Chapter 1
It’s been 9 months since I first entered the foster care system, and I’m about to meet with another case worker.
“Tina” I state roughly with an ever-so-slight nod when she walks up.
“For a blind kid you guess pretty well,” she replies. I sense her reaching out to shake my hand and wave her off.
“I may be blind, but I have my ways. Max described you right down to the perfume the other day,” I smile lightly up at her, warming up to her tone.
“Dang you’re good…” she whistles admiringly, then sets a folder on the table, “Anyways down to business. You’ve had views from twelve families in nine months, all of them considered and declined.”
“The all declined because they didn’t know I was blind. The last group had a kid named Alex, he was six, and thought being blind is contagious. His Dad noted it wasn’t in my file first off,” I state flatly; looking for all I could tell, right in her eyes.
“Well you don’t act like your blind, not by a long shot,” she says, irritation creeping into her voice, “At any rate, you have a visitor, David.”
“You know I go by Shay,” I reply bluntly, “And who is this visitor?”
Feeling the footsteps approaching through vibrations in the floor, I sense a slight limp on the left foot and the person in presumably a male. With him comes a muted scent of gunpowder and ground coffee. Instantly I rise, straightening to my full six feet two inches and salute him.
“Lt. Hawemore. It’s a pleasure, Sir,” I say awaiting orders.
“At ease Shay, Your father would put me to shame if I had you acting like a cadet,” the man laughs.
“Though I’ve never met the man in person until now, he and I know each other quite well already.
“Tina, may I present Lt. Michael Hawemore? Two tours in Iraq, two tours in ‘Nom, and two tours in Afghanistan. Has a left-handed drive to kill for and never shoots over an 80,” I say, grinning at her, relaxing and shaking his hand.
“I take it you’ve already met then…” Tina mumbles.
“Actually never,” Hawemore states, “May I ask where you learned all that young man? And also I’m going to point out you’re info is a bit outdated. I just got back from tour number three in Iraq.”
“Dad spoke so highly of you Sir. He said he met you in Afghanistan, “the tree light” if memory serves. You were both snipers,” I say. Sensing footsteps I tip my head ever so slightly to the left, and peer around the Lieutenant, “I do say Corporal; it’s very rude to eavesdrop.”
“I thought you said he was blind…” the third man presumably Corporal Winters, mutters.
“I’m blind, not deaf.” I say, relaxing a bit, knowing he was friendly, now that he was talking to Hawemore.
I can tell he’s looking over at me funny and finally he tentatively extends a hand.
“Corporal T.J. Winters,” he says curtly.
“Tomas, good to see you again,” I say, shaking his hand, and then embracing him, “It’s been far too long.”
“I know you?” he asks hesitantly, surprised at me.
“I am the sprightly young man from in the red mini-van at the base entrance. While you checked out our van, I drew you and left it on your stool. You gave my sister and I lollipops, I was six at the time,” I say, hoping to jog his memory.
“I always wondered who did that…” he says, staring off into space.
“Well Shay,” Hawemore says, “If you don’t mind, I need a favor of you.”
“What kind of favor?” I question, intrigued by their query.
“You’re observant, we need your help,” he says, sliding a folder across the table.
“Read me in, let’s do this,” I say opening the folder absent-mindedly.
“Wait. We can hire skilled professionals and we’re going to get this kid to help us?” T.J. gawks.
“This ‘kid’ is one of the best profilers within two million miles. He’s our best chance at the moment,” Hawemore says, walking towards the door.
I follow him, taking careful steps, to a van parked across the street. I listen until I’m sure the door is open then grope around for the handle.
“I knew this was a bad idea…” I hear T.J. mutter.
Pulling myself up into the van, I set my sketchbook across my lap. I always carry it even though I never use it anymore.
“I’m gonna tell you straight Shay. We need you as our sketch artist,” Hawemore says, tossing a pen at me.
I reach out, catch it, and toss it back.
“If you’d read my file, I haven’t drawn since the accident,” I say holding out my sketchbook, “You can look, it’s empty.”
I can tell both of their faces fell at that, and I smirk.
“Could you at least try David…?” Hawemore asks, resting his hand on mine.
“Fine, where did that pen go?” I ask opening my sketchbook after pausing to consider my options.
Once they’ve armed me with a pen, I look up at T.J.
“Start talking,” I say bluntly.
“What? Why should I?” he asks, obviously startled.
“You can tell a lot about a person by the way they speak,” I reply, poking his leg with the pen, “Now start talking.”
Pulling the pen across the page, I try visualizing the basic facial shape and T.J.’s facial features. Ten minutes later, the van pulls to a stop and I hold up what I have.
“Does it even begin to look like a face?” I question.
“I couldn’t draw anywhere near that good for the life of me.” Hawemore states, whistling in admiration, “Now that we know you still have your touch, will you help us?”
“I can try…” I respond, closing my sketchbook and returning the pen.
“Well then, first off we’re homing you with one of our finest men, Corporal Craig Trent, if you know him,” Hawemore says, rising and getting out of the van.
“I follow him, my backpack slung across my shoulder. Walking up the sidewalk, I can smell freshly cut grass and flowers. Someone knocks on the door, and when it opens, a very familiar voice greets us.
“Hello Lt. Hawemore,” Mrs. Trent says. I can tell she’s smiling brightly. “And hello David, it’s so nice to see you again.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” I say, hearing soft footfalls behind her. “Hello Sam.”
“Tina” I state roughly with an ever-so-slight nod when she walks up.
“For a blind kid you guess pretty well,” she replies. I sense her reaching out to shake my hand and wave her off.
“I may be blind, but I have my ways. Max described you right down to the perfume the other day,” I smile lightly up at her, warming up to her tone.
“Dang you’re good…” she whistles admiringly, then sets a folder on the table, “Anyways down to business. You’ve had views from twelve families in nine months, all of them considered and declined.”
“The all declined because they didn’t know I was blind. The last group had a kid named Alex, he was six, and thought being blind is contagious. His Dad noted it wasn’t in my file first off,” I state flatly; looking for all I could tell, right in her eyes.
“Well you don’t act like your blind, not by a long shot,” she says, irritation creeping into her voice, “At any rate, you have a visitor, David.”
“You know I go by Shay,” I reply bluntly, “And who is this visitor?”
Feeling the footsteps approaching through vibrations in the floor, I sense a slight limp on the left foot and the person in presumably a male. With him comes a muted scent of gunpowder and ground coffee. Instantly I rise, straightening to my full six feet two inches and salute him.
“Lt. Hawemore. It’s a pleasure, Sir,” I say awaiting orders.
“At ease Shay, Your father would put me to shame if I had you acting like a cadet,” the man laughs.
“Though I’ve never met the man in person until now, he and I know each other quite well already.
“Tina, may I present Lt. Michael Hawemore? Two tours in Iraq, two tours in ‘Nom, and two tours in Afghanistan. Has a left-handed drive to kill for and never shoots over an 80,” I say, grinning at her, relaxing and shaking his hand.
“I take it you’ve already met then…” Tina mumbles.
“Actually never,” Hawemore states, “May I ask where you learned all that young man? And also I’m going to point out you’re info is a bit outdated. I just got back from tour number three in Iraq.”
“Dad spoke so highly of you Sir. He said he met you in Afghanistan, “the tree light” if memory serves. You were both snipers,” I say. Sensing footsteps I tip my head ever so slightly to the left, and peer around the Lieutenant, “I do say Corporal; it’s very rude to eavesdrop.”
“I thought you said he was blind…” the third man presumably Corporal Winters, mutters.
“I’m blind, not deaf.” I say, relaxing a bit, knowing he was friendly, now that he was talking to Hawemore.
I can tell he’s looking over at me funny and finally he tentatively extends a hand.
“Corporal T.J. Winters,” he says curtly.
“Tomas, good to see you again,” I say, shaking his hand, and then embracing him, “It’s been far too long.”
“I know you?” he asks hesitantly, surprised at me.
“I am the sprightly young man from in the red mini-van at the base entrance. While you checked out our van, I drew you and left it on your stool. You gave my sister and I lollipops, I was six at the time,” I say, hoping to jog his memory.
“I always wondered who did that…” he says, staring off into space.
“Well Shay,” Hawemore says, “If you don’t mind, I need a favor of you.”
“What kind of favor?” I question, intrigued by their query.
“You’re observant, we need your help,” he says, sliding a folder across the table.
“Read me in, let’s do this,” I say opening the folder absent-mindedly.
“Wait. We can hire skilled professionals and we’re going to get this kid to help us?” T.J. gawks.
“This ‘kid’ is one of the best profilers within two million miles. He’s our best chance at the moment,” Hawemore says, walking towards the door.
I follow him, taking careful steps, to a van parked across the street. I listen until I’m sure the door is open then grope around for the handle.
“I knew this was a bad idea…” I hear T.J. mutter.
Pulling myself up into the van, I set my sketchbook across my lap. I always carry it even though I never use it anymore.
“I’m gonna tell you straight Shay. We need you as our sketch artist,” Hawemore says, tossing a pen at me.
I reach out, catch it, and toss it back.
“If you’d read my file, I haven’t drawn since the accident,” I say holding out my sketchbook, “You can look, it’s empty.”
I can tell both of their faces fell at that, and I smirk.
“Could you at least try David…?” Hawemore asks, resting his hand on mine.
“Fine, where did that pen go?” I ask opening my sketchbook after pausing to consider my options.
Once they’ve armed me with a pen, I look up at T.J.
“Start talking,” I say bluntly.
“What? Why should I?” he asks, obviously startled.
“You can tell a lot about a person by the way they speak,” I reply, poking his leg with the pen, “Now start talking.”
Pulling the pen across the page, I try visualizing the basic facial shape and T.J.’s facial features. Ten minutes later, the van pulls to a stop and I hold up what I have.
“Does it even begin to look like a face?” I question.
“I couldn’t draw anywhere near that good for the life of me.” Hawemore states, whistling in admiration, “Now that we know you still have your touch, will you help us?”
“I can try…” I respond, closing my sketchbook and returning the pen.
“Well then, first off we’re homing you with one of our finest men, Corporal Craig Trent, if you know him,” Hawemore says, rising and getting out of the van.
“I follow him, my backpack slung across my shoulder. Walking up the sidewalk, I can smell freshly cut grass and flowers. Someone knocks on the door, and when it opens, a very familiar voice greets us.
“Hello Lt. Hawemore,” Mrs. Trent says. I can tell she’s smiling brightly. “And hello David, it’s so nice to see you again.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” I say, hearing soft footfalls behind her. “Hello Sam.”