than before.
"Right." Davy hustled to snatch up the fifth place setting, practically throwing everything back into its respective cabinet or drawer, and he even tossed the paper on the end table where whoever wanted it first could find it.
It was strange how different dynamics formed with different people. If asked, Davy would call Micky his friend, a pal he could hang out with and have fun with. Peter was his little brother, someone who needed looking out for from time to time, who could be annoying but who was lovable in his own goofy way. And Mike had always been the most inaccessible one of them. He was like the older brother who was somewhat remote and distant—until you needed him, and then he'd threaten the bullies who were bothering you, or patch you up after a fight and back up your lie about how it happened to your parents, or show you how to throw a ball in a way that would guarantee you got picked first for a team.
Not particularly close, but always there.
Odd, he thought as he escaped to the downstairs bedroom before he could make any more painful errors. You don't realize how big a place someone has in your life, how much they affect even the little things until they're gone. And then it's too late.
He strode along the sand with more purpose now, no longer shuffling as he had before. He couldn't really; Wolf had set too quick a pace. If he faltered, if he stumbled, he would be left behind, and the last thing he wanted to do was lose sight of the one concrete thing he'd found to focus on since he'd arrived. Since he'd arrived...
When had he gotten here? How long had he been wandering? Where did he come from? And how had he gotten here in the first place?
So many questions. And no answers.
"Who are you, boy?" Wolf asked without stopping or even slowing down a fraction.
I don't know,he thought, not even bothering to consider it for a moment first.
"Still don't know who you are, eh?" Wolf snorted disdainfully. "Common problem. Seems you've got a worse case of it than most. Tell me something about yourself then. Let's see if we can figure it out that way."
I must be pretty darn stupid to be wandering around in the desert in the middle of the night talking to a wolf. Stupid or crazy.
Wolf let out a bark that he assumed was its version of laughter. "A smart-mouth, huh? Well, at least you've got a sense of humor. That's a start."
He shrugged even though Wolf wasn't looking at him, but a tiny grain of hope took root and began to bloom. Perhaps he would regain his memory. Perhaps he would reach the cliff after all.
"Hey, you decent?" This unusual greeting was accompanied by a series of distinctive knocks on the bedroom door that could only have come from Micky.
"Yes, come on in," Isabel called back, not looking away from the mirror hanging over the dresser as she concentrated on working her hair into a French braid. She was fully dressed, getting ready to go to work for the first time since Mike's disappearance; she dreaded having to spend the entire day away from the Pad, knowing she would have to quell the urge to call every few minutes to see if there had been any news or if by some miracle he'd returned.
The door swung open, and Micky peered around it as if to make sure it really was safe for him to walk in without risking seeing something he shouldn't.
"I just need to get a clean shirt," he explained, and she glanced over at him and nodded, absently noting he was still in his pajamas.
He moved to stand next to her in front of the dresser, then knelt down and yanked open the lowest drawer; a burst of fabric immediately exploded from its confinement, and he darted a sheepish grin up at her as she regarded the assortment of garments he'd carelessly stuffed in there, one eyebrow arched in amusement. His graceful fingers sorted through the mess until he found the one he wanted—one of his long sleeved striped shirts—and pulled it out, trying in vain to shake out the wrinkles.
"Yeah, yeah—I'm the slob," he admitted, and Isabel shot him a dead-pan look.
"No!" she exclaimed in mock-surprise.
He stuck his tongue out at her, then gestured to all the clutter that littered the top of the dresser.
"Most of this is mine," he explained. "Mike's a little neater, and he doesn't have as much—"
"Junk?" she supplied helpfully, earning a full-fledged raspberry this time.
"Stuff," he corrected indignantly.
She laughed softly and finished off the braid, reaching for the ribbon she planned to use to hold it in place at the nape of her neck; it was always awkward trying to get the bow straight, and he noticed her minor tussle with the uncooperative ribbon.
"Want me to do that?" Micky offered, extending his hand, and she willingly gave him the ribbon.
He took a sideways step to stand directly behind her, looping the ribbon around the braid she held in place, careful not to catch her fingers up in it, tied it in a bow, then smiled at her in the mirror, pleased with his accomplishment. It was only then he noticed the tears beaded on her lashes, threatening to fall.
"Izzy? What is it?" he asked softly, slipping his arms around her and pulling her against him in a comforting embrace. "Are you thinking about Mike again?"
She nodded mutely, afraid to trust her voice, and he gave her a sympathetic squeeze in response.
"I was just thinking..." she murmured, wiping away the unshed tears with the back of her hand. "He—he liked to brush my hair."
"Mike?!" he cried, his eyes alight with surprise and glee at this new tidbit.
"Yeah, Mike." She slanted a half-smile up at him. "He used to threaten to break up with me if I ever cut it. Seems he had a thing for long hair."
"Yeah, I figured," he replied with a quiet chuckle. "He couldn't keep his hands off it. Remember that time he threw your ribbon out the car window?" He burst into a giggle-fit, and Isabel joined him.
"I was so mad!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "He could be so irritating at times..."
"Oh, you loved it," he retorted.
"Yeah, I did—" She cut herself off abruptly, a horrified look creeping over her face as she stared at Micky in the mirror. "I do!" she corrected hastily. "Micky—we're talking about him like he's dead!"
His eyes widened as the truth of her words sank in, and he opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Mike wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He was too young—he still had things to do—goals to accomplish—people who needed him. And until Micky was faced with concrete proof to the contrary, he refused to allow himself to think anything but that Mike was going to walk in at any given moment. He'd explain what had happened—and it had better be a darn good explanation!—and they'd light into him for scaring the life out of them for so long, and then things would settle down back to normal again.
Micky wanted normality again—he wanted it more than anything else in the world. So many awful things had happened to them over the past few months; it seemed like there had been one trauma after another lately, and he was ready for it to end, for all of them to be happy and healthy once more.
He released a long, slow breath and tightened his hold around Isabel, drawing comfort and strength from her at the same time he offered it.
Was that too much to ask for?
Apparently at the moment, it was.
"Well."
Wolf trotted over to the base of the sheer wall and sat down, curling its bushy tail around its front paws as it grinned at him.
"You're here."
He strolled over to stand next to Wolf and looked up...and up...and up until his neck ached with the effort. From this angle, the cliff seemed endless, rising up to touch the very base of Heaven.
"Go on up," Wolf said casually.
He glanced down at Wolf, arching one eyebrow.
You must be joking.
"No," it replied with inexorable sternness. "Look around you, boy. Where can you go?"
He turned to face the direction from which they'd just come, regarding the vast wasteland dispassionately. It stretched out for miles, a sea of white sand, with little else than rocks, tiny scrub-brush and bleached animal bones to break the monotony.
Up, he thought. Or back.
He looked up the steep wall again, trying to judge his chance of scaling it successfully; careful scrutiny showed that it was pocked with ledges and crevasses that could serve as hand- and foot-holds all the way. And he wasn't afraid of heights...was he?
No. Fear was not the emotion dominating him now. An overwhelming sense of fatigue and futility, yes, but not fear.
For one brief moment he considered turning around and retracing his steps in an effort to find his way back from wherever it was he'd come from in the first place.
But no sooner had the thought formed in his mind than he rejected it.
If he turned back, Wolf would leave him, and he would drift through the desert alone until his bones were among those alternately hidden and revealed by the ever-shifting sands. Somehow he knew that the only path that led (home) to the place he'd come from began at the foot of this cliff.
He let out a short, annoyed snort, squared his shoulders and approached the wall, searching for the first set of hand-holds. There were a pair of ledges about six inches long and no more than an inch wide about a foot over his head, easily within reach. Slipping his fingers onto the tiny ledges, he tugged hard, testing their stability, and when they held, he decided to risk it. With a soft grunt, he used them to pull himself up, scrabbling until his boots caught on another small ledge perhaps two or three feet off the ground, and there he perched, clinging to the side of the cliff like some odd barnacle, barely off the desert floor. It wasn't so bad now, but another twenty or thirty feet up...
What? No net? he thought with a silent, ironic snicker, and to his surprise, Wolf barked out its strange laughter with him.
"No net and no rope," it informed him as it sat, unmoving, simply watching his halting progress with what looked like a light of amusement in its glowing saffron eyes. "You're on your own. Just remember—if you fall, it's a long way down."
It was laughing at him now, and he glared down at it balefully.
Thanks for the encouragement.
Suddenly Wolf rose to all four feet and loped away without so much as a single glance back, and he felt a surge of panic as he watched it go; he almost leaped off the wall and ran after it, but something held him back, warning him to stay where he was.
Hey! Where are you going?
"Don't worry, silly child!" came the fading reply, thinned by distance and the night wind. "I'm with you. I'm with you always."
And with that, it disappeared, leaving him alone once more. He watched for a moment, hoping that it might return, but long moments passed, and there was no sign of life. The muscles in his arms twitched, beginning to ache from the strain of supporting most of his weight without relief, and with a resigned sigh, he turned his gaze upward again, seeking out the next possible hand-hold in his arduous climb.
Peter yawned and stretched as he shuffled across the living room to the downstairs bathroom, still in his orange pajamas; even though Isabel was staying with them until Mike returned, he didn't worry about getting dressed before emerging from the bedroom since he was always the first one up, and she was a late riser.
Thus he barely repressed the cry of fright that sprang to his lips when he glanced up and saw her perched on the windowseat, her knees tucked under her chin as she watched him.
"Isabel!" he gasped, pressing one hand to his chest. "What are you doing up?" "I haven't been to sleep," she replied quietly, her dark, steady gaze never wavering from his.
He gave her a look that was a mixture of sympathy and concern as he moved to sit down next to her; she turned her face back to the view outside the window, staring sightlessly at the sun rising over the beach, and Peter looked at her, taking in the dark circles bruising the tender skin beneath her eyes, the lines of worry etched on her features. Finally he noticed what she was wearing: Mike's black shirt.
He reached out and stroked the fabric of the sleeve gently, and she smiled slightly in response.
"It has his scent," she said, her voice jagged as if she were trying to contain tears, and Peter nodded, understanding completely.
"I miss him too," he murmured.
Suddenly, she shifted in place so that she could cuddle next to him, and he instinctively put his arm around her, giving her a comforting squeeze. With a sigh of pure exhaustion, she leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
"I keep dreaming he's lost," she whispered. "That he's out there somewhere alone, and he can't find his way back. It scares me so much—it could be true—"
"No, no, it isn't true," he replied, trying to sound reassuring. "He's not lost. He'll come home. He will."
"Then why hasn't he already?"
And Peter was silent. That was one question for which he had no answer, and the only person who could answer it was beyond their reach.
Sweat rolled down his face—down his entire body—as he strained to haul himself up the sheer cliff-side another few inches; he didn't dare look down. Not anymore. He was too far off the ground and too far away from the top to look anywhere but a few feet above his head, his bleary eyes straining for the sight of the next cleft that would support his groping hands.
His fingers were also growing slick with sweat, and he had to pause every so often to wipe them one at a time on his shirt; the pads were abraded, and the last couple of times he'd swiped his fingers dry, they'd left faint reddish streaks on the fabric.
A near-constant shower of pebbles struck his face, and dirt blew into his eyes and up his nose, making him fight back sneezes. One ill-timed achoo, and he'd find himself right back at the bottom of the cliff with a broken neck for his troubles.
Who are you, boy?
Not again...
He let out a low groan as he forced his left leg up, trying to ignore the steady burn that had been growing in his calf muscles.
Who are you? Wolf was more insistent now, and he had to fight the urge to snap back that this was not the best time for him to be distracted by questions about his mysterious identity.
Mike.
He went utterly still as the name swirled around in his head; he tested it, seeing if it felt right, and it did, but there was something more...
Peter.
Which is it?
That's what you'll have to figure out, came the unhelpful and highly irritating reply.
With an audible huff, he cleared his mind for the moment, concentrating on pulling himself further up, closer to the top. He felt as if he could be out-paced by a snail, but he didn't dare try to speed up; the risk was too great at this point. Instead, he fought against the muscles in his arms and legs that felt as if they were being stretched to the snapping point, forcing himself to keep moving.
Abruptly, an image flashed in his head—a girl. Dark haired. Dark eyed. Somber faced.
I saw when you walked by the love-light in your eyes...
A name hovered on the edge of his awareness, but he couldn't quite grasp it.
I have no more than I did before, but now I've got all that I need...
He growled out his frustration, a spurt of anger sending fresh energy coursing through his veins and spurring him upward another foot or two.
Another face—a young man. Sandy-blond hair. A dimpled smile.
I don't think you know me at all...
Beechwood.
When I find my boots, I know I gotta go. What am I doin hangin’ round?
There's no end to my sorrow, he thought, an endless litany running through his brain, punctuated by flashes of people, places...
A young man with a curly brown hair. Making an exaggerated face. I'm feelin low...oh, no no—
NO!
His slippery fingers lost their hold, and he felt himself teetering backwards; he flailed his arm frantically—grasping at any slight indentation in the rock—seeking a perch—and finally—finally! finding one again.
He clung to the wall, panting, his heart pounding in his throat at the near-miss. Gradually his panic receded, and he began to move again.
Another face shimmered in his memory. A young man with straight dark hair and wide dark eyes.
How I wish I could borrow someone else's shoes...
He hazarded a glance up and found that he was perhaps ten feet from the top of the cliff, and the joy that exploded within him was almost enough to send him into freefall. He climbed with renewed vigor, scrabbling to find another jutting rock, another place to put his hands and his feet to lever himself up that much faster.
I am Mike, he thought, certain of it for the first time since...since he didn't know when. He knew his name.
Who are you, boy? came Wolf's mournful howl.
I'm Mike! he thought proudly, determined to hold onto this scrap of information now that it had finally returned to him.
Who is Mike?
He paused, feeling his jaw hanging open uselessly. He tried to assimilate a sense of self, of who he was, what he liked, what he disliked, who the people he kept seeing in his mind were, but those memories, that knowledge remained elusive.
I--I don't know...
Then you're not there yet, are you? And once more, he knew without a doubt that Wolf was laughing at him.
Clamping down on his rising temper, he ignored the creature's taunting and kept climbing; five minutes may have passed...or perhaps it was an hour...perhaps more...but at last...at long last, his groping fingers met with open air. He glanced up, shocked, and realized he was mere inches away from reaching the top of the cliff at last.
Robert Michael...
He grabbed the edge of the cliff, calling on the last dregs of strength that remained in his weary limbs as he kicked and struggled to pull himself up and over—
Mary Isabel...
—And he floundered gracelessly, the upper half of his body anchored on the flat, barren surface of the ground at the top of the cliff, the lower half still dangling precariously in mid-air.
Peter...Micky...Davy...
He struggled to his feet, standing upright on shaky legs that threatened to collapse beneath him at any moment, but he remained standing through sheer force of will, raising both fists triumphantly.
"I remember!"
And the echo rang out across the empty sand below, each reverberation growing until the very stars seemed to shimmer with the strength of his cry.
Davy stood by the bandstand, a thousand thoughts whirling around in his brain as he somberly regarded the assortment of instruments that rested there. He reached out and skimmed his fingertips along Mike's guitar, barely touching it enough to register the feel of its smooth veneer.
"Davy?" Peter asked softly, and Davy jumped at the sudden intrusion on his reverie.
He whirled around to face Peter, scowling a little, and Peter smiled apologetically. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to scare you. What were you thinking about?"
"D'you even have to ask?" Davy retorted, and Peter shook his head, his expression melancholy. "It's been days, Peter. I'm beginning to think—" he cut himself off abruptly, not wanting to speak the words even though they were uppermost in his mind.
"To think what?" Peter persisted.
"That's he's not ever coming back."
"No!"
Both Peter and Davy glanced up at the upper level of the house to see Isabel clutching the rail in a white-knuckled grip, her eyes almost wild as she stared down at them.
"Don't say that!" she cried, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Don't you dare say that! He will come back—I know he will!"
"Isabel," Davy began hesitantly. "I thought so too the first couple of days, but it's been so long now...And we haven't heard anything. The chances of him coming back now...Well, they're growing smaller every day."
With a fierce growl, she launched herself down the stairs and squared off in front of Davy, glaring balefully at him.
"How can you give up so easily?" she demanded, threatening him with one small fist. "You call yourself his friend? Pronouncing him dead already? I suppose you want to pack up all his stuff and start looking for a new lead guitar player too!"
Davy's face drained of all color as he gaped at her, his full lips parted, but no sound came out. Mutely, he shook his head, and for a moment, she thought she saw tears shimmering in his wide brown eyes.
"No—No, that's not what I meant at all—" he stammered.
"Sweetheart, calm down." Peter hurried to her side, clasping her shoulders, but she twisted free of his grasp, backing away to spit fire at them both with her eyes.
"I will not give up on him, do you hear me?" she declared. "He's not dead—he's lost! He's lost, but he's trying to find his way home."
"How do you know?" Peter asked softly, fixing her with eyes that pleaded for any reassurance she could offer.
Isabel drew herself up to her full height with enviable dignity, fighting to keep her voice steady as she replied, "If he were dead, I'd know it. But I still feel him. Here."
And she briefly touched her chest just over her heart before whirling around and dashing back upstairs. Dead silence followed, and the slamming of the bedroom door sent echoes trembling through them both.
"That's all very well," Wolf said as it pattered up and sat down beside him. "So you remember names and places and events, but those mean nothing out of context. The important question still remains: who are you?"
Mike shook his head, frowning slightly. He still didn't know how to answer that. He felt like a puzzle with some of the pieces—small but important ones—missing; bits of himself had been snatched away, and he needed to find them again, but how?
"You could ask," Wolf suggested.
Ask who?
"Those who know you best. You want to know who you are? Start by finding out how others see you. That will go a little ways towards solving the mystery. The rest you'll have to manage on your own."
But...how...?
"Call them to you, boy," said Wolf, a trace of impatience in its voice. "Ask them what you would know."
He glanced down at Wolf uncertainly. Call them...? How was he supposed to do that?
"Don't think—just do it," Wolf ordered.
And so he stood on the edge; below him, the desert sprawled out as far as his eyes could see, to the horizon and beyond. The sand shone silver under the full moon's pale light, and what few scrub bushes there were cast long shadows like fingers stretching across the sand. Overhead, a canopy of stars glistened in the black velvet sky, and he felt the caress of the night wind, chilling his skin, ruffling his hair.
He closed his eyes, picturing those dearest to him, seeing them in his mind, and when he opened his eyes again, there they were, ghost-images shimmering in mid-air before him. A smile curved his lips unbidden, and he reached out—and as one, they began to sneer at him and laugh as they turned and walked away.
And then he remembered why he'd left in the first place. He'd thought he was important to them, but he'd learned he was not. He could be replaced—and he had been.
They didn't want him.
They didn't need him.
No one needed him.
He'd learned that he was useless...
"Little fool!" Wolf's irritated exclamation jolted him out of his daze. "Are you so plagued with fear that you can't tell the truth from the lie anymore? Old Man Coyote's after you, boy. Call them one by one. Look for the truth that lies beyond your own doubt."
And so he tried again, concentrating on one person this time...
Davy...
He called to Davy, and Davy came, knuckling sleep from his eyes and yawning, but when he looked up, his entire face lit up with excitement.
Who am I?
"You're Mike!" he replied, happiness pitching his voice even higher than usual.
Who is Mike?
"My friend," he answered promptly, and then his expression clouded over. "And my rival."
Why?
"You're always so in control," Davy said slowly, seeming puzzled as if he were saying things that he hadn't consciously thought out before. "You don't try to be a leader, but people instinctively turn to you because they know you are one. You walk into a room, and everyone knows you're there even if you don't say or do anything. It's funny, y'know—I want attention, and I have to work to get it. You don't want it, but you get it anyway. I envy that. But you're my friend, man," he added in a gentler tone. "I'd do anything for you."
And far away in the Pad, Davy tossed in his bed, gradually relaxing as he eased into a deeper, more peaceful slumber.
"Do anything...for any of you..." he mumbled, then fell silent and still once more.
"Who do you want to see next, child?" Wolf asked.
Micky...
And there he was, bouncing up and down on his toes, his features suffused with delight.
Who am I?
"You're Mike!" Micky shouted, clapping his hands and grinning broadly.
Who is Mike?
"My buddy," came the prompt reply. "The one I most want to make laugh."
Why?
"Because you need to, man," Micky said, and concern was evident in the depths of his eyes. "You're so serious all the time. So responsible. I like it when you loosen up and laugh with us. It makes me feel like I've helped you forget."
Forget what?
Micky shrugged. "Whatever it is that makes you hide behind walls. I know we lean on you a lot—maybe more than we should—but I think you forget it's okay for you to lean on us too."
On the couch, Micky rolled onto his side, still smiling.
"It's okay, man..." he murmured drowsily. "We're here for you too..." And then he sighed and drifted off once more.
"Two more," said Wolf. "Which one shall it be?"
Peter...
He didn't know what to expect, but even so, the cry of pure joy that sprang from Peter's lips came as a surprise. Peter clasped his hands together, beaming as he stood there in his orange pajamas with the blue bunny, his nightcap askew.
Who am I?
"You're Mike!" Peter exclaimed, dimples flashing. "Oh, I'm so glad you're okay—"
Who is Mike?
"You mean you still don't remember?" Peter's face crumpled, etched with disappointment.
Who is Mike?
"My brother," he answered softly.
Why?
"Because you look after me," he said, his eyes glowing with affection. "I'm safe when I'm with you, and I trust you more than anybody else in the world. And you—all of you—accept me like I am, and you don't expect me to change. And we don't expect you to either."
Even in sleep, Peter's dimples cut deep grooves in his cheeks as he whispered, "I love you, Mike...I love all of you..."
Then he snuggled closer to his teddy bear and floated back into dreamless slumber.
In her dream, Isabel was flying, soaring through a cloudless sky, the stars glittering around her like diamonds. Below her was a vast wasteland stretching out beyond the curve of the earth, and she quailed at the sight, sensing that to let her feet touch those shifting sands was to court oblivion.
A massive cliff rose up before her, and she thought to sweep past, and then her gaze fell on a solitary figure standing at the edge. Curious, she moved closer—
Mike.
Alive! she thought, and immediately sailed over to land gracefully behind him. He turned towards her slowly, his face utterly blank.
"Who am I?" he asked, his light tenor voice a hollow echo of itself, dull and lifeless.
"You're Mike," she replied, fighting to keep herself calm. Even in my dream he hasn't regained his own identity! she thought bitterly. Who knows what's going on in the waking world...
"Do you love me?"
His expression sharpened then, and as she watched, it seemed as if his features began to shift. His dark brown eyes turned yellow and feral—then they were brown again. His nose, mouth and chin elongated into a snout—then it receded. Fleeting glimpses of a wolf-face transposed over his own, then gone again as quick as a thought.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation. How could he doubt her feelings for him? Neither of them were much for saying the words, but she tried to show him.
"Why?"
"Because you're Mike," came her quiet response. "That's reason enough."
"Who am I?" he asked again, and it seemed to her that his voice was not so ghostly this time.
"You are infinitely strong," she began slowly, words coming to her from she knew not where. She only knew that she had to say them. "And infinitely vulnerable. You are cynical and disillusioned. You are an idealist and a romantic. You have the ability to hurt or heal with the power of your words, and you know how to use it to the best and worst of its extent. And that is only a small part of who you are."
"Ah..."
And with that sigh, he was gone.
The cliff, the desert—all disappeared, swallowed by a black void that loomed over her, threatening—
"No!"
It was an agonized plea that rang throughout every corner of the Pad, waking its other three inhabitants.
Micky was the first to reach her, throwing off his blanket, leaping to his feet and bounding upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. When he flung open the bedroom door, he saw Isabel huddled in Mike's bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, both hands covering her face as she rocked back and forth.
"What happened?" he asked, hurrying to the bedside.
Without thinking twice, he sat down beside her, gathering her in his arms, and he could feel her whole body shaking. He heard the rhythm of pounding feet on the metal steps, and moments later, Peter and Davy burst in, bleary but alarmed. Peter immediately took up position on her other side, adding his embrace to Micky's. Davy stood near the foot of the bed, watching with growing concern.
"What's going on, then?" he asked. "What's all the yelling about?"
"I think she had a nightmare," Micky said quietly as Peter rubbed her back in slow, comforting strokes.
"He leftme!" Isabel finally lowered her hands, and they could see the tear-tracks staining her cheeks. "He left me alone in the dark...just like my parents..."
"Who did, sweetheart?" Peter asked, but the look he exchanged with Micky and Davy said that they all three probably knew.
"Mike!" she wailed, the sheer force of her sobs threatening to cut off her words. "H-he w-was on a cliff—"
Three pairs of eyes grew round as saucers.
"Did you say a cliff?" Micky asked anxiously.
She nodded. "And he asked me who he was..."
"Whoa!" Davy exclaimed, clutching the back of the nearest chair for support.
"Did you dream that too, Davy?" Micky demanded.
"Too right I did!" he said vehemently. "And he asked me the same bloody question!"
"Me too, guys..." Peter offered hesitantly.
"Y-you mean we all had the same dream?" Isabel darted glances at each of their shell-shocked faces.
"I guess so..." Peter breathed, his eyes alight with amazement. "I wonder what it means..."
"Probably that we shouldn't have eaten that Chinese take-out for dinner," Davy retorted, earning dark glares from both Peter and Micky.
"C'mon, man—this is serious," Micky chided. "So, when he asked you who he was, did you tell him?"
"I had to," Peter blurted. "It was like I didn't have a choice!"
"Yeah..." Davy echoed softly, his brows knitting in a slight frown.
"What did you say?" Peter asked disingenuously.
"I don't remember," Davy replied curtly, and from his tone, the others knew that was an end to the matter as far as he was concerned.
"Me neither, man...Sorry..." Micky's gaze shifted guiltily to the floor.
"Well, whatever it was," Isabel said in barely above a whisper, still shivering from the after-effects of her fright. "I hope it was enough to bring him back."
Mike stood poised at the lip of the cliff, his eyes closed, his arms out-stretched to embrace the evening breeze as it flowed around him like a gentle caress. A tiny, pleased smile curved his lips as he immersed himself in the Now, enjoying the serenity of the moment without the terrifying obliteration of Self that had plagued him before.
"Who are you?" Wolf asked, its voice unusually quiet.
Without turning around to look at Wolf, Mike lowered his arms back to his sides, his smile widening as he gave the true answer.
I am myself.
"So you understand now." It was not asking a question, but Mike nodded anyway. "Good," it replied, and this time there was a trace of smug satisfaction in its tone. "There is another lesson. Peter learned not too long ago that not all members of his family are united by blood."
And neither are mine.
"No. You too have a family. If you want it. If you're willing to accept it. You weren't before."
No. I wasn't, he admitted to himself as well as to Wolf. I thought I didn't need anyone. I thought I had to be strong for everyone else.
"Foolishness," Wolf snorted. "No one can stand alone. Not all the time. Life is all about giving and taking. Too much of one, not enough of the other—and there lies trouble."
Suddenly he felt a warm, wet nose in his palm, and he glanced down, startled, to see Wolf pushing its head beneath his hand; he turned away from the edge of the cliff and faced Wolf, running his fingers through the coarse, bristling hair around its ears and brindled snout.
"Love them," Wolf said, its pale yellow eyes boring into his. "And let them love you."
Mike stared back at it, enraptured by the glowing feral eyes, unable to look away even if he wanted to.
I know you...
And that statement was greeted by a harsh bark of laughter as Wolf danced out of his grasp, backing up a pace or two and grinning up at him.
"You should!" it retorted tartly. "Ready to go home?"
Home...
He pictured the Pad in his mind, complete with wet towels on the floor, carelessly dropped there by either Davy or Micky; their jumble of instruments on the bandstand; the ocean outside the window; the eclectic mélange of signs—mostly thanks to Micky "Nimble-Fingers" Dolenz—and posters on the wall. They'd all brought something to the Pad, added their own touch, and although the result was a interior decorator's worst nightmare, it was a reflection of each of them.
"We got good harmony in a lot of ways."
They could look around and say, "This is Peter's," or "This is Micky's," but everything belonged to all of them as well. It was theirs. A collective endeavor.
"With someone else's voice, the song would sound different."
Even Isabel had made her presence felt with the hair ribbons that popped up in the oddest places—souvenirs of her short stay with them—and the habit they'd all adopted of tacitly agreeing not to start practice until she had arrived and taken her place on the couch.
"But I kinda like the way it sounds now."
"You're ready," Wolf announced—and without warning, it lunged forward, leaping up and dropping its heavy paws on Mike's shoulders, forcing him to support its full weight.
Instinctively, he grabbed Wolf, wrapping his arms around it to steady it as it leaned against his chest; he felt its hot breath on his face, its rough fur beneath his hands, a wild, spicy scent rising from its pelt and filling his nose. Gradually, Wolf's image before him shimmered and began to fade, disappearing until Mike grasped empty air.
Deep down inside the very core of his soul, the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
He was complete once more.
The doorknob rattled, and Micky glanced up, startled. Everyone else was here, so who—?
And then the door swung open, and Mike stood on the threshold, a weather-beaten scarecrow. His shirt was ripped, its hem ragged; his jeans were torn and filthy; his boots appeared mangled beyond repair. Dirt smudged every inch of skin that showed, he had several days' worth of beard growth, and his hair was an unkempt nest--a sure sign something had gone very wrong with Mike Nesmith.
But he was smiling, his eyes clear and sane again, and his expression held more tranquility than Micky had ever seen on that face before.
"M-Mike!" he yelped, finally regaining his voice as he leaped to his feet.
At that unexpected cry, Davy was alerted as well. In the kitchen, Peter dropped a stack of dishes, heedless of the thunderous crash as they shattered on the floor. He sprinted over to the door, pulling up short at the last minute, guilt and fear marring the joy evident on his face. He hung back, wringing his hands uncertainly, until Mike held out his arms in wordless invitation.
That was all it took.
A smile brilliant enough to rival the sun bloomed on Peter's face as he raced into his friend's arms, clinging to him as if he never wanted to let go. Mike wrapped his arms around Peter, returning the embrace in equal measure.
"I'm sorry, Michael," Peter whispered, his voice muffled as he leaned his head on Mike's shoulder. "I didn't mean to hurt you—that's the last thing I wanted to do—I'm so sorry—"
Mike said nothing; he merely reached up and stroked Peter's hair soothingly, comforting him as if he were a small child in need of a parent's—or a brother's—reassurance.
Peter released a long, slow sigh, feeling a sense of calmness stealing over him—at long last. It had been weeks since he'd felt anything akin to tranquility; and for some reason, he knew that at the moment, it wasn't coming from himself so much as it was Mike.
There was something different about him now, Peter realised. Being this close to him—mingling with his aura—felt like standing next to a pond of clear, smooth water. No ripples, no waves—just a smooth, glassy surface that was silent and still.
At rest. At peace.
Mike has made peace with himself! Peter thought, a burst of excitement detonating in his chest. That's the difference! And with that happy thought in mind, he could no longer keep still.
Meanwhile, Davy had slammed down the phone receiver mid-sentence and dashed over to stand beside Micky, grinning broadly as he watched Peter's enthusiastic greeting.
"We thought you were dead!" Peter exclaimed, pulling away just enough to hold Mike at arms' length. "We called the police and missing persons, but we couldn't find you, and then we all had that weird dream—"
Just then, Isabel opened the bathroom door, holding her unfinished braid in one hand, a black hair ribbon dangling from the other as she swept a curious glance around the room. "What's all the fuss—?"
The words died on her lips the moment she saw whom Peter was talking to; the blood drained from her face, leaving her pale as milk, and she felt her head going buzzy with shock.
Recognizing his cue, Peter backed away, and Mike stood alone, smiling at her. "Hey there," he said in a voice still husky from disuse.
"Hey there," she whispered, not trusting her voice at normal levels.
A heartbeat later, she was across the room and in his arms, ribbon fluttering to the floor temporarily forgotten, her braid unraveling with every movement. Flinging her arms around his waist, she buried her face against his chest, fighting back the tears that threatened to overtake her.
"I thought—I was so worried—"
"We're gonna get a big love scene now," Davy murmured, casting a mischievous look at the couple, thinking that Mike's ears would pick up the remark. To his surprise, however, there was no reaction; Mike slipped his arms around Isabel and rested his cheek against the top of her head, closing his eyes wearily, but he didn't seem as if he'd heard Davy at all.
Isabel felt Mike's arms around her—felt how thin they were—and when she skimmed her hands along his sides, she was horrified to realize she could literally count his ribs.
"Haven't you eaten?" she gasped, staring up at him with fearful eyes. How much damage had he done to himself? And where had he been all this time?
"No. Haven't slept much either," he said, sparking a deluge of questions from the other three, who suddenly crowded around him, chattering all at once in their excitement.
"Where have you been—?"
"Why didn't you eat? Why didn't you take any money—?"
"Why are you so dirty—?"
Isabel held up her hands, trying to ward them off when she felt him shaking, probably with sheer exhaustion. Quickly, she moved to stand beside him, supporting him as best she could with one arm around his waist.
"C'mon, we'll grill you later," she ordered with a fierce look at Micky, Peter and Davy who took the hint and subsided. "Do you want to get something to eat first?"
"No." He shook his head slowly, and she could feel him sagging against her. "Not even hungry anymore. Just wanna sleep."
Despite the seriousness of the situation, part of her was amused by the idea of her—a five foot nothing girl—assisting someone who was a good fourteen inches taller. We must look absurd, she thought with a slight smile. But she wasn't about to relinquish the task to anyone else.
Peter took a hesitant step forward as if he were going to offer, but one look at her expression, and he backed off again. She managed to get Mike upstairs and into the bedroom, but just as she was about to slip out of his grasp and leave him alone, he reached out and pushed the door shut—behind them.
"What—?"
"Stay with me."
"What?"
"Just until I fall asleep," he added. "I want to hold you."
"Sure..." she replied faintly. "I'd like that too."
"Good. Stay here."
With that, he shuffled over to his set of drawers, yanked one open and pawed through it until he found what he wanted, pulled out a pair of pajamas and headed for the bathroom.
"What are you doing?" she called after him, a slight frown forming between her brows.
"Shower," came the reply, and she did frown then.
"Are you sure you're up to that?" she pressed. "Shouldn't you just crash first?"
"Can't—not while I'm this dirty," he said, turning back to her, and she saw his face screwed up with distaste. "Ten minutes won't kill me." And with that, he shut the door, effectively ending the conversation.
With a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a sigh, she wrenched back the bedspread and top sheet on his bed, taking out some of her frustration on that, then she plopped down and sat drumming her fingers impatiently, irritated at him for pushing himself so hard when he was such a wreck.
Finally he emerged again, clad in both pajama bottoms and top, which was unusual for him; normally he didn't bother with the top, but she guessed he didn't want to upset her further by letting her see the emaciation she had already felt.
"You didn't shave," she remarked as he crossed over and sat down next to her.
"Hands are too shaky," he explained. "Didn't wanna cut my own throat."
She reached out and caressed his stubbled chin, then nuzzled his cheek lightly with her nose; he bent his head to tickle her cheek and neck with the partial beard growth, and she shivered at the tingling sensation it evoked.
"Mmm. I could get used to that," she murmured.
He smiled—and then his eyes turned intense as he grasped her chin and kissed her hungrily with a flare of energy she hadn't expected; it must have been the last remains of his depleted store, however, because no sooner had the initial burst died down than she felt him sagging again. She pulled away and saw that he was half-asleep already, his eyelids drooping as he wavered in place, looking ready to topple over at any second.
"Mike—" She stood up and, placing her hands on his shoulders, gave him a little push. "Lie down now. Go to sleep."
"Come here," he said drowsily, holding out one arm as he rolled onto his side to make room for her.
Without a second thought, she lay down with her back to him; he immediately wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, molding his body tightly against hers spoon-fashion. One contented sigh, and he was out. Fatigue overcame him at last, and he gave up his struggle against it.
Isabel, however, was not able to relax so easily. As grateful as she was that he was back home safely, a tiny, frightened voice in the back of her mind wondered—and worried—when he would take off like that again. No notice. No warning. Just all of a sudden gone.
Intellectually, she knew he'd done it as a coping device; after submerging his own personality, he must have needed time and space to find himself again, and from what she could tell, his journey of self-rediscovery must have been successful. He seemed more settled, at any rate.
But her heart was terrified that he would abandon her again, and she would have to go through another time of agonizing fear, of grieving, of loss...She didn't know if she could handle losing him—losing anyone—again. Not after her parents. It was too much, too painful, and she just wasn't sure she was willing to risk her heart like that again.
But for the moment, she was in his arms again, secure in the knowledge that he was alive and seemingly whole again. For now, it would have to suffice.
And the future would take care of itself.
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