Dragon Pox, Lessons in Point of View by Maxx Chan A thesis submitted in fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH WEBER ST A TE UNIVERSITY Ogden, Utah April 16th, 2019 Approved by: Eric Swedin Maxx Chan mb.chan299@gmail.com Chan/Dragon Pox/2 about 4000 words A Stranger in My Own Life, Mental Illness and Medicated Points of View by Maxx Chan For most of my existence, I felt like a stranger in my own life. I was living a life, but it wasn't my life. I lived in my body, I sensed my thoughts, and I completed tasks assigned to me, but I was hardly in control. My mental illnesses were. I felt like a horror movie viewer, one that boos and throws popcorn at the movie screen whenever an onscreen character makes a horrible decision. Except my mental illnesses were the onscreen characters and I had no choice but to tag along or be left behind altogether. I had no popcorn to throw or boos to yell. I was a passenger in a body that was supposed to be mine, just along for a ride. I was a first-person body living in a third-person point of view following second-person orders trying to find the right point of view for me. Throughout my life, my various mental illnesses have forced me through many different points of view, a character of a story that I wasn't writing. I shifted to first person as I watched the effects of my illnesses on my deteriorating mind. I moved into second person when I experienced dissociation, commenting on my actions f rom a distance. Third person took over as I was forced behind a wall with my borderline personality disorder and myself separated into she, Chan/Dragon Pox/3 another entity entirely. I even slipped into omniscience every now and then as my depression forced myself into a lethargy so complete that I was left floating above my despondent body on the bed. The point of view of my own body was unclear and I drifted between them, untethered and unsettled. It wasn't until I sta11ed treatment and medication that I was able to settle all ofmy fractured viewpoints into one focus. I felt my voice, my power, and my creativity become centered and so my novel Dragon Pox was born. I started Dragon Pox to raise awareness around mental illness and how damning and debilitating it could be, especially in earlier times. Set in the early 1960s, Dragon Pox follows a young boy later named Dray that had lived with his single mother until she perishes in a house fire. He escapes with a red leather jacket and a picture book of dragons, leftover possessions f rom an absentee father. These are the only two possessions left intact from the house fire and he keeps them as he is sent to live with his abusive aunt. His book of dragons from his father becomes his only escape f rom the abuse he endures. As a couple of years pass and the abuse with his aunt continues to escalate, Dray spends more and more time with his dragon book, creating an alternate half-world where he believes he is a dragon, albeit an ugly one. The red leather jacket from his father becomes his wings and the scars, burns, and welts from his abuse become his scales. Dragon Pox is a story of abuse and the resulting mental illnesses that followed. It brings to light stigmas about mental illness as Dray is captured and forced into then-acceptable treatments at a mental asylum. The novel talks about the progression of mental health treatments as Dray endures invasive and experimental procedures to rid him of his alternate dragon persona and delusions. The topic of mental illness is close to my heart, mainly because of my own experiences. Before medication, I was scattered, unable to successfully create, and Dragon Pox would have Chan/Dragon Pox/4 been nothing more than a pipe dream. I was mad with ideas, but I could not articulate them and that drove me to insanity. I avoided medication for a long time because of a fear that it would stem my creative flow, but how could I ever hope to be creative if the ideas never made it past my brain? It was that realization that pushed me into finally trying medication. It was a process full of many trials and errors but once we were able to figure out the right combination for my brain chemistry, it was like rubbing away the dirt and seeing the world through clean glasses. For the first time in my life, my mental illness was no longer a point of contention and I realized that my madness was not a source of fuel as I had previously thought, but rather a hindrance. Now, I was free to focus on other things. For a long time, I was afraid that medication would halt my creative flow. In his essay "Writing and Anti-Depressants: A Match Made in Purgatory," Lev Grossman, the author of The Magicians series, says, "I did not want to be the dude who needs drugs to deal with reality .. .I was worried that the drugs would inhibit my ability to summon up dark and/or negative emotions ... But I was also sick of being depressed, and the book wasn't going to get written ifl was too depressed to type" (Grossman). I related so heavily to that struggle. When I first started my medication, there was a kind of shame in the fact that I needed drugs to help me function. I was feeling a little happier, but I was worried that I wouldn't be able to create something of value if I wasn't suffering because suffering is a part of the human condition, where all great works of art stem from. In her article "The Secret to My Success? Antidepressants," Julia Fierro says "I sought out biographies of these tortured artists and underlined the details of their suffering ... Surely, I told myself, their anguish was linked to their greatness. Instead of fleeing anxiety and depression ... they dived in and used their misery as inspiration for their creative work. I was convinced that killing the mad part of me with medication would also kill that which Chan/Dragon Pox/5 made me unique" (Fierro). I looked at all of the great artists that I loved, that committed suicide or ached because of their mental illnesses, and I wondered if they would have been able to create their works of genius if they had been medicated. Unfortunately, that was not a question I would ever get an answer to. Without medication, I would spend hours locked in my mind with my emotions filled to the brim of what it means to be human. There were times when my mental illnesses could be beautiful. I saw the world in a different light, a different point of view. In her essay "Creativity and Madness: On Writing Through the Drugs," Gila Lyons says, "I used to find beauty in certain aspects of my over-stimulated, over-sensitive brain - trees shimmered, and dreams would wake me up with stupefying gorgeous intricate detail" (Lyons), and I remember that type of feeling. I remember the crystalline worlds that I was afraid to touch because I could look at them, not touch, or they would break into a million rainbow fractals. I remember the dreams that were bizarre and wonderful to behold. Unfortunately, these highs were few and they came with even worse lows. I experienced night terrors, insomnia, and sleep paralysis after these feelings of wonderment. For the most part, unmedicated, I was raw and suffering like a starfish baking on the beach. Unfortunately, the drugs didn't work right away. I spent years and years on different pills to treat all the disorders they thought I had. I spent days locked in my mind while my body shuffled around like a rejected extra from a zombie movie when they tried to rectify my insomnia. When they tried to combat my depression, I turned into an apathetic wreck with suppressed emotions that flared just outside of my reaching hands. I could see them, but I couldn't feel them, and it ruined me because at that point I just wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything but the mind-numbing sensation of nothing. Even pain would be better. I Chan/Dragon Pox/6 would be anchored to my bed under the drowning weight of my emotions, unable to move and unable to feel. When they finally agreed that I had borderline personality disorder, they gave me a mood stabilizer and tried to sign me up for thousands of dollars in therapy. When I said I couldn't afford it, I was booted out the door with a prescription for thirty days in favor of someone with better insurance or deeper pockets than I. I decided not to fill the prescription because it would be devastating if the pills helped me and I couldn't continue with them, falling right back into my old illnesses. I trekked to my car, sinking lower into my shadows, crawling deeper into my pits of despair as my demons cackled around me. They weren't quite ready to release their claws from me just yet and I wasn't ready to let them. No one cared that I felt like I was living in a stranger's body. That I had no names for the emotions that tore through me. That I didn't have healthy coping mechanisms for them. No one cared that my point of view in my life was skewed, dangerous, and apathetic. It wasn't until my next psychiatrist on a budget plan that I was able to find some medications that truly worked for me. Getting my shit together required a level of honesty that I couldn't imagine. It hurt to realize and acknowledge that I was the one holding myself back this entire time. Writing was a chore for me for so long, something to avoid, something to protect myself against. I can't remember when the words that came out of my mouth started to sound like someone else speaking to me, but it felt that way until I started writing Dragon Pox. I have something here, cooking in between the bare bones of the beginning scenes, something that wants to be free and evolve. I think about the treatments Dray will undergo and how some will help while others will not and remember my own treatment experiments. I don't know where Dragon Pox will take me, although I do know how it ends, but it helped me regain my focus and my point of view in Chan/Dragon Pox/7 writing. I am no longer a stranger in my own body. The medication I take is why I was able to start this novel and why I will be able to finish it. As soon as I started writing the novel, I quickly ran into problems with the point of view. I believed in what I was writing, but I struggled with how to create an authentic point of view and voice for this complicated character, a character with mental problems that was torn between two different world. I struggled with how to tell my truths through his voice. Anne Lamott in her book Bird by Bird says, "If you don't believe in what you are saying, there is no point in your saying it ... a writer always tries, T think, to be a part of the solution, to understand a little about life and to pass this on" (Lamott I 06-107). I had a character and a cause I believed in, and I was passionate about the subject matter, so it was time to let go and stati to write. As always, this was much easier said than done. I didn't run into road blockades so much as giant walls of thick stone right out of the gate and my main problem was choosing the correct point of view. T didn't feel like writing something I cared about this much and was so invested in should be this fucking hard, so I did what I always do in times of trouble. I turned to craft essays and other stories to help me learn a trick or two. I wanted to find the correct point of view that would give power to the characters and story rattling around in my head. First person felt almost too close and intimate for what I wanted to achieve; it felt like I was connecting myself too much to Dray when I wanted to be more removed. I wanted to write raw with poignant details and an authentic voice without putting too much of myself into Dray. I gravitated more toward third person because it offered the distance that I wanted while still remaining attached to the character. In Imaginative Writing, Janet Burroway says that "point of view involves the question of the distance between the author/reader and the characters" (Burroway 58). After reading that, Chan/Dragon Pox/8 my question became how close and gritty I really wanted to go with Dray's point of view. My immediate thoughts turned to The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and how bluntly she tells talks about the main character's mental illriess. The novel is told from a first person point of view, which brings the reader up close to the character, nose squashed against the window close. Plath takes us through the character's depression and mania right up until her suicide, which she describes in brusque, matter-of-fact detail: I unscrewed the bottle of pills and started taking them swiftly, between gulps of water, one by one by one. At first nothing happened, but as I approached the bottom of the bottle, red and blue lights began to flash before my eyes. The bottle slid from my fingers and I lay down. The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life. Then, at the rim of vision, it gathered itself, and in one sweeping tide, rushed me to sleep. (Plath 169) I wanted an accurate voice with an authentic point of view about mental illnesses like The Bell Jar. I wanted to imitate Plath's grit and honesty and no-nonsense tone in my own novel, but I thought that a first-person point of view was not the right choice for Dragon Pox. I needed to keep some distance from the project, and first person felt too intimate. It felt like I would be telling my story rather than Dray's and I wanted to write a novel, not a memoir. Even so, I couldn't help but wonder if I would lose some ... potency in third person, by keeping myself and Dray at a distance when I wanted to get personal. I eventually settled on trying to tell my story in a third person point of view, focusing mainly on Dray as the main character but sometimes sashaying into other characters for an outside look. However, I still struggled with how to execute the complex voice of Dray. It wasn't Chan/Dragon Pox/9 until I happened upon a quote from Ursula Le Guin in her book Steering the Craft that I found an answer. Le Guin says "most narrators, first or third person, in serious fiction used to be trustw01thy. But our shifty age favors "unreliable narrators" who - deliberately or innocently - misrepresent the facts" (Le Guin 62). That quote struck me with all the force of a smiting lightning bolt from God as the embodiment of what I wanted for my character. I wanted to portray my dragon boy as an unreliable narrator, one that would misrepresent facts because that is much how mental illness works; not everything is what it appears to be because everyone has a different perspective. Dray innocently misrepresents the facts to outside sources because that is how the facts appear to him. Le Guin goes on to say that third person allows the "reader [to] infer what other people feel and are only from what the viewpoint character observes of their behavior" (Le Guin 64). His point of view is reliable to himself, but it is not until he comes into contact with other characters that his point of view becomes more and more unreliable. That is exactly how I wanted to provide outside perspectives on Dray's mental illnesses. His perception of the world is different from the actual world, and I wanted to show the inconsistencies between the two with how other people interact with him and his mental illnesses: "That's a nice jacket you got there," he complimented. The boy tried to move his hands but stopped when the cuffs grated against his wrists. "Not a jacket," he muttered. "They're wings." "What?" Deputy Ferguson asked, surprised. "They're my wings," the boy repeated. Here we see some of his unreliability. He wears the red leather jacket of his father, that is what outside people see. To him, his red leather jacket becomes his wings and that is how he presents Chan/Dragon Pox/ 10 it to the outside world, which creates confusion and unreliability. That rift between Dray's reality and the outside world creates the unreliable narrator that I was striving for. In Characters & Viewpoint, Orson Scott Card says, "when I'm ... telling a story, it's almost as if I'm acting. I'm 'in character,' improvising the performance of my story using words and syntax that one of the characters in my tale might use" (Card 166). His words struck me in a profound way, but I wasn't quite sure why. As I sat and pondered and tried to put myself in character with Dray, I realized that it was much closer to home than I knew. Janet Burroway in Imaginative Writing says, "If you persevere in writing, 'your voice' will inevitably take on a coloration that is entirely your own ... voice is a powerful force for exploring the inner lives of others" (Burroway 60). Writing Dragon Pox was a matter of weaving those two pieces of advice together, slipping into a character to tell his story through my voice and my experiences. I wasn't a teenage boy in a 60s mental institution, but I knew what abuse and mental illness felt like. I knew what getting lost inside your own head felt like. I knew what my experiences with trying to find a point of view felt like and I could use all of that to my advantage when telling Dray's story. After all, our stories are deeply intertwined. After sorting through my existential crisis that was choosing a possible point of view for my novel, I ran into what was hopefully my last Great Wall obstacle. I had never written from a child-to-teenager perspective before. My characters have always been adults and spoken like adults. How could I successfully write an authentic child's voice? I turned to one of my long-time favorite authors and trilogies, His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. While told from an omniscient point of view, His Dark Materials does a wonderful job of creating the child Chan/Dragon Pox/I I character Lyra with her own dialect and mannerisms. Lyra is a headstrong girl full of rebellion that was raised in a posh environment but speaks like more like a townie: "I do," she said decisively. "But I en't afraid either. I'd just do what my uncle done last time he came to Jordan. I seen him. He was in the Retiring Room and there was this guest who weren't polite, and my uncle just give him a hard look and the man fell dead on the spot, with all foam and f roth round his mouth." (Pullman 46) This shows a snippet of her character and how she talks, through which Pullman has created a well-rounded child; in context, a storyteller with a dialect unique to her as a product of the environments she was raised in. She is an unreliable narrator because, as a child, people find her untrustworthy and capricious and because she likes to spin stories and exaggerate almost everything. It becomes difficult to believe her as the story goes on, but her exaggerated storytelling is such an essential part of the story and her character. Her unreliability becomes her strength and I wanted that same type of unreliability and strength of character for Dray, to create a voice as unique as Lyra's. The Bell Jar and His Dark Materials trilogy were my main sources of inspiration when it came to building Dray's voice and character. I was able to solidify his point of view and how I wanted him to speak. I took the honesty and grit that came with The Bell Jar and the lessons on dialect and growth from His Dark Materials. It allowed me to develop Dray into a workable character that does not feel false or unidimensional, a teenager that has suffered extensively from abuse and has multiple mental illnesses because of it: "Don't have a name," the boy said, following him. "Am dragon. And a boy. I'm dragon boy." "Dragon boy, huh? Can you fly?" Theo asked in good humor. Chan/Dragon Pox/12 The boy looked at his feet. "No," he said, morose, shaking out his red leather wings. "Not anymore." In her essay "And Eyes to See: The A1t of Third Person," Lynna Williams says "Once a point-of-view decision is made, the writer creating the story can begin ... developing narrative; point-of-view choice influences vittually every other decision to be made in constructing a story, but its first importance may be how it draws us, as writers, deeper and deeper into the material, making us see the possibilities" (Checkoway 115). Selecting the point of view in my novel brought back me back to my struggles with my own point of view. Dray's story is caught between his reality and his delusions, his perception against others. As I wrote, I drew on my past experiences to help me frame the world in Dragon Pox and to help me influence Dray and the story around him. In her essay, "Writing, Antidepressants, and Depression," Debbie Urbanksi says "Sometimes I feel like a character in one of my stories, who takes a pill so that she can be altered enough to allow her to stay in her current life. There's nothing inherently wrong with this, I suppose, other than I would like my unaltered brain ... and the world to be a better match" (Urbanski). I would love to have an unaltered brain in a world where I didn't have mental illnesses. I would love to go back to the highs my brain experienced because it was truly beautiful sometimes, but the lows were never worth it. I have grown accustomed to my current stability and I would be loath to give it up for the pain and anguish that came with those beautiful moments. My creativity, while different, has not suffered while being on medication. In "Creativity and Madness: On Writing Through the Drugs," Gila Lyons says, "I am practicing writing from a place of curiosity rather than pain, fascination rather than desperation, forging my way more safely into a different dark" (Lyons). I whole-heartedly agree. My creativity comes from a different place now, a different point of view that enabled me to start Dragon Pox and a Chan/Dragon Pox/13 different point of view that will help me finish it. Dragon Pox was born from the clarity of my mind because of my medications and it will continue because my creativity comes from a place not borne of pain and anguish. Chan/Dragon Pox/ 14 Works Cited Burroway, Janet. Imaginative Fiction: The Elements o f Craft. 3rd ed., Pearson, 2003. Card, Orson Scott. Elements o f Fiction Writing: Characters & Viewpoint. Writer's Digest Books, 2010. Fierro, J. (2017, June 6). "The Secret to My Success? Antidepressants." The New York Times. Retrieved March 14, 2019, from https:/ /www .nytimes.com/2017 /06/06/opinion/antidepressants-depression-creativity.html. Grossman, L. (2010, May 12). "Writing and Anti-Depressants: A Match Made in Purgatory." Retrieved March 14, 2019, from http://levgrossman.com/2010/05/writing-and-anti-depressants- a-match-made-in-purgatory/. Lamott, Anne. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. Anchor Books, 1995. Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft: A 21st Century Guide to Sailing the Sea o fS tory. Mariner Books, 2015. Lyons, Gila (2014, February 27). "Creativity and Madness: On Writing Through the Drugs." The Millions. Retrieved March 14, 2019, from https://themillions.com/2014/02/creativity-and-madness- on-writing-through-the-drugs. htm I. Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar. Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2005. Pullman, Philip. The Golden Compass. Alfred A. Knopf, 1995. Williams, Lynna. "And Eyes to See: The Art of Third Person." Creating Fiction, Story Press, 1999, pp. 115-124. Urbanski, D.(2017, June 29). "Writing, Antidepressants, and Depression." Retrieved March 14, 2019, f rom https://debbieurbanski.com/writing-anti-depressants-depression/. Maxx Chan mb.chan299(a2gmail.com Chapter One Dragon Pox by Maxx Chan Chan/Dragon Pox/ 15 about 8400 words A suspicious eleven-year-old boy squinted into the shadows around him, making sure he was alone before gorging himself on donuts from a street vendor a few blocks away. He was in the hea11 of the slums, a good place to disappear. His rail-thin emaciated body was hidden from the street, tucked against the wall of a derelict apartment building. The buildings around him stood four stories high, each one identical to the next. The dim windows sunk deep into the walls, muffled by dark and ditty curtains. The outside brickwork was tarnished black by years of neglect and misery, matching the boy pressed against it. Knotted brown hair in desperate need of a wash hung lank around his shoulders, concealing gaunt cheeks and gray eyes. His tattered red leather wings settled around his torn and dingy clothes, heavy and comforting. He tensed as an explosion of shouts tumbled toward him from a few streets away, followed by the distinct thwack of wood against a ball. His muscles bunched for a quick getaway but then laughter spilled over his ears, bright as a new copper penny, and he relaxed. That Chan/Dragon Pox/16 laughter seemed out of place in the darkness that surrounded him. As if following his thoughts, the laughter extinguished as quickly as it started, subdued by the desolate landscape around him. Satisfied that he was alone, he pulled the donuts from under his shirt, leaving smears of glaze on his stomach and moaning as the taste of sugar and happier times hit his tongue. As he ate, he congratulated himself on a successful theft. For a moment, he forgot the world around him, letting his guard down as he occupied himself with his first meal in three days. His last donut fell from his hands as two cops appeared, summoned out of thin air like bloodhounds by his lack of attentiveness. He sprang to his feet and tried to bolt past, but they were already in front of him, towering over him as they crowded him against the wall. He was in their grasp before he had a chance to fight. He growled and raised his talons to claw at them, but their grip was too firm and their bodies too large as they manhandled the small malnourished boy into cuffs and stuffed him into the back of their 1950s Ford Fairlane. The door shut with an air of finality, signaling an end to his freedom. The boy sprang to life, screeching and trying to free his hands, scrabbling against the door to find a way out. He only succeeded in jarring his wrists as he continued to growl in a voice not deep enough to roar. Outside, the boy watched as one of the cops, a heavyset older man, leaned against the car. "I'm too old for this shit," the cop muttered, breathing hard. The other one, tall and muscled with cropped blonde hair that didn't hide his bald spots, laughed. "You must be if you get this tired from wrestling scrawny street boys," he teased. He stalked forward and snagged the donut from where it had fallen. "Here," he said, holding it out to his companion. "Have a snack." Chan/Dragon Pox/ I 7 The older cop scowled at him and smacked the donut out of his hand. As the boy saw his last meal flying into the overgrown tangle of weeds clustering around the wall, his stomach roiled and he felt bile rising into his throat, thick and wet and sour. "Shut the hell up, Lou," the older cop said, pushing himself off the car and stomping around to the driver's side, his partner laughing all the while. They both climbed into the car, grunting as they folded into their seats and the doors slammed shut. As they shut, the boy stopped his actions for a moment before he started again, louder than ever. He banged on the door for all he was worth, desperate to get out, growling and screaming. "Let me out, let me out, let me out!" he wailed. Lou, the passenger cop, the one who threw his donut away, swung around to face the boy, cutting an intimidating figure. "Shut up," he yelled. The boy flinched back into his seat and silenced himself, ceasing his struggles and huddling down to present a smaller target. Yelling came before hitting. If he was quiet, maybe he could avoid a beating. "You just keep quiet now," the cop said. "We're taking you someplace nice." As the cop turned forward, the boy felt relief for all of five seconds before the words sunk in and despair flooded through his stomach. He felt like his insides were falling into a dark hole, whistling down and down to certain death. He knew stories about kids who disappeared, all the street kids did. Kids like Pike. He felt bile rising in his throat again as he remembered his f riend . Pike was lithe and rangy, tough but small, something he used to great advantage. Everyone underestimated him Chan/Dragon Pox/18 because of his stature and that made him a great streetfighter. Street-fighting could get a steady supply of food and money, dangerous but a good source of income. He started winning fights and earning money, enough to eat every day, but he got too greedy. He started betting heavy on himself and no one liked that. A few bets on the side here and there were overlooked but if kids got too greedy, they were taken out. After a fight, two street kids who lost a bet cornered him and knifed him. Pike disappeared and no one ever found him, found out if he survived. All street kids knew stories like this. Stories about kids who were picked up or taken away or killed or starved or became involved in the darker parts of street life, drug dens or prostitution rings or high-crime gangs. All the stories ended the same way: any street kid who disappeared was considered dead. People don't look for the dead, and that is what he was now. Dead. His mentor Theo, who called himself the Street Rat King as a joke, told him to be careful, to always watch his surroundings. Nothing was ever more important than making sure he had escape routes and he was aware of his environment. His chest burned with shame and his eyes pricked with tears. He was too absorbed with his damn donut, a donut that could have waited a few more seconds while he made damn sure he wasn't followed, a donut that tasted so wonderful and warm when he first bit into it. Now, the waxy glaze afte11aste turned to ash in his mouth. "Please." The plea slipped out before he could stop it, quiet as a breath, but the passenger cop caught it. "We caught you stealing," the cop said without turning around. "You have to face the consequences now." Chan/Dragon Pox/ 19 The boy pushed himself even further into his seat, huddling down and blinking fast against the leaking tears. The cop in the driver's seat, with his weary face, brown eyes, and thick brown hair, looked in the rearview mirror and saw the boy struggling against tears. "Shut the hell up, Lou," he said. " B u t - " "He's just a kid and he's scared, so leave him be." His partner nodded and settled back into his seat. As the car pulled away from the curb, the boy imagined he could see Theo's face in the shadows of the alley next to the apartment building. He closed his eyes as the tears finally began to fall, pooling in the darkness behind his eyelids. He wondered how things had gone so wrong when, just this morning, his future had seemed so unrestricted. The boy sat hid den by an out-of-the-way post on the boardwalk of Gravesend Bay that marked the end of Brooklyn, a light wind rippling through his tattered wings that he pulled close about his body to keep warm. He loved the bustling city because he could insert himself into the uncaring crowds and disappear. The sprawling metropolis never stopped, even when the temperature dropped to biting and the wind chill threatened to freeze people as it tried to blow them away. There were lots of places to hide and to sleep and nobody ever looked too closely or asked too many questions because everyone assumed he was someone else's responsibility. A weak winter sun trickled down on him from a sky bearing signs of a recent storm on its way out, still cloudy and overcast around the edges. Around him, the boardwalk that surrounded Brighton Beach sprang to life as people wandered around for a walk in the fresh sea air since the water was much too cold for swimming. Chan/Dragon Pox/20 It was his turn to watch for dusk. He sat, a gargoyle at the water's edge lost in the sea of people, waiting for night so the lights of Coney Island could spark against the backdrop of glittering snow. As the day grew sharper and frostier, the boy grew restless with hunger and boredom, scratching at the scarred scales that littered his skin. He hated this time of his year when his skin dried out and he could feel his scales stretching every time he moved. He itched all over and he wanted to rub himself against a tree, watching his skin shed in tiny white flakes. He forced himself to stop scratching his arms before they started to bleed again and went back to watching the water slosh and gurgle beneath his dangling feet. He hated his scales when they looked like this, all raw and red. Some sat in perfect circles covered with shiny taut skin. They were the most common and they littered his body. His other scales appeared less in frequency. The ones on his back were long and thick and an angry red. The ones across his chest and shoulders were pale and raised, standing out against the rest of his flat skin. The ones on his arms and legs were long and skinny and white. The one below his right knee looked like a misshapen star; it was his favorite. Sometimes he pretended that he could fly right through it into the sky to live among the other stars. He might not be the best-looking or the brightest star in the heavens, but he could be like the one on his knee, a little crooked and a little ugly but still a star. He scoffed that thought away as he looked down at himself. His scales were all ugly, just like the rest of him. He shifted around, turning his back on the water so he wouldn't have to see his reflection and scowled down the boardwalk that led up to Coney Island. His eyes lighted on a father throwing a little boy into the air over and over again to the child's delighted shrieks. Chan/Dragon Pox/21 "Higher, Daddy, higher!" the child screeched. The father laughed, a clear sound of pure affection, as he obliged his son. The mother stood to the side, a tender smile on her face as she watched them, a little girl clinging to her hand. As he continued to watch, the girl tugged on her mother's hand. The mother leaned down with an indulgent smile as the girl started to babble, her other hand flailing and her eyes alight with wonder, not darkened by a loss of innocence. Both children looked happy and cared for. No scales marred their bodies like his. The mother smiled as she listened to the girl's light-hearted chatter and the father swung the boy onto his shoulders. The mother and daughter wandered over and their family came together, completed and whole. The father ruffled the daughter's hair before grasping the mother's hand. Close by, another father bought his twin boys some cotton candy from a stand. Before he could stop it, an old jealousy spiked through the boy's heart, lighting it on fire. He turned to face the water once again, turning his back on the happiness of others. As his aunt used to taunt him, there was no use crying over spilled milk. At least he had Theo to look after him, which was more than a lot of people. Theo took care of street kids, teaching them how to make a life for themselves on the streets, how to steal and the best places to sleep and how to survive. Like his own scales, horrific mutilations marred Theo's ghostlike body, but he was hardy and could slip in and out of anywhere just like a rat. The boy wanted to disappear like that one day. The day wore on and the boy continued to sit, gargoyle-like, at the water. When the first tendrils of dusk began to gather around the edges of the horizon, he sprang to life, jumping to his feet and throwing out his arms. His leather wings unfurled, ragged scraps that dangled to his thighs. They twisted in the cold breeze, diluted streaks of red that fluttered against the sky. A Chan/Dragon Pox/22 mangled Tarzan yell mixed with a growl came from low in his throat as the boy took off into the fading daylight to wake Theo and the other street kids. His arms flapped as the streams ofred blew out behind him and the boy grinned as he felt f reedom in the wind. The boy slowed down as he approached the derelict part of the city and slipped through the abandoned buildings in a familiar route. While it was a grim place by many standards, the street kids called it home because no one bothered them there. The boy slinked forward like a wraith, da1ting toward a short squat building nestled in between two abandoned factories. He slipped into a dark alley, a stain between the two ink blot walls. Peeking up and down the deserted side road, there was no soul in sight. Quick as a tomcat, the boy ran down the street, hugging the wall of the disintegrating factory building. He snuck around the corner, into another alley behind the factory, and disappeared through a makeshift door made from limp blankets hidden behind a pile of rotting pallets. The blankets fluttered back into place, a thin shield concealing the safest haven the boy knew. Finally, he relaxed, shook out his red leather wings, and folded them around his body before scratching at his arms and squinting through the darkness. The battered room glowed from holes in the wall like clouds torn away to reveal a vivid constellational backdrop. The last vestiges of the sun slithered through the holes in the refuge known as the Hell Hotel, throwing undiscovered constellations onto the walls. It almost excused the biting cold leeching through the cracks, the cold that liked to settle in malnourished bones with no blubber for protection, just a thin covering of hardened skin. At least it protected them from the snow. The cold also masked the usual stench of unwashed bodies, replacing it with the clean smell of nothing that comes with frozen nostrils. Chan/Dragon Pox/23 Large and hollow, the building made an empty cavern where the walls went back and back before the gloom chomped at anything trying to penetrate it. Tattered blankets covered the floor with lumps while partitions marked lairs, nests, beds, rooms, and belongings with basic privacy. The constellations f rom the sun moved into darkness as the sun began to set and the boy moved with ease over the pockmarked floor, picking his way through the lumps growing from the concrete. The air filled with the cacophony of snorts, coughs, and rumbles of sleeping kids as he made his way through them to find Theo. A light tread made him freeze and he turned, finding his mentor behind him. "Theo," he said, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "Don't sneak like that." The other teenager loomed over him, tall and skeletal with distrustful black eyes that flicked everywhere as he spoke. "You make it too easy to sneak up on you sometimes, little flame," Theo admonished. The boy growled and shuffled his feet, embarrassed. "Just you," he muttered. Theo flashed his teeth in an imitation of a smile. "Is it time?" "Yeah. The sun is down." "Okay, out we go then." Theo started to move around the room, kicking lumps, shaking shoulders, and whispering in ears. The boy was almost trembling in excitement. He was going out on his own this time, without Theo's calculating gaze boring into his back. He had his eye on an easily distracted donut vendor. His mouth started to salivate as he imagined the warm gooey glaze sticking to his fingers. Then, Theo was beside him again and the street kids were stirring. They gathered together and ventured out under Theo's watchful eye, making sure the younger members were accompanied by someone more experienced. Chan/Dragon Pox/24 Finally, just his mentor and the boy remained. The boy started to bounce in anticipation once again. He tried to stop, wanting to appear grown and mature like Theo but he was too excited. Theo looked down at him then, with the same indulgent smile on his face as the mother. "Quit bouncing," he said. "We're going." As they walked side by side, the boy had no idea that this raid would be his last. Trapped in the back of a cop car, he wished he had followed the first advice that Theo had ever given him. "Always be aware, little flame, no matter what." In the 5th Precinct, the boy sat in hard plastic chair with his arms cuffed to the armrests. The heavyset cop sat in a chair with a desk between them. His tired brown eyes regarded the boy in front of him. "My name is Deputy Ferguson, son," the cop said. The boy refused to look at him, staring hard at the floor, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. He felt so stupid, stupid for ignoring Theo's advice, stupid for getting caught. All for some stupid donuts he didn't get to finish. Theo's face flashed in his mind, full of disappointment. The words "you have to watch out for yourself, little flame, because no one else will" echoed in his mind and he flinched. The cop noticed the slight movement and made an abotted attempt to comfort the boy before he stopped and leaned back in his chair. "What are we going to do with you?" he sighed. The boy didn't answer, but Deputy Ferguson wasn't expecting one. Why were you stealing?" he tried instead. "Hungry," the boy grunted. "You got any family, son?" Chan/Dragon Pox/25 The boy shrugged. "No one lookin' for ya?" The cop continued to question the boy, getting grunts or shrugs for answers. "What's your name?" the cop asked. The boy considered the question before he spoke, "Dragon boy. Freak." He refused to say his other name because only Theo was allowed to call him little flame. Deputy Ferguson narrowed his eyes at the last word before his eyes landed on the tattered leather jacket he wore. It was bruised and stretched and a little torn in some places, but the leather held true. It bunched around the boy's thighs and hung limp around his skinny frame. "That's a nice jacket you got there," he complimented. The boy tried to move his hands but stopped when the cuffs grated against his wrists. "Not a jacket," he muttered. "They're wings." "What?" Deputy Ferguson asked, surprised. "They're my wings," the boy repeated. The cop furrowed his brows. "Your ... wings?" he asked. The boy only nodded, wondering what was going through the deputy's mind. "Can you fly?" Deputy Ferguson asked, only half joking. The boy looked at him with those eyes, the ones that were haunted with more anguish than anyone should ever have to suffer, the ones that seemed to fill out his thin face until the deputy had to look away. The boy shook his head. "Not anymore," he said, his voice soft and full of sadness. He stood and the boy flinched at the sudden movement. It was becoming clear that the boy might need mental help. The deputy moved away and went to talk to a man several desks away with a shock of black hair and narrow brown eyes that darted over to the boy every few Chan/Dragon Pox/26 seconds. Dragon boy watched as they conferred, and Deputy Ferguson became frustrated and then sad and then resigned before he came back, kneeling before the boy. "Come on, kid," he said in a soft voice. "We're gonna take you someplace nice." Even though the news was delivered in a gentle tone, it struck dread into dragon boy's heart as he remembered the laughing cop from earlier, how he had said the same words. He huddled into himself as he was uncuffed from the chair and helped to his feet. He let the cop steer him out of the station and back into the Fairlane. As the deputy got into the driver's seat, Lou came running out and got into the passenger seat. "Taking him to Gaebler with the others?" he asked, panting. Deputy Ferguson sighed. "Yeah," he answered. "There's nothing else we can do with him right now since we don't know his real name and he won't tell us anything else. We'll have to look into Missing Persons and open an investigation but it's likely he'll just end up in the system as a ward of the state because he's a street kid. We can't keep him at the station, and he needs ... mental help." Lou turned to face the boy. "Well, what are we gonna do with you?" he asked. "Quit it, Lou," Deputy Ferguson muttered. "This is hard enough without you making it worse." "Please let me go," the boy whispered. "Can't do that, son. You broke the law and now you have to pay the price. We're taking you someplace nice though. You can be sure of that." Deputy Ferguson had had enough. "Get the hell out of my car, Lou. I told you, if you don't quit antagonizing the convicts, you'll go back on desk duty," he roared and the boy flinched again, turning his head away. Chan/Dragon Pox/27 " B u t - " "I don't care if he dropped the moon on your fucking head, Lou. Get the fuck out of my car or Detective Roberts will hear about this." His face red, Lou got out of the car and slammed the door hard, making the car rattle. Deputy Ferguson looked in the rearview mirror at the boy in his back seat. "I'm sorry about him," he murmured. "The job gets hard sometimes, and he needs to let off some steam. He just goes about it the wrong way." Several long minutes passed before dragon boy dared to speak again. "Where am I going?" he asked. Deputy Ferguson continued to look at him from the rearview min-or. "Upstate. Got a nice place in Ovid for troubled youth." The boy shuddered at the implications of the words "place for troubled youth." Theo had told him about these types of places. The boy never dreamed he would be caught and sent to one, but here he sat locked in the back of a musty old cop car with a weary deputy who had seen better days. He curled in on himself with his hands cuffed and fell asleep. He lurched awake sometime later as the car braked, gravel spraying under the tires. "We're here, son," Deputy Ferguson said. The boy looked out of the window at his new prison. Several large ramshackle gray buildings sat in the middle of barren grass, a few agricultural pits off to the side. A tree decorated the grounds every once in a while, dead and expelled of any color. They parked in front of the largest building that had stone steps leading to a set of wooden doors. Above the doors swung a humungous plaque that proclaimed "Gaebler Center" in large, peeling letters. Chan/Dragon Pox/28 The whole place looked dead and dull. There was hardly any color, just brown grass, gray trees, and ashen buildings made of faded bricks. The crops visible in the distance were faded yellow and wilted. Even the sky was a dull and muted blue fading into a gray horizon. The boy feared he would lose everything here, right down to his tattered red leather wings. His door opened, interrupting the view of his presumed-grave and he sta1tled. The cop bent to help the boy from the car before guiding him up the steps. Each step sounded hollow. It made the boy hesitate outside the wooden doors that suddenly seemed like a giant maw ready to open and swallow him whole. Deputy Ferguson looked down at the boy in sympathy and took his arm, guiding him closer and closer to the doors that would seal him inside with no escape. He dug in his heels and his hands scrabbled at the air but there was nothing to grab onto. The stone was too smooth under his feet and Deputy Ferguson was still so much bigger than him. "Come on," the deputy said, continuing to pull him forward. Chan/Dragon Pox/29 Chapter Two The line shuffled forward, slippers moving as an invisible chain yanked them forward. Left, right. Pause. Left, right. Pause. Deputy Ferguson had brought him in before lunch and the transfer blurred together in his mind, seeming to occur quicker than his apprehension by the cops. Orderlies wrestled him into a formless gray pair of pants and shirt and some padded slippers. They had tried to take his wings from him, but he had fought back, vicious and desperate. He bit two of them with his fangs hard enough to draw blood and scratched at least two others with his talons. It wasn't until Deputy Ferguson had charged into the f ray and caught dragon boy up in his arms that his struggles ceased. The deputy locked his arms at his sides and another orderly moved to restrain his legs. As dragon boy's struggles ceased, Deputy Ferguson was panting heavily. "I'm too old for this shit," he said, wheezing. "Can't you just let him keep his jacket? It helps keep him calm." The deputy addressed the boy. "Will you stop fighting if they give it back?" He felt the boy nod against his chest, and he relaxed his hold. Eventually, they let him go and agreed to let him keep his wings for now, stressing the for now part in an ominous way. Deputy Ferguson also released him and made his way to the door. The boy whimpered a slight noise in the back of his throat, clutching his tattered red leather wings tighter around him. He didn't know the deputy very well, but he had been kind in a way that not most adults were to him. The deputy heard the noise and paused before he continued out the door with a muttered "sorry, kid." Then, the boy was rushed through the door and down a hallway to a huge cafeteria full of other gray kids like him. An orderly shoved him into line with a tray, ordering him to get some food. Chan/Dragon Pox/30 Heads bowed as the lunch line continued to move, a well-oiled machine, all except for one. Dragon boy shuffled with the rest of the line but kept his head held high. He clutched his empty tray close to his chest while his eyes scanned the unfamiliar room. Large and square, it contained mismatched tables and chairs, all various shades of clinical white. He clocked the huge double doors as the only exit and the six orderlies that keep watch around the room. The line moved. The boy shuffled forward, now level with the counter. He held out his tray. Slop. A glob of mashed potatoes. Slop. A mass of orange next. Slop. A gray blob with bits of turkey. A rough, multi-grain roll, no butter. A carton of whole milk. He looked at his tray in disgust. He had stolen better meals than this, but he knew better than to complain. At least it was food and he knew to take food when it came because he was certain when he would eat again. The line shuffled forward to collect plastic silverware and one paper napkin at the end and then dragon boy stopped, a new dilemma presenting itself. He whined, ducking his head at last. He didn't know anyone here. Once again, he was all alone in an unfamiliar place. "New kid!" Dragon boy's head snapped up. "Yeah, you. Sit here, with us." The dragon boy followed the voice and located the source. In the far-right corner of the room, a blondish teen sitting with a small red-headed girl waved to him. It was a table tucked into the corner furthest away from the doors and any orderlies. While it was stuck in a corner, the table offered a good vantage point of the whole room, so he would have enough time to get away from any threat he saw coming. He hesitated for a moment before walking over, setting his tray on the table. "Well, sit down," the boy barked. Dragon boy hastened to do as told. Chan/Dragon Pox/31 "I'm Adrian. This is my sister Liza," he said, pointing first at himself and then the red-headed girl with dark eyes. Dragon boy jerked his hand in an awkward waving motion. Liza sniggered and then hid her face in her tray. "What's your name?" Adrian asked. Dragon boy shrugged. "It doesn't matter." The questions continued. "How old are you? I'm thirteen and Liza is four." "Eleven or something." At least, that's what Theo guessed. "Where are you from?" "Nowhere." "Don't you know anything?" Adrian asked, huffing in impatience. Dragon boy grunted in response. He didn't owe this stranger anything, especially when all his answers were true. He didn't have a name, he was around eleven, and he wasn't from anywhere in particular. Not anymore. Liza peeked up at him through her lashes. "It's okay," she whispered. "I didn't know nothing either before I came here. Addie named me." Dragon boy giggled, a little hysterical. "Addie?" Adrian flushed with cheeks tinged a little pink. "Shut up," he muttered. "Only Liza gets to call me that." "Addie," the little girl demanded, reaching for her brother. "He needs a name." The boy shrugged. Names never seemed that impo11ant to him. Adrian heaved out a big breath. "We'll figure out later, I suppose. What are you in for?" Dragon boy hesitated, unsure of what Adrian meant. "What?" he asked. Adrian waved his arms. "You know, why are you here? In this fuckin' place?" Chan/Dragon Pox/32 Dragon boy relaxed a little before shrugging once again. "The cops picked me up. Stuck me here," he said. "Didn't really have anywhere else to go." It was true now. Theo and the others would assume him dead because that was the law of the streets. If someone went missing, they were dead. "Were you homeless?" Adrian asked. "In a way," came the answer. "I know the streets." Adrian grinned in a dark way, sensing a camaraderie forming. His smile made the other boy a little uneasy, but it was the so11 of smile he recognized, a smile dimmed by shared suffering. "Me, too," Adrian said. "Now, we're both stuck here, where they-" He cut himself off as an orderly lumbered up to their corner table, glowering down at them because they were talking instead of eating. Dragon boy huddled down as the massive orderly came closer and closer, trying to cave in on himself before he was beaten. For the second time in as many days, he had lost track of his surroundings and been caught unawares. He should have seen the guard coming but he had been too distracted by Adrian. Theo would be so disappointed; the boy had failed to follow his most impo11ant rule twice now. "You know the rules," the orderly said in a gruff voice as he stood over them. His gaze fell upon the newest arrival. "You better start eating, kid," he menaced. "If you don't, you'll be punished." The orderly then left the same way he arrived, lumbering and hefty. Dragon boy looked down at his slop with a distasteful expression, debating on whether or not to follow the orders. He was in a new and unfamiliar place with no idea how anything worked. A faint memory of a whip cracking across his back with the words count the strikes for me flashed across his mind. He flinched at the remembered pain before shoving the memory away. He had Chan/Dragon Pox/33 no idea what warranted punishment here and what the punishments would be. He would need to figure that out as soon as possible. For now, he would follow the rules and any orders given. Just until he could get away and find Theo again. He hefted a spoonful of the orange mush into his mouth before grimacing at the bland taste of what was supposed to be carrots. Adrian mirrored the expression back to him. "You get used to it," he said. "It's all we eat in this place." Dragon boy groaned even as he dipped the roll into the vaguely carrot-flavored mush. It was still better than going hungry. "Do you have any names you might like?" Adrian asked. Dragon boy just lifted one shoulder, mouth full of mashed potatoes as he tried to get rid of the carrot flavor. Adrian began listing off names and dragon boy frowned at every single one. He would never understand the human preference for naming everything. Adrian continued to list names as they steadily ate their way through the food on their trays. Liza chimed in with an idea every so often, but her ideas were even more outlandish than Adrian's, so he refused them as well. Dragon boy poked his tongue out at Adrian after a particularly bad round of names, shaking his head. "Bad. Bad. They're all bad," he said. Adrian laughed. "What about Edward? Or Robe1i? Or Michael?" "Bad," he repeated. Adrian sighed with his brows furrowed in concentration. "Well, you need a name. You can't not have a name." The other boy was unconcerned. Not having a name didn't bother him. He had other identifiers. "I don't need a name. I'm just dragon boy." Chan/Dragon Pox/34 "Dragon boy?" Adrian questioned. The boy looked away. "It doesn't matter," he said in a harsh voice. Adrian nodded and didn't press further. Liza pulled on Adrian's sleeve. "What's a drag-on?" she asked, extending the two syllables. "Dragon," he replied, correcting her. "They're like giant lizards with wings. They can fly and breathe fire, too." rose. Her eyes lit up. "Cute." Adrian laughed at her. "They are much bigger than lizards though." "How big?" she demanded. "Big as houses," Adrian said. Her eyes opened wide, innocence blooming like the purest She then turned to dragon boy. "We call you ... Dray," she announced. Adrian scoffed. "That's not a name!" "Is!" Liza argued, scowling. "It's short for dragon!" Their disagreement dissolved into childish insults being flung back and forth. They made sure to keep their disagreement quiet to avoid attracting the attention of the orderlies and dragon boy contemplated his new name. A grin spread across his face as he decided he liked it. It gave him a sense of belonging among people that he hadn't felt in a long time and he felt that it might not be so bad in this place after all. "I like it, Liza," he announced. "I'm Dray." Her sun-shaming smile sparked an answering grin f rom Dray, a grin that widened when he heard Adrian sigh in defeat as he muttered, "Dray isn't a real name." Liza elbowed Adrian, and then they were all quiet as they finished their sad excuse for lunch. Chan/Dragon Pox/35 After lunch, Dray was tagged and separated from Adrian as they were supervised by orderlies down the hallway. Two of them gripped his shoulders and steered him away through another door into a communal bathroom. It looked like a long hallway, tiled with white squares dingy with soap scum. There were multiple showerheads on each wall, spaced out every few feet. There were no stalls or dividers or curtains, everything was out in the open. A long bench ran down the center of the room and there were shelves of gray towel rolls next to the door. "Get undressed," one of the orderlies barked. "Be quick about it, you're filthy and we need to get you to your evaluation." Dray hesitated, not wanting to get undressed in front of the two orderlies that were much bigger than him. One of them took a step forward and said, "Do it, or we'll just hose you down." He decided to cooperate to avoid being manhandled and moved forward to stand next to a showerhead. He picked the showerhead closest to the door, wanting to be as close to an escape route as possible. Even as the thought crossed his mind, the orderlies moved to shadow him, standing sentry by the door, making escape impossible. He stepped up to the bench and struggled with his wings before he was able to get them off. He laid them on the bench before dragging the rest of the clothes from his emaciated body with slow movements. Once he was done, he stepped away, trying to shield his naked body from the bored gazes of the orderlies. "Please don't take my wings," he whispered to them and he stepped under the showerhead. One of the orderlies stepped toward him and he flinched away, but all he did was turn on the water and hand Dray a bar of soap. Dray took it and watched with an eagle eye as the orderly stepped back to his previous position and made no move toward his wings. He stepped under the flow of the lukewarm water and hurried through the motions of scrubbing himself clean, leaving Chan/Dragon Pox/36 his hair till last, trying to keep his prison guards in his sights at all times. He only closed his eyes for the few scant seconds needed to wash the soap out of his hair and he popped them open after he finished in a panic, afraid that they had grabbed his wings. The orderlies hadn't moved, and his wings were still safe on the bench. When he finished, he struggled with the knob for a few seconds before he figured out how to turn it off. He padded toward the towel rack, giving his guards a wide berth. He dried and re-dressed himself as quick as he could, donning his wings just as they moved to flank him once again. As he shuffled down the hallway in his slippers, they came across a nurse involved in a heated conversation with an important-looking older man sheathed in a white lab coat, tall with silver hair and cold brown eyes. As he watched, a new man with a shock of blond hair and remote blue eyes appeared and joined in the conversation. The orderlies frog-marched him closer to the trio and the nurse stepped forward while motioning his prison guards away. When she came closer, he recognized her as one of the people in the room with him at his arrival. She was an older woman with brown hair pinned up in a no-nonsense bun and blue eyes. She was the one who had placed his wings around his shoulders after the scuffle. She placed a firm hand on his left shoulder and guided him closer to the two men. "Is this the new arrival?" the blond man asked, not unkindly. His eyes were alive with attention and focus while the rest of his face remained shuttered. The nurse nodded and introduced the two men. "This is Doctor Michaels, the director of our fine institution," she said, pointing at the older man. Then, she pointed at the blond, saying, "This is Doctor Ashby, a psychologist on staff." Chan/Dragon Pox/3 7 The silver-haired man stepped forward, impatient. "Come, boy," he said, voice stiff and unyielding as a whip. It cracked across his ears and he flinched in memory of a faraway sound. "It's time for your entry evaluation." The blond man, Doctor Ashby, missed neither the flinch or the memory reaction and he stepped forward. "I'll do it, Doctor Michaels," he said. "I'm sure you have more important things to be doing. I'll leave the paperwork on your desk." The silver man waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and started to walk away, throwing a careless "thank you" over his shoulder as he went. "Come here, kid," the blonde man said, holding out his hand. "I won't hurt you. We just need to get to know you a little." The nurse nudged him forward and he moved a little closer to Doctor Ashby, whining low in his throat. He stepped closer and closer to the unknown before taking a hurdle and putting a little of his trust into an outstretched hand. He would play along until he could find a way out. The blond man looked down at him. "As you've heard, I'm Doctor Victor Ashby," he introduced himself. "What's your name?" Dragon boy looked down. "Dray," he answered in a whisper. Dr. Ashby smiled and said, "That's an interesting name and I'd like to get to know you a little better. Come with me now and we'll do your evaluation." Together, Dray's hand still in the doctor's, they moved down the hall until they were ensconced in Doctor Ashby's office with the door shut. "Now, feel free to call me Victor. None of the formal stuff," he said before gesturing to a chair on one side of a desk. "Sit down, please, and we'll talk." Chan/Dragon Pox/38 Dray hesitated before he slowly lowered himself onto the very edge of his chair, eyes on the door and his muscles poised to run at the slightest hint of danger. "How did you come to be here?" Victor asked him. Dray looked down, shame rising hot in his gullet, making tears sting his eyes. "I didn't listen to Theo," he whispered. "What?" the doctor asked. "I didn't listen to Theo," Dray repeated, a little louder. "Who is Theo?" Victor wondered. "Theo is ... " the boy paused, trying to think of a word to describe Theo. Theo was their mentor, their leader, their savior. He taught all of the street kids that passed under his tutelage how to survive and make something of themselves. "Theo is my friend," he answered. "I see," Victor said. "And how did you meet this Theo?" Dray remembered a cloudless day years ago with the sun beating down on him as he tricked his way onto the Coney Island ferry. The boy meandered up to the ticket station, careful to look around often as though checking for his parents. When he scrounged enough money, the boy loved to ride the dilapidated Staten Island Ferry to Coney Island. It was one of this favorite parts of the city. When a family of three went to get their tickets, he went behind them. "One ticket, please," he said, trying to keep the growl out of his voice. "One way or round-trip?" "Round-trip," the boy answered. Chan/Dragon Pox/39 The ticket man peered down at him from behind the plastic window. "Where's your family, young man?" The boy jerked his thumb behind him at the retreating backs of the family of three. "Over there. Let me buy my own ticket. Meet them at the ferry," the boy said. He spoke in a clear voice but found forming sentences hard in a voice more prone to growling and hissing. The family stopped at the cotton candy stand before the gangplank, lingering to buy their little girl a treat, but appearing to stop and wait for their wayward boy. The guard's expression cleared at his easy, practiced lies. "Ten cents, please," he said. The boy handed over the money. "Enjoy the ride to Coney Island." The boy grinned at up him with crooked teeth and scampered over to the cotton candy stand. He paused a little way behind the family before he followed them up the gangplank. Presenting his ticket to the guard at the top, he boarded with no incident. The family paid him no mind because no one ever paid attention to children. The guard just assumed he was with the family or meeting his family aboard because he had his own ticket. Adults never paid too much attention to children that weren't their own. On the top deck, the boy made a beeline for his favorite corner, standing on the railing as he waited for the ferry to take off. A few children ran up and down the length of the deck, screaming and shouting as they played. Their cries mixed in with the screeches of the gulls overhead as they scoured through the skies. The ferry took off and the boy exhilarated in the feel of the wind in his hair. He spread his arms and his wings blew out behind him. All too soon, the ride was over, and the ferry docked at the island. Chan/Dragon Pox/40 Once the gangplank was lowered again, the boy disembarked and made his way to an empty bench on the dock, content to sit until the ferry left again because he had no place to go and nowhere to be, just a homeless boy in an anonymous city. "You know, I see you here an awful lot, little one." The boy staitled and looked around. Beside him sat a violent-looking youth with dark hair and a secret smirk playing around his mouth. Scars littered the teen's face and arms-some were long and thin while others were short and deep. Different from his own stark scales, he wondered where they came from. The boy dragged his eyes up to stare into the brown eyes of the newcomer that had appeared beside him without so much as a whistle and a warning. Fear coiled deep inside his chest. The youth's smirk made him edgy and he tensed, preparing to bolt. Before he could so much as move, the teen 's arm shot out to grip his shoulder, hard. The boy resisted the urge to claw the smirk off his face. He couldn't draw attention to himself in public, that was the fastest way to get eyes on him, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. "Na. It's my first time," he gritted out. "I doubt that, little one," he said. "You see, I come here almost every day, looking for kids like you, and you've ridden this ferry seven times in the last month. Very clever, the way you get on." "Kids like me?" he asked, a hint of a hiss in his voice. "Yeah," the youth answered. "You know, kids with that look in their eyes, like they had to grow up too fast. That sort of thing." The boy just stared, stunned into silence. "Pardon me, where are my manners? I'm Theo. They call me the Street Rat King 'round these parts." Chan/Dragon Pox/41 "Street rat?" the boy asked. Theo f rowned then, the expression marring his scarred face. "A runaway, someone that left home, street kids. Did you leave home, little one?" The boy scoffed, finding his voice again. "I don't have a home," he hissed. He would never consider his aunt his home. His home died with the memories of his mother. Theo took in his expression and gave a sad sigh. He saw that expression in all the children he took in, all of them alone or neglected or unwanted. "I'll keep you safe," Theo murmured. "You can trust me. I know a place, a place where you can stay." "What?" the boy asked, surprised. "Yes. You'd have a place to stay. Friends. And I'll teach you how to survive on the streets," Theo replied. "It's my job to find little ones like you and turn them into productive members o f society. I' II teach you things you never dreamed of, kid." Theo let go of his shoulder and stood, holding out his hand. The boy hesitated and then took it, wondering what lay ahead. "You made the right choice, kid," Theo said. "How old are you anyway?" The boy shrugged, unsure of much time had passed since he ran away. "Ten? Eleven?" Theo guessed. "Nine?" the boy answered, uncertain but fairly confident in his calculations. "Okay," Theo laughed. "You can be nine. Got a name?" The boy shrugged again. "Not really." Theo sighed before walking back toward the ferry, a queue forming at the gangplank to board since it was time to leave. "What am I going to call you, then?" "I don't need a name," he said. "I'm just a dragon boy." "Dragon boy, huh? Can you fly?" Theo asked in good humor. Chan/Dragon Pox/42 The boy looked at his feet. "No," he said, morose, shaking out his red leather wings. "Not anymore." Theo grabbed his hand again and forced a smile. It warmed his face, making the scars less threatening as they stretched into whiteness with the moving muscles. "It's all right, little flame. It's not your fault. You're safe now and I'll show you your new home." "Little flame?" the boy stumbled over the words, foreign on his tongue. "It suits you," Theo declared as they reached the guard checking the ticket stubs for the return journey. "And it will be my name for you." "Got your ticket still?" Theo asked when they reached the front of the queue. The boy scoffed and fumbled in the pockets of his pants that were dark enough to hide the dirt that coated them before producing his stub. Theo grinned and snatched it from his hand. "Stubs, please," the guard said in a monotone, bored. "Pleasant day, sir?" Theo asked. "What's it to you, hoodlum?" the guard snapped, irritated, tossing the stubs back at Theo, who caught them with ease. "Don't mind him," Theo stage-whispered to the boy. "He's always grumpy." The guard's glare drilled into their backs as Theo sauntered away, dragon boy still clinging to his hand. "All right, little flame, time to go home," Theo announced as the ferry took off into the setting sun, Coney Island lighting up in the impending dark.