Scars

Chapter 1

What have I gotten myself into?

The stray thought pinged around Phil Watson's head like a Microsoft logo. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the child, a tiny nine-year-old boy with a fluff of cocoa-brown hair and pale skin covered in scars that quite obviously came from abuse. The child's eyes were fixed on the passing scenery, jaw tightly clenched in what Phil could only guess was fear and anxiety.

Wilbur Gold.

The name was pretentious, lofty even. It didn't fit the slightly trembling kid at all. Phil Watson worried his lip between his teeth for the hundredth time that day as he turned into the gravel driveway that would eventually bring him to his country home, letting his thoughts wander.

Phil had been forced to admit to himself several months ago that he was lonely, and painfully so. He had no desire for a spouse (thanks to a nasty breakup two weeks before the wedding years ago) but still he longed for human companionship. He lived by himself out in an old farmhouse, and worked from home for a software company. He had far too much money for one single person, and even then he gave most of it to charity.

So he had enrolled into a foster education program—hoping that perhaps in helping to heal a broken child, the child would subsequently fill his empty heart.

Today was the day he brought said child home, and if Phil had to place a bet, he was just as nervous as the kid.

"What'dya say, mate?" Phil said quietly, looking at the boy again as the quaint blue house came into view. "Ready to see your room?"

The boy turned his owlish gaze to Phil, not answering. He clung to a battered inhaler and a stained orca toy, bony knuckles stark white against the ragged red sweater.

"I just painted it about a week ago—I hope you like yellow. And there's a bunch of new toys for you—there's a swing set out back next to a slide and a sandbox—" Phil rambled on, trying to drown his own nerves, hitting the garage-door opener.

As the door rumbled closed, Phil took a look back at Wilbur. The boy had gone absolutely, perfectly still. Phil could hear his raspy breath in the void the quieted engine noise had left behind.

The kid was scared stiff.

Phil's heart melted for the child, just like it had when he had seen the tiny boy hide behind his social worker's skirt. "Wanna see the house?"

The boy automatically nodded, almost as if thinking "no" wasn't an allowed answer.
Phil, moving as deliberately and slowly as he could, keeping his hands in Wilbur's view at all times, gave the boy a house tour. It wasn't a big house—Phil had never been very materialistic—but it was as warm and inviting as a bachelor could make it.

"We're having spaghetti for dinner with garlic toast," Phil offered as the finished up with the kitchen, "but it's a good few hours till dinner. Did you want a snack?"

Wilbur hesitated before shaking his head, keeping that same death grip on his toy and medicine.
"Did you want to unpack and go through your new room?" Phil softly asked. He didn't get an answer, so instead he nodded to the stairs and Wilbur moved on his own. The boy looked as though he'd shatter like glass if pushed too far, and Phil wanted him in a safe environment where he could breathe for a few minutes.

"I know it doesn't look like much yet, but we can go shopping for posters and toys and stuff when you're ready," Phil explained, watching Wilbur move through the bedroom hesitantly. "There's a lock on your door that you're free to use; I have the key but I'll only use it in emergencies. Okay?"

Another one of the boy's automatic nods and Phil quietly closed the door and headed downstairs. He pretended not to notice the soft click as the door was locked.