Opening the front door is the first mistake Lacey Waits makes upon finally returning home.

The kitchen light is on when she enters, and pressed up to the wall with the home phone to his ear is her father, one hand on the receiver and the other stuck between his teeth, something for him to bite on. The very moment he sees that door swing open and her face coming through it, he bites down hard enough on his finger to draw blood. There's a clatter as the phone slips out of his hand and bangs against the wall from its cord. His palms rush to his face, and he covers everything with his hands.

"Uh..." Lacey says. Is it too late for her to go back outside?

Before she can entertain the idea long enough to consider its fruition, Jeremy wrenches the palms from his cheeks and grapples with the phone again. When he speaks, his voice comes out empty, low. Raw. "She just came home. Thank you for your patience and time and for helping, just, thank you, officer. Have a good one."

For a while, he continues hovering there, his eyes pointed at the corner of the wall. They're bloodshot and glossy, and the water breaks and streams down his red face. He tries to hold it back, clearly, there's strain, but it doesn't work. It must frustrate him further. When he hangs up the phone, it slams, and the wall shakes beneath the force of it. Then the vesseled whites of his eyes sic themselves on her. "Where the hell were you, Lacey-bug?"

There is anguish at the back of his throat but the nickname throws it off. Like he can't tell whether to be angry and lash out or to fall back on good years long gone.

"I haven't seen you in two," he shakes two fingers at her from where he stands, "two fucking days, and all you send me is a text this morning at like five in the fucking morning that I don't even know, I didn't even know if it's, if it was real or not and then while all this stuff is happening with all these kids going missing and Stella just died, someone close to us just died, Lacey, do you understand that? A girl died and I thought maybe you-" His voice cracks and his eyes fill with liquid again and he stops to suck in a breath. He tries to compose himself, too, but the moment he exhales he has to shake his head and turn around. His shoulders are all that face her now and they quake.

A heavy, heavy guilt falls on her. It's not like her father isn't a crier - he's always been more sensitive than anyone else she's met (well, until Gideon) - but still, there's something that sets off alarm bells when she sees him like this, all worked up and wet-eyed. No matter how many times you see your father cry, it never feels normal. And no matter how many times she's seen her father cry, she still doesn't know how to handle it. She just stands there, dumbfounded. Should she say something?

Gideon comes in from behind her, stepping warily. He utters a meek, "Hi, Mister Waits. I'm sorry I kept her so long. She was helping me." It sounds hollow. Guilt. That's not your fault, though, she wants to say but doesn't.

His presence seems to off-put her father. He shifts and it seems that it becomes a bit easier for him to put himself back together. He turns back, breathing through his mouth. Sounds nasally, clogged. "Just please don't do that again. You're grounded. You are not leaving without someone with you the whole time, ever, and even then, I want to supervise. Don't do that again. I almost had a heart attack. Don't. Not again."

"I'm sorry," Lacey says, squirming. "I won't." Change the topic, change the topic. Out of mouth out of mind, y'know? "Uh...on a different note, can Gideon stay the night?"

It's so jarring Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut. He shakes his head, too, but the words out of his mouth are, "Yeah. Whatever. Just keep it down."

Shoulders drooping with exhaustion, he tries to pass by them into the next room, but he hesitates for a brief moment in front of Lacey. She instinctively pulls herself back - does he want to hug her? Scold her more? - but eventually he turns his head and continues into the dark living room, where he doesn't even bother to turn on the television. It's weird to see, and even more uncomfortable now that Gideon's watching it all play out.

She turns to the young man in question and pops her mouth as an awkward way of moving on. We'll forget about this in the morning and be back to normal again. "Alright. Up we go."

Gideon shoots a concerned look into the living room, but nevertheless, creaks up the stairs behind her.

* * *

The hour passes in a fit of complaining, in nodding off and eyeballing one another for every stomach rumble and joint pop. Gideon eventually gets sick of his own stench at the same time Lacey does, and he asks to use their bath at the same time she's about to offer it. Frankly, she was tired enough to knock out while he was practicing basic hygiene, but the hunger pangs kept her up, and so now, as he scrubs the muck from his skin upstairs, she stands down here in the corner of the kitchen, watching two bowls of soup spin around one another in the microwave. It's mind-numbing. A bit of mind-numbing is something she needs for two and a half minutes.

As the minutes drift into seconds, slippered pattering enters the kitchen. She glances back and there Jeremy is, hobbling into the kitchen on legs she didn't inherit and reaching up into high cabinets on those legs she didn't inherit. He comes down with two plain mugs and sets them on the counter. She watches as he finds two packets of powder and dumps the contents into those mugs. Curiosity gets the best of her. That, and he catches her side-eyeing him.

She clears her throat. "What are you doing?"

The microwave dings and she flinches. She moves quickly to remove the bowls. The steam burns her hand, but she pretends it doesn't just in case her father decides to lecture her about that, too.

"You looked shaken. Both of you. And you came in wet so I know you've been out in the rain. Just hot cocoa to warm y'all up." He claps the fridge door shut and takes custody of the microwave to boil milk. He swallows as he takes her place watching it and she stirs the broth. Truly, she's her father's daughter: he side-eyes her too and screws the corner of his mouth into an unpleasant knot. "You really scared me."

"I won't do it again," Lacey says, ducking her head. Conflict incoming. Abort mission.

"I feel like you're not fully understanding. I thought I lost my daughter. And not like when we got the divorce and your mother got full custody, not like that. I thought I really, really lost you and I'd never..." He clears his throat and wipes something from his eye. "Y'know, maybe I overreacted, I dunno. But I- I just got you back and I don't want to lose you again. I'm sure your mom would book it here and kill me herself if anything happened to you and I'd let her. You are my life. Alright? You're everything to me. So don't go off without saying anything and damn well not for that long."

"I heard you the first time you told me," Lacey whispers, but there's no intentional hostility behind it; it's simply the first thing to pop into her mind, a sudden defense against this onslaught. Maybe it sounds too harsh, but she's uncomfortable standing here with all these sentiments being flung at her. She doesn't even know how to deal with meltdowns from regular people, let alone her own father. Can't they just forget about it?

No. She's smart enough to know that's not an option. What she can do is give reassurance a try. "I'm not dumb enough to go get myself kidnapped, I swear," she offers. Sounded better in my head. I don't like being on the spot like this.

The hollows around Jeremy's eyes darken. "Everyone thought the same thing about Stella, too. But look what happened."

The microwave beeps and he turns his attention to slinging the door open and carefully pouring the milk into the mugs. As she swirls the broth, she finds her eyes begin to burn, to blur and waver. It's like that final blow, a gentle nudge forward by mention of Stella, finally put the steel spike into its proper place in the track. Chicken and carrots and noodles spin together, and so too does a pinch of rage, a cup of sadness, and a few teaspoons of disappointment in the big mixing bowl that is Lacey's gut. She compares this feeling to what her father might've felt a few short hours ago, and it starts to make sense. Oh. That was my fault. I'm a horrible person. And daughter.

Jeremy returns the milk to the fridge and comes out with a container of whipped cream, but as he turns around, Lacey surprises the both of them by rushing forward and wrapping her arms around his middle. Her arms tighten, and she holds herself close, like he might shove her away any moment and she'll have not shown enough of how sorry she is, like it won't go from her to him as apologies should. She knows it won't come out right if she tries to say it; it'll come out tired, worn, bored. It'll come out empty. But if she grips on tight and hugs her dad, really hugs her dad for the first time in, what, ten years? If she holds on tight, maybe it'll do what her words can't. Maybe he can forgive her for making him feel the way she made him.

Like shit.

His return of the hug is delayed, but eventually, his hands wrap around her and they hug it out. They don't say anything - all they can hear is the draining of bath water in the pipes upstairs - but they don't have to. Lacey, for all her fear of being pushed away, is the first to break the hug. She returns to the soups. "Can you help me carry everything up?" she asks. Her tone is lighter than it was.

"Yeah. I can."

Together, they carry everything upstairs. The soups and mugs are placed on her nightstand and, before departing, Jeremy plants a kiss on her forehead on the way out. She makes a face. He laughs and pats her face like it's the snout of some dog. Then he's out, and replacing the empty space is Gideon. He's dressed in some old clothes her father was trying to donate anyways. It's odd how similar they are in height and general lankiness. He doesn't seem bothered, though, head tilted as he rubs a towel over his hair to dry it.

"Wow," she says, nodding. "You don't smell like you took a bath in diarrhea. Congratulations, have soup." She holds out a bowl to him.

He scoffs at her comment but there's still a smile on his lips. He slings the towel over his shoulder and grabs the soup. "I was kinda worried those hands would come up and grab me while I was there. I went all the way under and then I was like, oh, crap, the demons can get skinny and slurp right on out the drain, can't they? So then I shot right up and bonked my head on the faucet." He starts laughing it off, but it's a nervous laugh. A laugh that's just a tad too much. He's definitely at his wit's end right now, but at least it's better than his sullen, melancholy attitudes as of late.

He seems more like himself again. It's comforting enough that Lacey reaches for her own bowl and leeches the warmth from it into her hands. Gideon sits on the opposite side of the bed, and the two of them, legs dangling over the side, begin to eat.

For a while, it's just spoons clinking against ceramic. But then Gideon gets curious. "So is it just your dad? I haven't seen your mom anywhere but I know he mentioned her."

She clicks her tongue as she chases noodles with her spoon. "Yeah. They got divorced."

Crickets. It's only once she looks up that she realizes he's waiting expectantly for more. In her tired haze, of course she'll continue (and, well, maybe she's feeling too relaxed to start closing up now).

"We used to all live here, but then I guess after a while my mom lost feelings. It happens. Then she kept going on about wanting to be one of those independent women who start fresh somewhere else, like a new life. Talked for two solid years about starting her own business, having her own home, y'know, those things. And my dad didn't want her to be miserable so they had a pretty clean divorce. She didn't want the house, so that was the easiest part. Me, not so much. My mom got custody and took me to Boston with her. She's kinda self-absorbed in her own stuff, but it's fine. I started homeschooling since I kept acting up in class because, y'know, dead people. Uh...things got really busy for her though so she decided to let me stay with dad for half the year. Just 'til she can get everything settled. So, here I am."

Gideon is attentive despite this rare instance of rambling. "Has it been a while since you've seen him, your dad?"

"Yeah."

"I could kind of tell." He chews for too long on his noodles - Lacey hasn't even been chewing, just swallowing them whole - so he must be lost in thought. She clears her throat. He swallows. "I just live with one parent too. My father dipped out when I was really young. I don't even remember the guy. But my mom's been trying to keep things afloat since. I'd say she's done a good job but it gets hard so I try to help where I can." Another pause. "I wasn't always great, though, like, I know I've made things harder than they needed to be too many times. She really had to fight me for a while to do good in school but I don't know, it's hard to work on subjects and things I'm not interested in, y'know? It's just...really hard. And then- ugh."

Instead of finishing his sentence, he just lifts the bowl and starts downing the broth.

"And then what?"

"Eh. I've just felt kinda alienated in the classroom for a long time. It's tough with ADHD. And then high school is just a nightmare sometimes because there's so many distractions, constantly, and I guess people like me but it's hard when teachers aren't patient and now I'm just completely dumping on you so I'm gonna keep drinking this broth, aight." The rim touches his lips but he stops himself. He's not done letting it all out. He needs this. "Erie sorta helped me feel more comfortable at school when I was still struggling there. He..."

He sets the bowl on his lap and stares into it, swishing the broth around. "He genuinely helped me academically. And socially. And...I felt less and less like I was in hell when I was in school and he was there and then in general, y'know, he helped me feel at home wherever I was, and I owe it to him for helping me learn how to do that for myself." He swallows, but this time it's harsh, heavy. "I really miss him, Lacey. I have to help him. We help each other, that's what we do. We build one another up, together. He's the best thing that's happened to me. He's not allowed to die. It'll kill me."

"We'll find him."

"I really, really want to believe you."

"Then believe me."

He sighs and sets his bowl aside. Lacey moves quickly - she won't let him fall back into that sullen self just yet, not after she's gotten him back - and hands him the mug with a mountain of whipped cream jiggling on top. His eyes widen, and a child-like joy fills them as he reaches out and accepts the mug. "For me?"

"For you, dork."

"I should stay here more often. I get the red carpet treatment. Five stars on Yelp for the Waits."

"Aside from the ghosts constantly flocking to my window to try and eat us?"

"It adds to the feel of the place." A comfortable sip floats on his lips and he scoots back on her bed, criss-cross applesauce, back to the wall. He closes his eyes in hot-cocoa induced bliss. "When did you start seeing ghosts, anyways? Was it like a 'maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Maybelline' thing, or was it gradual or like out of nowhere or-"

"I was seven. Like, the day I turned seven. I had a real small birthday party so it was just my parents and grandma and after cake I biked up and down the street while they hung out in the backyard. And I- hm." It's weird, saying these words aloud, transitioning into yet another thing she's never had the chance to share with anyone. Anyone living, anyways.

"See, the thing is, I saw this dark shadow down the street. And I was pedalling towards it still 'cause I thought maybe it was just someone crossing. But they didn't move from the spot. And I remember this really bad feeling, and it stunk like skunk ass, and I tried turning onto the sidewalk but then this old lady, she came running out in my way and, what d'ya know, there was dust coming out of her mouth and she was, like, coughing it up, and at the time it looked like she was trying to puke on me so I tried turning but I couldn't so I ran into her, but then I didn't because I just went straight through her, and naturally that was creepy so long story short I crashed my bike into a pole. Skinned my knee, started screaming blood murder. My parents came out and I tried telling them what happened but they just ignored me and blamed it on the sugar rush from the cake."

She takes a deep breath and frowns. "So that sucked. Oh, the old lady's name is Carol, by the way. Lovely lady. She helped me figure out what was going on after that. Granted, it still took awhile to get that image out of my head."

Gideon blinks. Then blinks again. "The fact that any of this is real at all still blows my mind. I feel like I'm dreaming half the time I'm awake." He sips his cocoa and when the mug comes down, he's got a thick chocolate mustache glued above his lip. Maybe it wouldn't have been so funny if that serious, far-off look wasn't still in his eye, but the fact of the matter is that it is.

Lacey can't help herself. She starts cracking up. He lifts his brows, confused and concerned. "What? What is it?"

Instead of giving a real response, she lifts a lock of her hair and twirls it. She places it beneath her nose and purses her lips, struggling not to laugh through the display. He makes a face at her but then, oh, then he catches sight of himself in the mirror. "Oh," he says. Then he starts chuckling too. It breaks the dam for both of them.

It escalates and escalates until they're in hysterics. When Jeremy comes in with an armful of blankets for Gideon, the poor man just stands there and watches them laugh themselves to tears. His confusion only makes them laugh more. By the time they finish organizing the blankets into a makeshift bed on the floor, there are tears dripping from their eyes.

Finally, they sit back, taking in great lungfuls of air and collecting themselves. There's something fresh in Lacey's chest. Room to feel. Room to enjoy tonight.

"I needed that," Lacey admits.

"Me too."

He flops onto the expanse of blankets. His chest heaves as he retrieves oxygen. For a few minutes, he just lays there, breathing, breathing, breathing, eyes closed. They don't open.

Lacey furrows her brows. "Psst. Gideon. Did you pass out?"

A light snore answers her questions. Alas, the boy has conked. She chuckles to herself about it for a moment, but then she's suddenly filled with a certain jealousy for his position, and she crawls under the covers herself. Never has she missed her bed more than when she's finally placed herself in it.

Full of rejuvenated feeling and empty of energy, she clicks the lamp on the nightstand off, and the room falls into pitch black. She can't even let herself consider being afraid of the dark because she's asleep far before that time comes.