Chapter Text
November, 1983
There was something wrong about the morning. A quiet, insidious wrongness that lingered in the air, thick and hard to pin down. Everything had been turned upside down. The government agents had swarmed their house, poking through every drawer and closet, combing over the furniture because they thought a little girl might be hiding in the cushions.
Karen wanted to scream at them, ask them what the hell they thought they were doing, but instead, she had just stood there, hands shaking, while they muttered about national security, about a dangerous little girl her son had hidden away. Her son of all people. She couldn’t even begin to understand it, but the whole thing felt like something that didn’t belong in her world, in her life. And yet it had happened. It had happened.
The last twenty-four hours played back in fragments. There was the phone call, the frantic drive to the school in the dead of night, the shock in her chest when she’d seen Mike curled up in the back of an ambulance.
There was the stillness in him that was completely new; his wide eyes, his cheeks streaked with tears that hadn’t dried completely. The paramedics had said he was fine, that he was just in shock. Just in shock. It hadn’t felt like just shock, though. It hadn’t felt fine. He had been so still, so quiet, so unlike himself.
She hadn’t pressed him for answers. She hadn’t known how to. There was too much happening at once.
The body bags that had been wheeled out of the school cafeteria—they kept slipping into her mind, against her will. That look on his face, the way her son was like a shell of the boy she knew, looking at her but not seeing her. The agents scoured the house for hours, asking her questions she didn’t have answers to, checking every corner for this girl they said Mike had hidden. It had all felt like an invasion.
And still, Karen couldn’t shake the way Mike’s eyes had looked as they’d driven him home, as he sat beside her in silence.
She didn’t know what to do.
That was the thing. She didn’t know. All she could do was keep moving.
She moved mechanically, hands working as she threw a load into the dryer, the sound of the machine a dull thrum that filled the basement with a strange rhythm.
“Michael!” she called, her voice louder than she meant it to be, the words snapping through the quiet air.
“Mom!” came his voice, sharp and defensive, echoing from the other side of the basement. He hadn’t come up all day, hadn’t left that blanket fort he’d built days ago. She had taken him a tray of dinner last night, had begged him to come up, but he hadn’t moved. He’d fallen asleep there, curled up in the blankets like he was hiding from the world.
Karen felt a flush of anger at the thought. She didn't get it, no matter how sympathetic she had to act. Michael was thirteen now, too old for a blanket fort even if he was obviously finding some kind of comfort in it. In fact, the only reason he'd built it was to play with Holly. Seeing him curled up like the little boy he used to be but all sullen and unmoving sent pain through her nerves. What did he need the comfort for? What happened to him? All she was told was Will was back, and physically unharmed.
It didn't make sense. She wasn’t sure what she or Mike were angry about.
“Blankets. In the wash, now.”
“No.”
It shouldn’t have frustrated her. It was such a small thing, such a minor request. She just didn’t understand it. The blankets were filthy; mud streaked across the fabric. She could barely stand to look at them. But there he was, sitting in that fort, ignoring her. She needed him to do something, anything, to show her he was still the same boy, to show her he was still there.
“What do you mean, no?” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, but it cut through the thick quiet of the basement.
“No.”
She pinched her nose and took a deep breath. “Those blankets are filthy. There's mud all over them. Put them in the basket. I am not asking you.”
He rolled his eyes but complied. Immediately after rolling the blankets into a ball and throwing them in the basket, Mike reached for another from the clean pile she'd just folded.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked before she could stop herself, her words too harsh, but the question was out there, hanging between them.
He froze, his hands stiffening as he held the fabric.
She wasn’t even sure why she asked. It was so obvious what he was doing — he was rebuilding the fort. But there was something in the way he did it, something in the way he placed the blankets that made her feel unsettled.
It wasn’t like him, the way he handled it. She could see it; he was too careful, almost reverent. She wanted to ask him more, to get him to talk, but he didn’t even look at her. Without answering, Mike layered the blanket over the backs of the chairs. His eyes were fixed on the fort, his hands moving with a slow precision that felt too deliberate, too distant. Gently, he pinned each corner in place with a clothes peg and climbed back underneath, his walkie in his lap.
She wanted to put her foot down. She knew Ted would complain - he always did when it came to Mike. For all the fire she could see in her son, he was sensitive, soft. Karen knew about the bullies but there was something about Mike that invited them in. Sometimes, when she was less charitable, Karen thought it was less to do with him and more to do with those friends of his that invited attention. Mike just stood beside them, even when she thought it would do him better to step down instead.
He was standing his ground now too, against her. He hadn't argued back, which was his typical rebellion. But it seemed as if Mike's river of words, the one that no one could hold back, had dried up.
She didn’t press him. She should have, but she didn’t. She couldn’t explain why she let it go, why she didn’t just pull him out of the basement, demand he face what had happened, demand he open up about the girl, the government, the things he was hiding from her.
Karen picked her battles and picked up the full laundry basket.
A week later, Karen made her way down to the basement again, a plate of spaghetti in her hands, the smell of garlic and tomato filling the air as she stood at the top of the stairs. The dim light from the overhead bulb barely cut through the shadows, but she didn’t mind. The house had been too quiet since everything had happened, and she was tired of the silence. She was tired of Mike hiding away.
She paused at the door to the basement, about to call out for him, but then she heard it—the faint static crackling from inside, followed by a soft voice. She stood still for a moment, hoping for a sign of normality. Hoping to hear Lucas on the other end, tinny and full of laughter. But it was muffled, distant, like the signal was fading in and out.
“Please,” Mike’s voice came, low and urgent, and she felt something cold slip down her spine. There was a pleading tone in his words, something strange - desperation, almost.
Karen frowned. It didn’t sound like the way he talked to his friends. It didn’t sound like him at all.
She crept closer to the door, her heart thumping in her chest as she listened to the static warble again. It was like the walkie-talkie was struggling to hold on to the signal, the words barely cutting through the fuzz.
“Please, just tell me where you are... I’m not going to leave... just tell me if you're okay...”
Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t expected this. Mike didn’t talk to his friends like that, not with that edge to his voice. Not pleading. Not begging. She wasn’t sure who was on the other end of that radio, but it felt like something was slipping away from her. Something she didn’t understand.
Karen opened the door slowly, the creak of the hinges too loud in the stillness. Mike didn’t seem to hear her at first, too absorbed in whatever conversation was unfolding in the static. She could just see him, hunched over, his hand gripping the walkie like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to something. Or someone.
The grainy photo of a little girl with a shaved head and a blank expression fought its way back into her mind.
“Mike,” she said, her voice firm but quiet, unsure whether she was interrupting something private or intruding on something dangerous.
His head snapped up, startled, his face flushed red like he’d been caught doing something wrong. And in that moment, Karen saw the way he immediately straightened, the way his expression shifted from raw vulnerability to a tight, guarded mask.
“Who are you talking to?” she asked, her voice tight with concern, but also edged with a flicker of suspicion she couldn’t quite shake.
Mike didn’t answer right away. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t press the button to speak again. His mouth opened and closed, like he was trying to find the words, but when they finally came, they were sharp. Defensive. “No one.”
Karen’s heart dropped, the lie hanging in the air like a weight. It was so obvious. She could feel it. He was lying. His eyes darted towards her but skirted around the space before dropping back to the walkie, avoiding her gaze like he couldn’t face her. His jaw clenched.
“Mike,” she said again, this time with more authority, but still not pressing him enough. "That doesn't sound like ‘no one.’"
“I said no one,” he snapped back, his voice quick and brittle. She heard the tell-tale choke in his throat that had preceded screaming fits for years. “Did you hear anyone else?”
Karen hesitated, just a beat too long. She could feel the tension thick between them. Her instinct screamed at her to push him, to demand he tell her what was going on, to ask what had happened, what he was hiding. But something held her back. She wasn’t sure what it was - fear, maybe, or maybe just the overwhelming exhaustion of it all - but she closed her mouth and let it go.
She swallowed hard, taking in the sight of him sitting there, still clutching the walkie-talkie like it was some lifeline. There was a moment, one fleeting moment, when she could have reached out, could have said something that would have cracked through his walls. But instead, she stepped back, holding the plate in her hands as if it were the most important thing in the world.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said softly, her voice quieter than it should have been. She didn’t know why it was so hard to just say what needed to be said. “Come on. You’re not going to eat down here.”
Mike’s eyes flickered to the walkie-talkie again, then to her, before he finally dropped it onto the floor beside him, but it wasn’t with the care he had shown it before. It was with a sharp, impatient movement, as if he couldn’t even look at it anymore. He didn’t say anything. Just stood up and walked past her without another word.
And Karen, watching him go, felt the knot in her stomach tighten, but still, she didn’t ask any more questions.