He’s been getting into trouble, and I don’t know what to do.”
She smiled up at Brendan, and he saw the dark circles under her eyes. “I’m so glad you came. It’s nice to know he has some friends… besides the ones that he gets into trouble with.”
Brendan didn’t trust himself to speak. He turned to Chester. The boy’s eyes darted back and forth under the purple lids. Sweat drenched the sheets. Brendan leaned over and brought his mouth close to the sleeping boy’s ear.
“Chester,” he said softly, firmly, pitching his voice so that Chester’s mother couldn’t hear. “This is Brendan. I know you can hear me.” Chester’s thrashing lessened slightly. “Listen to what I say. You don’t have to get lost any more. You can come home now.”
The effect was immediate. Chester relaxed completely. He smiled in his sleep. In a moment, he was breathing deeply and easily.
Brendan stood up and smiled. Chester’s mother gasped. “I don’t believe it.” She beamed at Brendan, her face full of relief. “What did you do?”
Brendan smiled and ducked his head shyly. “I told him you needed him to come back.”
Chester’s mum burst into tears. She dropped her coffee with a splash and crushed her face into Brendan’s chest. For a moment, Brendan was mortified but he quickly recovered. Very gently, awkwardly, he patted the woman on the back as she cried.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Brendan said softly. And he believed it.
Epi-Epilogue
When Harold got home from school, he went up to his room right away. He wanted to look at the sketchbook again.
He’d hidden it under the mattress in his room. His mother didn’t change the sheets until the weekend so he knew it would be safe there.
He flopped onto his bed and flipped the book open to the first page. He’d obviously drawn this sketch. He recognized his style, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember ever having drawn it.
The sketch depicted his friend Brendan, only Brendan was strangely transformed. He was surrounded by an aura of energy. His eyes shone with an inner light. Over Brendan’s shoulder, a tiny winged woman fluttered.
A bizarre picture. Why had he drawn it? When had he drawn it? He couldn’t remember. He flipped through the sketch pad. There were more pictures of winged people, weird dog things, a frightening woman with wild eyes radiating waves of power.
Harold had no idea what to make of it. Sitting on his bed in the gathering dusk, he decided he wouldn’t rest until he figured out the mystery.
“Harold! Dinner!”
“Coming, Ma!”
He stuffed the sketchbook back under the mattress and hurried down to dinner.
