Free Together always by Dallas Schulze

yet know why the two of them had left home. Lily was vague on the subject. She'd only done what Trace had told her. On the one occasion Mike broached the subject with Trace, the boy's eyes grew frighteningly cold. When the time came that Trace trusted him, perhaps then he'd find out what those reasons had been.
    So he waited, biding his time, careful to respect the fact that Trace was much older than his years, careful not to presume too much too soon. He tried to guide and suggest rather than order and demand and he had the satisfaction of seeing a httle of the boy's wariness fade.
    When fall approached, Mike introduced the subject of school with cautious steps. It didn't surprise him when Trace flatly refused to go. The boy had been through far too much to slip neatly back into a typical sbcteen-year-old's life. But he was surprised that Trace supported him when it came to Lily's returning to school. When he thought about it, he realized that he shouldn't have been surprised. Trace was fiercely determined that Lily have a normaj life.
    So the little household shifted along together, not quite smooth yet but slowly finding a tentative balance that was comfortable for all of them. The weather cooled and a few trees halfheartedly turned rather yellow. Southern California's version of fall came and went without fanfare. The rains dampened the streets enough to bring out the summer's accumulation of oils, making driving a hazardous affair, and then they departed for another month and the sun shone down with bright good cheer.
    The Thanksgiving holiday was spent as Mike always spent it, working in one of the missions, feeding the homeless. Trace and Lily worked with him. Trace dished out food, his eyes dark. A few months ago he and Lily had been sleeping

    in the streets with the men and women he was now serving. If it wasn't for Mike, they might have still been there. The memories were too close, too vivid, and it was a long time before he slept that night, thinking of what could have been.
    After Thanksgiving, Christmas rushed toward them and the contrast was even more vivid. This year he had money in his pocket. Not a fortune but enough. They had a roof over their heads. A home, not a motel room. This year Lily was going to be the angel in the Christmas play, and Trace was ashamed of the way his eyes burned when he saw her in the simple white dress Mike's neighbor had made for her, a silver halo ringing her inky hair, her eyes wide and excited as she solemnly performed her duties onstage.
    Mike threw himself into the holiday with Irish fervor. The sight of him standing at the kitchen counter, swathed in a chef's apron, his fiery red hair standing on end, flour coating ever>' surface as he doggedly worked his way through a recipe for gingerbread men, should have been enough to send Trace into peals of laughter. But the emotion he felt wasn't amusement. He felt as if something had cracked inside, some long-held barrier. He backed away, unconsciously trying to repair the damage. If he didn't protect himself, he was going to get hurt.
    But the barrier had been wearing down for months; he just hadn't noticed the cracks in his defenses. Maybe it was the holiday season. Maybe it was just a very human need to believe in someone.
    A huge tree stood in one comer of the living room, far too large for the small room and yet somehow just right. Trace had no way of knowing that it was the first tree Mike had had in nearly six years. All he knew was that the little house oozed warmth and holiday spirit and something seemed to be crumbling inside him.
    Lily went to bed early on Christmas Eve in the hope that it would make Christmas morning arrive a little sooner.

    When Trace went up to check on her at nine she was fast asleep, Isaiah's felt eyes watching over her. On the night table Esmeralda sat, her painted blue eyes chipped and faded.
    Trace hesitated at the top of the stairs, listening to the rain outside, the closest L. A. ever got to a