Free Waking Lazarus by T. L. Hines

friendly, ready to slobber all over anyone who came within a mile, and he had the very unfrightening name of ‘‘Sunny.’’ But Rachel was terrified of Sunny, all the same.
    She knew some part of him was wolf, and wolves ate children.
    Rachel felt the same way about Ron being alone with Nathan. No, Ron wasn’t a wolf, but he was . . . something. That was perhaps even more unsettling.
    Rachel paused at Nathan’s mostly closed door when she heard someone sobbing. Alarmed, she wondered what Ron had done to make Nathan cry. But that thought quickly faded when she realized it wasn’t Nathan. She’d heard Nathan cry plenty of times before, and it was quite obvious this wasn’t her son sobbing.
    She cracked open the door, ventured a peek inside. Nathan was tightly hugging Ron as Ron’s head rested on Nathan’s shoulder. An odd picture. Her radar kicked down to zero. She pulled the door shut and went to the sofa in the living room, her mind full of questions. What had they talked about? What had made Ron cry? What was suddenly so different about him?
    A few times that evening Ron had done things that shocked her, things she never would have expected. First, he went to Nathan’s room right away. Never happened before. Even though she invited Ron over to see Nathan regularly, and even though Nathan genuinely loved his father, Ron had never seemed that . . . interested. He’d always been more like a lobotomized patient than anything else. He showed up, you told him where to sit or stand, he did it, then he left. But tonight, when she opened the door, she could tell right away he seemed more . . . awake, maybe.
    Then, when Nathan finished his prayer at the dinner table, Ron uttered a quick ‘‘amen.’’ What did that mean? Was God softening his heart? Did it mean she was supposed to talk to Ron about God?
    Yes, that signal was crystal clear, now that Ron was crying in Nathan’s room. Ron obviously needed someone to confide in, and Nathan had been the only one to show him unconditional love and acceptance. Her five-year-old had been there for Ron, while she herself had acted like the five-year-old. She felt the ball of pain starting to thrum a bit at the top of her chest.
    She sat on her sofa and waited, unsure what else to do, until she heard Ron coming down the hallway. He stopped as he entered the living room, apparently surprised to see her.
    ‘‘Oh,’’ he said. ‘‘Hi.’’
    ‘‘Everything okay?’’ she asked with a tinge of hope in her voice.
    ‘‘Yeah. Sure. He’s asleep. I mean, not really asleep, but he’s in bed.’’
    She nodded. ‘‘You want to sit down? Want some coffee or something?’’
    He looked at her for a moment. ‘‘I’m . . . I’m sorry. I’m no good at being—’’ he stopped and looked at the floor, and Rachel could tell he was searching for the right word—‘‘no good at being real, I guess.’’
    She smiled. ‘‘None of us are.’’
    Ron shuffled. ‘‘I do want to thank you for dinner. Not just tonight, but every time. I appreciate you letting me see Nathan.’’
    ‘‘He’s your son.’’
    Ron pointed toward the door. ‘‘I should get going.’’
    Rachel followed him. Ron unlocked the dead bolt, relocked it and unlocked it again, then turned as if to say something to her but didn’t.
    He turned back to open the door, and she reached out to touch his shoulder. He flinched and stopped, actually stopped, in mid-motion. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she blurted. ‘‘I didn’t mean to—’’
    ‘‘It’s okay. I’m just not used to, uh, that.’’
    Was he this bad the night she first met him? She didn’t think so. Ron seemed more withdrawn, more paranoid now. And she felt even more shame at this thought, knowing in her heart she could have prevented some of the slide. ‘‘I just wanted to tell you, Ron, that you can talk to me anytime. About anything. Really. I know I’ve never said that before, but there it is.’’
    He looked down at the wood