11.13.98
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"Yeah. Yeah. Okay, I'll keep an eye out, then. Thanks, bye." Ruth hung up, leaving her hand on the handset for a moment, thinking over the words of the caller. They'd only been here for... Well, almost a year. Not inconcievable that someone had seen through the 'happy family' façade. Damn... What were they going to do with the kid? Turning away from the phone, she crosses her arms and strolls towards the front of the house, pausing just inside the living room.

She watched Neetles for a few minutes, noting the presence of a sketchbook. It was strange... There was somthing -off- about the child, something that wasn't quite the same since he'd come to live with them... Unsure of what it was, though, she chalked it up to the aftereffects of what had been done to him. Sometimes, in rare fits of maternal kindliness, she regretted not being able to pay more attention to him.

"Neetles... Neets, wake up."

"Huh? No, g'way... Pleas', don'..." He bats ineffectually at the hand on his shoulder, the panic and fear in his voice weak with sleep, a token effort at keeping It from happening again...

"What's the matter? C'mon, kid, you need to get up."

Neetlemyre finally opens his eyes, finally determining that it wasn't The Voice, but rather the woman that said she was his mother. "Mm, nothin'... Jus'... A bad dre'm, 'sall. Wha's goin' on?" Sitting up, he rubbed at the side of his face, squinting at the green numbers glowing softly on the face of his clock. Three twenty-seven in the morning?

"Oh... Sorry. C'mon, we have to leave. We... We're going on a trip, and the flight leaves in forty-five minutes."

"A trip? 'Kay..." Strange... He hadn't heard anything about this. Oh well, maybe they'd go someplace with lots of sun and sand and not a shred of That Guy. Maybe they'd stay there...

"Yeah. Spur of the moment kind of thing... Grab some clothes and your favorite stuff and we'll split." She pauses in the doorway of his room, frowning. "We're not going to be coming back here, so be sure you have everything you want."

All alone in a semi-familiar house, hiding his fear the only way he knew how, letting Cold take on the world.

"You're cute... But ain't you a little young to be working here?" The man grinned at him, leaning over and reaching out to do who knew what... Chuck him under the chin, probably.

"Don' work here. An' don' touch me!" The words are growled out, the young man's hand rising and catching the finger extended towards him, pressure exerted just-so...

"Ow! Damn, that -hurt-... You're a boy!?" The man jerked his hand out of Neetles' grasp, scowling in puzzlement.

"Yeah, 'ma boy..." Folding his arms, he snorts and glowers right back. "S'posed to 'urt. Don' wantchya touchin' me."

"Oh... Well. You shouldn't sit there like that... And get a haircut!" Grumbling to himself, he stalks off towards the dining room, cradling his aching digit.

"Serves'im ri't. Get'a 'aircut... Hmmph." He liked it like this... And besides, he could never figure out what would suit his face the best whenever the subject of trimming his hair came up... Not that it did, much. So, it was down to his shoulders and a nice shade of dark green, like emerald or a particularly lush grass. Or something poetic like that.