…..CHAPTER 3…..
Out of eighty witches held captive in the Kipling’s illegal catchment, thirty-one of them had been released by that Wild witch.
Oscar was outwardly pissed. Thirty-one new Wild witches to chase down. Of course, neither of them wanted to pin them down. But then, neither of them knew how to deal with them other than the government schooling and distribution mandated by the law. Once a child displayed their magic, two things happened. They were no longer human, and they were automatically property of the government. Only after training their magic were they allowed to be adopted back into their own family, with a permanent Handler.
Unless they were powerful. Then the government took permanent possession.
Oscar ran a hand over his face in frustration. “I’ve got a tail on them, sort of. They’re hauling ass for the Springs, and the vehicle isn’t exactly inconspicuous. Still. They’ve got a few minutes lead on us.”
Oliver nodded, looking back at the rest of the prisoners, trying to still the slight tremor caused by his moment of rebellion. His fight against the law and the government while being part of said government was one thing. But he’d taken a risk, letting that Fire witch get away.
Each witch removed from this place was another witch returned to the world. He might not like the way the world worked, but it was a far cry from this hellhole. Some wept openly as they were led out, thanking the agents leading them away. Some were stunned. Some eyed the melted escape route longingly. Most were terrified, flinching at the simplest touch of support.
He didn’t have to guess at the abuses done here. True, witches were mistreated everywhere out in the world, even by their Handlers, who were supposed to—and were legally bound to—treat them well and protect them. But here, behind closed doors, not only used for their magic, but beaten…
Oliver drew a deep breath to still the anger, rubbing absently at the scars on his wrist. Oscar gave him a little elbow in the ribs. “Come on, Oliver. Pay attention.” His tone was quietly soothing, clearly sensing his upset.
Oliver was grateful everyday that Oscar had picked him. That he’d been claimed by the Bureau. He was one of the lucky ones. He might not have the legal powers that a regular agent possessed, but he wasn’t far from it, and as the witch of the Director himself, he had a certain amount of authority and respect. He was allowed the status of agent, because he worked for the Bureau as hard as people did.
One of the lucky ones.
Yeah right.
He to this day didn’t understand how people managed to convince themselves that they had a perfectly normal child one day, and the next, when magic appeared, the child suddenly wasn’t human any more.
“I want you to go through the computer files. Copy and drop everything,” Oscar ordered quietly.
Oliver lifted one brow at that departure from procedure, but gave a nod and sat in the only chair at the control desk. He noted the system, the unfamiliar programs, pulling a high gig flash drive from his jacket. The steam pipes hinted at how long this facility had been here, since steam hadn’t been a form of power for decades. The witch-powered grid served the entire United States, efficient, energy so plentiful that outages were literal history, and lacking the former system’s frequent failures in wear and tear.
The steam pipe let out the occasional hiss as he worked. He hoped they wouldn’t collapse and he’d lose electricity just as he was retrieving these files.
It took time as he sorted through the system. By the time he’d gotten a handle on the thing, the catchment was empty, and he hadn’t even collected the information yet.
“That hard, huh?” Jesse asked as he arrived, tossing a broken tether to the desk and running a tired hand through his pale blonde hair.
“Yes. Not my regularly scheduled programing.” The programs weren’t common, but at least he’d recognized them.
Jesse gave a little laugh, pulling a rattling pack of mints from his pocket. He popped one in his mouth, then offered Oliver the open metal tin, and he accepted one with slight smile. It made him feel almost like a human. “Thanks. Hope that’s not a hint.”
Jesse snorted. “No, it’s not, dude. Oscar ordered the Water omega sent with his alpha. There a reason? We usually keep them separate.”
“They’re probably related.”
He nodded with a soft hmmm, staring at the empty cells. “I finally got my new witch. She’s a Water witch. Strong, too.”
“Congratulations?”
Jesse swept his gaze around. “Thanks. Biggest setup we’ve ever seen, this place.” His hand waved at the catchment room.
“Yeah.” And it was big. The one Oliver remembered had been half this size, but more modern. More efficient.
More painful.
“Who squealed?”
Jesse shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. We’ve rescued a large number of witches being abused and exploited for their magic. We’ve just put a huge dent in the crime here in the city, and best of all, these witches will be adopted into safe homes.”
Neither of them had to say the next word.
Hopefully. Hopefully they’d find safe homes.
Oliver continued to drag and drop files onto the flash drive. The techs would come later and collect the hard drive both here, and in the family household, and any other systems on the property. The Kipling family was obsessively tidy about keeping business and family works separate. But somewhere in there, there would be a link. No way could they hide it now. This raid wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t a done deal with the evidence. All that was left was icing on the tasty cake of proof.
Jesse was quiet for awhile. Oliver looked up to find him watching him. “What?”
“Just thinking about that wild witch.”
Oliver restrained a shiver. Had Jesse seen his motion to that guy? “What about him?”
“He looked familiar.”
Frowning, Oliver stared back. “Yeah. I thought so, too. Any idea why?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Don’t let me interrupt.”
Oliver snorted. “Too late.”
“Oscar’ll have my hide if he finds out I messed with his witch while he’s working.”
He snorted again, back to work already. “I’ll try not to say anything.”
Jesse laughed as he walked away.
As soon as the information was dumped, he wasn’t surprised to find nearly the whole drive full. There’d been an awful lot in this system. He suspected most of it was video feed of the witches and their work. Who knew how far back it went, for there to be so much data.
Oliver snatched the drive from the computer, dropped it into his pocket and clicked on one of the files at random. Sure enough, video came up, showing the Water witches at work, purifying water for consumption. Colorado was an arid part of the United States, and finding enough water for everyone was occasionally difficult, during a drought.
They’d been in drought conditions for two years now.
Water, necessary for life, much less civilized living, was a hot commodity that the mob peddled in almost as much as drugs.
Oscar returned to the catchment, eyes on the computer. “The teams are ready.”
“I’m done.”
“Alright, let’s get out of here.”
Oliver followed his Handler without a word, ignoring the wary looks shot his way from the tech and CSI teams. He was used to it. Even long-time veterans of the Bureau were wary of him, and days like today, where his power and skill were on full display, was the reason why. Registered witches were colloquially called ‘Tame’ for a reason. Society generally believed witches no better than animals. For all intents and purposes, he was a well-trained pit bull.
Outside, Oscar led the way to the blown out fence. “Well, the rescue didn’t go as planned,” he muttered ruefully.
“I rather think his plan didn’t go right, either,” Oliver answered, voice dry.
Oscar chuckled. “No, I suppose not. Jesse said he thinks the boy was familiar, but didn’t know why.”
Oliver glanced at his Handler. “I thought so, too. And I can’t tell you why any more than Jesse.”
“Hmmm. It’s getting late and everything is wrapped up, for the most part. I think Randy can handle the rest.”
Oliver looked around, spotting the Assistant Director’s witch Melinda as she hurried on an errand. That perpetually cheery woman shot him a grin and wave. He gave her a shy smile and a nod. God he loved that woman. She made the world brighter.
Looking back at his Handler, he lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t leave scenes unless it has something to do with Tracy threatening to tear out your short hairs one by one.”
Oscar laughed. “It’s Cara’s birthday, and we’re having a nice dinner tonight, and cake. Her party isn’t till the weekend, but today is the big day.”
“Ten?”
“Yep,” he said, proud, eyes gleaming. “Can’t believe she’s already ten. Double digits, Oliver!”
“Just think, you only have eight to ten more years of torture.”
“More like fourteen. Mike’s not even seven yet.”
“Yeah but Mike’s cool. Cara’s a pill.”
Oscar couldn’t deny it, grinning fit to burst. “Tracy told me to bring you. Need anything at the House?”
Oliver shook his head. He stayed often enough at their house that he had his own room, and duplicates of most of his necessities. So Oscar didn’t bother heading for the office, and they pulled into the garage of Oscar and Tracy’s home to find Mike coming out the door leading into the house with a basketball, Cara behind him, teasing him, swiping the ball.
“Hey, I call foul!” Oscar said.
Oliver smiled as his Handler immediately leaped into the coming game. Shaking his head, he went inside, washed over with the scent of delicately spiced potatoes, apples, meat on the grill, and a hint of vanilla.
“Oliver! Get your cute ass over here and peel these apples. I’ve got my hands full,” a deep voice rumbled.
Oscar’s husband Tracy was a huge man, and like the cliched ‘gentle giant,’ he was as benign and genial as one would expect, blonde hair shoulder-length, blue eyes kind. Both men treated Oliver like family, like a little brother they had to tame, honestly. Because he was ‘adopted’ by Oscar, which was a legal fact, he supposed he was. Oliver spent half his time here, during off-hours. But because he was also a witch, he had a tiny apartment in the House, the seventh and top floor of the Bureau’s building, his government alloted space.
Oliver rolled his sleeves back, washed in the kitchen sink without a word, and went to the table to pick up where Tracy left off. The big man was currently flipping meat on the grill.
“How’d the raid go?”
Oliver shrugged. “Could’ve been better. We arrived to collect the witches, just in time to find some Wild witch already in process.”
Tracy turned from the grill on the stove to stare at him. “Wait. A Wild witch was—what, rescuing them?”
“Yup.”
“Son-of-a-gun. Anyone on the wanted list?”
“Not sure yet. He looked familiar, but I don’t think he’s on the list. I’ve got the damn thing memorized.”
Tracy returned to poking what looked like brats with the tongs. “Huh.”
“Other than that, the raid went down without a hitch. The Kipling’s are going away for a very long time. The old man will die in jail.” Oh my God! It feels so fucking good to say that!
Tracy’s mouth twitched with amusement at the satisfaction in Oliver’s voice, but he didn’t say anything. He and Oscar understood. Oliver’s very understandable loathing of illegal catchments was a well-known fact.
Once the apples were peeled and sliced, Tracy took the bowl. “Over here, Oliver. Let me show you how to make the mix.”
He oversaw Oliver as he dashed measured spices into a small bowl. Tracy snapped his fingers. “Oh! Don’t forget the cardamom. You’d notice if it wasn’t in there.” He rooted around in the spice drawer to hand him a glass bottle.
Oliver obediently measured out the spice.
“Great. Now stir that up so the spices are well mixed. When they are, sprinkle it over the apples in the pan.”
Oliver ended up making the apple pie filling by himself, with only Tracy’s input. He’d learned to cook quite a few things from the man over the years. Once the filling was prepared, Tracy had the crust ready, laced with more spices. He dumped them into a casserole dish, layered strips of dough across the top. Oliver sat back and watched, amused at the delicate way Tracy handled the fragile pastry. He shoved it into the oven, set the timer, then tossed him a wet washcloth.
Their companionable silence was broken when the garage door opened on happy arguments of who won, how many shots each of them got, and which person had the best moves.
Tracy whistled piercingly into the verbal melee. “Wash up, you lot!”
Oscar pointed to the bathroom in the hall while he watched them with laughing eyes. Oliver stood and trailed after the big man as Tracy left the kitchen, towel over his shoulder, to kiss Oscar. He gave Oliver a wink—and a bear hug since he hadn’t properly greeted him upon arrival—then hurried back to his stove. “I made my famous brats and sauerkraut, and they’re ready.”
Oliver grinned broadly. “Famous?” he asked, voice slightly dubious.
“Just wait,” he said.
Oliver met Oscar’s amused look. “Just wait,” he echoed.
Tracy asked him to set the table, and Oliver sank into the domesticity around him. He always loved coming here, but he never asked. Adopted or not, this was their home.
“Don’t forget the drinks,” Oscar said. “I’ll take lemonade.”
Oliver fished the pitcher from the fridge, poured it all around. The kids arrived, and in no time, they were serving themselves at the grill, then sitting to eat.
“The only child in the history of children that actually likes sauerkraut,” Tracy said with a wink at Cara.
“Hey!” she protested. “Am not!”
“Oh yeah?” Mike said through a mouthful of something that was not sauerkraut. “Prove it!”
Cara glowered at her brother, then turned her nose up and pointedly took a huge bite of her brat and sauerkraut.
Oliver restrained a laugh. And Tracy was right. This was good enough to be famous. “How have I never had these before?” he wondered, making Tracy laugh.
Cara grinned cheekily up at him. “You haven’t been over in days, Oli. How come?”
“Cara,” Oscar growled. “You know he hates that.”
Oliver ignored her, as Tracy had told him to when she did that.
“Sorry, Oliver,” she piped, completely unfazed by their censure.
“Just try to remember,” he said, giving her a lop-sided smile. “It’s the only name I have, so I want to keep it, thank you very much.”
He hadn’t meant that to remind them… Oscar tensed, Mike looked puzzled, and Cara’s gaze went to his left wrist, his control cuff very visible since he hadn’t put his shirt sleeves back down. Oliver hastily lowered it.
“It’s alright, Oliver,” Tracy said calmly. “She’s old enough to understand.”
And it wasn’t like she’d never seen it. But the two men had tried hard to keep the dark side of witch servitude from the kids. Given it was simply life, there wasn’t much they could do.
Cara tapped his cuff, the fabric muffling the sound. “Can I see?” she asked.
Her voice was very like Oscar’s, in that she managed to keep her tone level, but like her dad, there was something in the way she spoke that Oliver picked up on, a worry, a tension, that no one but someone who knew them would notice.
He looked helplessly at Oscar, who looked at Tracy. “You may show her, if you’re willing,” Tracy murmured.
Oliver hesitated, then drew a deep breath and held his hand out, tugged his sleeve back for her to read it. The inch-wide band wasn’t printed but engraved with his information, and the writing faced her, not him, so anyone might see his vitals without contorting his arm to read it. Made of stainless steel, an eighth of an inch thick, it had no link, was a solid band that lightly hugged his wrist with room only for a finger to slide beneath.
“Witch Oliver. Adopted. Registration# 317709511-M-04. DOB 01-07-1997. No known medical conditions.
Native Element Earth. Level 9. Quint skilled. Preferred Aspect Lattice. Alpha.
Property of the Federal Bureau of Witchcraft and Registry. Handler: FBW&R Director Oscar Dale.”
“Can I see?” Mike piped up, then jumped from his seat without an answer, running around the table to look. His little fingers were cool against his wrist.
Cara shivered and looked up at him, suddenly pale. “What does it mean by property?” she whispered. “That’s the bracelet, right?”
Oliver looked up at Oscar and Tracy, then away, suddenly not hungry.
“Back in your seats, you two,” Oscar said, voice low but firm. The kids picked up on the tone and obeyed without a word.
“How was school today?” Tracy asked Mike the minute they’d sat back down.
Tension eased, conversation leveled out, and Cara’s birthday dinner thankfully didn’t turn into a disaster, though Oliver only picked at the remains of his food. As usual, Oscar was attuned to his moods and told him to eat. Oliver tried, but still only managed half his food.
The moment the kitchen was clean, Oliver headed to the backyard, sat in one of the loungers to stare at the neighborhood. Their house sat at the top of a hill in the suburb of Denver called Littleton, and the back fence looked out over the little slope into other yards, over other streets. Down the hill was a park with a closed-for-the-season swimming pool.
“Here.”
He looked around to find Oscar handing him a bottle of beer.
Oliver looked up at him but didn’t take it. “Why?”
“Because I’m here, you can. Or at least probably should, and right now I don’t give a fuck about the law.”
A smile managed to escape. “You’re an agent of the government. Law is sort of what you’re supposed to uphold.”
“Fuck it. Tonight, just drink the damn beer.”
Oliver sighed and accepted the bottle, took a swig and lifted his knees, hands and beer bottle dangling over them.
Oscar sat next to him. “I’m sorry about that.”
Oliver shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“She’s been asking about witches lately. Her class just covered the basics last month. She was so excited that she was able to raise her hand when asked who had a witch in their family’s possession. She didn’t understand.”
“She’ll learn all about it eventually, including that I’m legally not considered human, which is how they get around the property issue.” He took another long drink. “And if you and Tracy don’t sugar-coat it.” It came out far more pointed than he meant it to.
Oscar’s mouth tightened. “Yeah.”
“Sorry.”
“Not sorry?” he muttered.
“Not really.”
“Dammit Oliver,” he whispered. “It’s going to take time. We’ve always known this.”
“And yet someone today is hurrying things right along.”
Oscar snorted. “No shit. My first task tomorrow is to try to pin down who this is. Him and who he’s with.”
“Officially?”
“Both.”
“Hmmm.”
His voice was low and barely reached his ears when Oscar spoke. “We have to be careful, Oliver. We can’t fuck this up. The Haverstone Riots aren’t that far from everyone’s minds.”
Not quite thirty years before, the witches of Haverstone, New York, had attempted a coup, trying to rise up for their freedom, refusing to work, refusing to obey, protesting, laid flat by the knock-out function of their cuffs, and getting right back up to protest some more.
It had turned violent when one witch died from the cuff, slamming his head into a sharp object as he fell. Violence had spread from there, across the state, and the rest of the witches in America had been restless, firing off riots in other places around the country, and even some in Europe where witches might be free, but experienced intense fear and discrimination. It had taken months to settle the witches. Even Handlers were agitated, who were mostly decent people and didn’t like their witches upset.
“If I can find out who he is, find out who he’s working with, we can potentially open lines,” Oscar whispered.
Oliver nodded. “Careful.”
Oscar nodded. “I will. I know better than to do it on the computers at work.”
“Has Tracy updated the basket lately?”
“Just last night.”
The ‘basket’ was their personal term for cycling encryption. Tracy, a former gray-hat hacker who forgot to stop hacking, knew how to cover their trail.
On paper he was a white-hat. At most, since he’d agreed to behave in exchange for leniency.
Tracy wouldn’t even admit to them that his methods were perhaps a bit darker than even they knew.
“Drink up,” Oscar murmured, tilting his own bottle nearly vertical.
Oliver took a swig. He wasn’t used to drinking. For obvious reasons. Half a beer and he was already buzzed. “I should probably stop.”
“I’ll beat you around the yard if you do,” he said pleasantly. “Waste of a good beer, and I’m not drinking after you, little brother or not.”
Oliver snorted. “Whatever.” He sighed, but guzzled the rest.
The unseasonably warm day had ended while they talked. The ever-dimming light was pleasant, the evening cooling quickly now that the sun had set, compliments of the arid Denver region. The backyard, littered with toys and sports equipment, grew blurred, the shadows below the lilac bush in the corner turning gray, to blue, to black as they sat in companionable quiet.
The street lights blinked on. Oliver glanced at the house battery, surrounded by the decorative wooden fence. History said fossil fuels were explored, just before steam—fueled by witches—took off. Steam ruled the world for a few decades. And then during World War II the nuclear option became available. While bombs had been the intent, a disaster in the testing had shown how terrible that would be, and the whole world had—after the war, of course—signed a non-weaponization nuclear pact. Battery technology was avidly researched, giving every household in the world a backup system, decentralizing all grids everywhere. While every country had multiple grids that served their region, no one was dependent on them in an emergency.
Every country but America used various forms of energy, from nuclear to solar. Some even used fossil fuels.
America used witches. And crystals. With a monopoly on them, and an abundance of witches, the government could afford to. Of course, no one but the government and witches really knew that crystals were the source of the power.
It was always helpful to individuals who Handled witches to receive boosts. It saved money, but it also aided the grid witches, so he dumped as often as he could. With his power, he would’ve no doubt been snapped up by the state for grid work, if Oscar hadn’t selected him.
Oliver rose, stretched, and went to the fence that surrounded the house battery pack, peeked over it to look at it. It was sitting near empty, so he pulled magic into himself, and dropped it into the battery. The meter rose to near full and he nodded in satisfaction.
“Thanks,” Oscar said from his chair where he was watching.
Oliver shrugged. “No problem.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Need to go back to the House?”
“You’ve been drinking, bro,” he said, sat down and gave Oscar a playful push on his shoulder.
“Tracy can take you.”
“Nah, I’m fine. I’m just being a whiny bitch tonight.”
Oscar grinned.
“I don’t see you rushing to argue that.”
“Nope.”
Oliver couldn’t help the little laugh. “Jerk.”
“Daddy?” Cara asked from the patio door.
“Yeah sweetie?”
“Dad wants you to help me with my homework because he’s helping Mike, who is being impossible with his spelling list.” The tart and exasperated way she said that hinted at ten going on fifteen. Oliver grinned at her tone.
Oscar rolled his eyes. “Good grief. If he knows how to spell his own name by the time he’s twenty, hell will freeze.”
Oliver snickered.
Oscar rose, went inside. And he firmly took Cara with him.
It was a pleasant evening with the family; a game of Uno, a quick episode of the kids’ favorite cartoon—this episode featuring something about ponies, sisterhood, and apple pie—and Cara was allowed to open one present. Cara’s wheedling for another present was ignored in favor of the planned party on Saturday. A shower each, and by nine o’clock, the kids were ready for bed, had brushed their teeth after dessert, and were ready to say goodnight. Oliver went back inside, rather ready himself. He’d funneled a ton of magic today, and even if he did have an obscene capacity to do so, it took bodily energy to do it.
At the entrance to the hallway where the bedrooms resided, Cara parked herself in the way, catching all three adults by surprise.
Cara looked up at him. “So… Miss Grady said witches are born with last names just like everyone else. What’s yours?”
Ah. The only-one-name conversation had risen from the grave. “I don’t have one any more.”
“Sure you do.”
He looked away. “I’m not allowed to have a last name,” and he couldn’t help the curt sound.
“But why don’t you tell everyone your last name? If you tell them, and insist…”
“It doesn’t work that way, sweetie,” Oscar said softly.
“It should!” Cara protested. “What’s your last name, Oliver?” she demanded.
“I don’t…”
“Stuff it! Now tell me!”
“Bossy little twerp,” he muttered, making her grin.
“Tell me.”
Oliver turned his face back to her slowly, realized he was breathing too hard. “Bennett.”
Cara blinked, then held out her hand. “Nice to meet you Mr. Bennett.”
Oliver sucked in a shaking breath and turned for the backyard, almost running away.
Dimly he heard Oscar and Tracy scolding her and wanted to stop them, but couldn’t. He had to get away.
It hurt too much… He couldn’t let them see.
It was full dark now, and he was grateful for it. The tears didn’t obey him not to rise. Didn’t listen when he told them to stop falling.
“Fuck,” he hissed, swallowed hard. He bolted for the gate to the yard, swiping at the tears, wishing he could wipe away the absurd pain. It was in the past. Why should it bother him? Why had it hit him so damn hard?
Damn. He really was being a whiny bitch tonight.
He should be used to it. And he didn’t even like his last name. It was his asshole of a father’s. It was the one thing he hadn’t minded losing, the day they told him to just forget his family’s last name.
The rest—not so much. Like his right to walk in public without a Handler, his right to marry, have children, drink alcohol, drive a car, bear a weapon, vote, or even run for office—and especially his own humanity. Just forget all of it. His new life was all about serving the people that would support his life, as long as he obeyed the rules and provided what the people wanted of him.
He was no longer Oliver Harrison Bennett.
He was Witch Oliver.
Period.
End of transmission.
No last name.
Fists came from his memory, flying faster than he could duck, breaking skin, sharp words, bitter anger…Dad’s face contorted with loathing of a witch…
No, he hadn’t minded losing the surname.
And all that was before the fucking catchment.
And yet… His last name was part of who he was supposed to be—and wasn’t.
“Oliver?” Oscar called, voice anxious.
He realized he was walking down the sidewalk away from their house and stopped. He wasn’t allowed in public without his Handler. He knew better. What the hell?
Oliver sat down on the sidewalk, feet in the dry gutter and picked up a rock, idly scratching on the sidewalk.
“Oliver!”
“I’m here,” he muttered. Oscar had excellent hearing, swung toward his voice. He jogged over.
“I’m sorry, Oliver,” he said, standing there helplessly. The street lamp a few houses down backlit him, and Oliver glimpsed the dejected line of his shoulders.
“It’s alright, Oscar. I understand. She’s a kid. She’s learning. And she’s trying to be nice to me in her own way, in a way that would give part of me back. I know that.” He was ridiculously pleased that his voice didn’t have a hint of his distress in it.
Oscar sat down beside him, just past where he was doodling. Oliver realized his scribbling wasn’t random. In shock he saw his last name.
He hurriedly scratched through it. Oscar’s hand stopped him before he’d managed more than one or two passes. “Come on, Oliver. She’s right. It’s your last name.”
“I don’t even like my family name, Oscar. It’s no big deal.”
“Maybe,” he said, letting his hand go.
Oliver finished scratching it out. And just to be thorough, he ran his hand an inch above it, gleaming green, to scatter the molecules of scraped off stone, removing the name completely.
Removing his own name.
Fuck. How long had witches been their own worst enemy? He was no different, it seemed.
But maybe soon, they’d alter course. Maybe soon they’d get their shit together, work together.
“You’ll need your name you know, if we win this war.”
Oliver laughed sourly. “I don’t want that last name.”
“Hmmm.” Oscar’s head turned toward him. Dimly he saw the flash of teeth in a little smile. “Well, you’ll need one. Maybe it’s time you made your own decision, your own choice. Maybe your first one. What name do you want?”
Oliver stared back, caught off guard. “How should I know? I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He wouldn’t let himself think that far ahead.
Oscar gave a little laugh. “Think about it.”
Oliver hesitated, then shrugged. “I will.”
“Come on. It’s getting late. We’ve got work tomorrow. Reports. Lots and lots of reports.”
Oliver groaned at that as they stood and Oscar laughed. He followed his Handler back into the yard, closed the gate behind him and they went back inside. Tracy, in the kitchen and cleaning up after cobbler and milk, pointed at the table. “Yours is over there.” His eyes anxiously searched his.
Oliver gave him a weak little smile and sat down. “Thanks, Trac.”
“Sorry about Cara’s rudeness.”
“She wasn’t rude. She’s learning.”
Tracy sat in his chair, one hand scratching the back of his head. “Learning. Fuck. Learning what we don’t want her to. I think the teachers for the most part tamp it down, but it’s hard to hide the fact that fairness and justice don’t exist while the government talks out of the other side of its mouth about both.”
“You’ll teach the kids what you want them to know.”
“That we will.” Tracy’s tone was firm.
They were quiet, Oscar eating his, too. Oliver pushed his now empty plate back. “That was awesome.”
“You made it, remember?”
“Making apple filling is only part of it, Trac.”
“But it wouldn’t be cobbler if you hadn’t made it. You can’t have a great apple cobbler without both the filling and the crust.”
“Sure.” He stared down at the napkin as he rung it like a rag, puzzled by the man’s insistence.
“Apples are the yummy warm center in the cobbler, Oliver.”
He looked around to see the big man smiling gently at him.
“What?”
“The whole world is one big crust, little brother. In need of a warm apple filling.”
That cartoon from earlier…the one about apple pie…
Oliver couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. “Oh my god, Tracy. You’re such a goddamn dork.”
Oscar laughed, too. Tracy winked.
And he went to bed feeling a lot better.