As her temper abated, Letha found herself sitting on the riverbank, her gaze fixed on the water lapping at her feet. Her teeth clenched, Letha ran her fingers through the sand, digging channels that ran from her knees to her hip. She threw back her head, letting out a deep breath. The sun was peeking over the tree line, and Letha glared at it like it was personally responsible for everything she was annoyed with.

Something moved beside her, and Letha’s neck snapped to the side. A Labrador, golden in colour, was sniffing around by her side. He nuzzled the earth, tossing his head back with his tongue lolling out. Letha’s frown faded, and she shook her head, raising a hand to scratch behind his ear. Her hand fell through, his form as elusive as smoke, and she grew angry again.

Scrambling to her feet, Letha saw the owner of the dog, a dazed ghost walking across the water, and watched the happy creature run to his side. She let out a scream, shaking her hands in the air.

“Why can’t you all just leave me alone? Haven’t you screwed my life up enough? Just leave me alone!”

“Me or him?” Letha didn’t have to turn to recognise the voice of her brother, and, much to her irritation, she knew who ‘him’ was.

“Him, him, him!” She growled, twirling to raise a finger at Mickey. He was leaning against the tree, cascaded in shadow, with her brother standing in front of him. Hadrian had his hands out before him, protectively or defensively, but Letha’s eyes narrowed on her peer.

“You, you, you,” she strode forward, brushing past her brother. He staggered out of her path, massaging his shoulder, and watched wide eyed as she prodded Mickey in the chest, “What the Hell is wrong with you? Can’t you just mind your own damn business and leave me alone?”

Her face was centimetres from his, her cheeks bright with anger, and her eyes wide and sharp. Mickey wasn’t smiling, wasn’t frowning, just looking at her. Slowly, as if not to frighten a wild animal, he raised a hand to brush her cheek. Letha flinched, drawing away with a hissing breath.

Hadrian’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“What the Hell was that for?” Letha asked loudly, grinding her teeth.

Mickey smiled and shrugged.

Hadrian coughed, “I’m just gonna…” he trailed off, ducking back towards the road. The river was a couple of hundred metres off the main street, through a patch of forest, and the stream itself ran along the edge of town.

Mickey grabbed Letha’s hand and dragged her to the edge of the river, collapsing into a cross-legged position. Grimacing, Letha sunk down too, wiggling away from him.

“I finished your file,” he said after a second, staring at the water.

“And?”

“And I have some questions.”

Letha took a deep breath, assessing him out of the corner of her eye, “I may have the answers.”

Mickey looked at her finally, “Ok. What happened two schools back? There was a suicide noted, but it didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“It actually had a lot to do with me,” Letha was very careful not to let her emotional cringe show.

He frowned though, “you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“What?” Letha snapped, “You’re suddenly so interested in what I want? I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’m interested in your sane wants. The unfounded, irrational ones concerning my presence I’m more than happy to ignore.”

Letha took a deep breath, licking her lips, “Whatever.”

“The suicide?” he asked quietly.

“There was a boy,” Letha started.

Mickey cut her off, raising an eyebrow, “your boyfriend?”

“Hell no,” her voice was sharp, her expression horrified, and Mickey hid a smile behind a hand, “He was just a classmate. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know anyone.”

“I find that terribly hard to believe.”

Letha swung her head to scowl at him, “do you want me to tell the damn story or not?”

“You cuss a lot,” Mickey commented, drawing a picture in the riverbank with his finger.

Letha replied with something unsavoury that only made the boy laugh. He stuck out his legs and rolled onto his side, propping up his head with a hand. He brushed his curls aside, focusing his attention on Letha.

“Please tell me your story, Letha.”

Grumbling about irritating boys, Letha continued, “His name was Garret Park…. No, Garret Perk, and he was only a little more well liked than me, but weirder.”

Mickey bit his tongue.

“His mother was a policewoman, his father long gone, and one day some of the older kids caught him on his way home.  They beat him up, calling him a bastard, and I stumbled upon them.” What little colour Letha usually had drained from her face. “I lunged in, took a few shots, and then was thrown through a glass window. Garret dragged himself to his feet, glared at us all, and was found dead the next day.”

The boy erupted, sitting up straight, “how on earth is that your fault?”

“I don’t recall there being any mention of fault in my file,” she commented dryly.

“Just answer the question.”

Scowling, Letha hissed, “It’s my fault because Garret couldn’t live with the shame of being rescued by someone like me.”

“That,” Mickey said, fixing his eyes on the lapping water, “Is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You should pay more attention in class,” Letha muttered, kicking her feet about. Gravel skimmed the river, sinking quickly, and sending ripples swarming across the top.

Mickey looked at her slowly, admonishingly, and then stood quickly, “Is it the same with the rest of the file? Unfounded coincidence?”

Letha looked up at him, shading her eyes against the light, “If you mean, ‘is it all the same, deserved blame laid against me’ then yes.”

“I just realised something,” Mickey sad softly, avoiding her eyes, “you treat everyone better than you treat yourself.”

Letha’s chuckle was devoid of humour when she said, “And what a treat it is for them.”

They boy’s jaw muscle tightened visibly as he grit his teeth together. He turned from Letha, dragging his hands through his hair, and studied the horizon. She cocked her head to the side.

“Well, I shared. Now it’s your turn.”

Mickey’s tone was strained, “what do you want to know?”

Scrambling to her feet, Letha stood sentinel beside him, “For starters, I believe the word ‘rebel’ came up in conjunction with your hair before, and I’d like to know why? Or how?”

Unable to help the smile that spread across his face, Mickey glanced at Letha out of the corner of his eye, “In my early teens I got into a spot of trouble.”

“A ‘spot of trouble’? What are you; a Grandfather from the eighties? Next you’ll be talking about the Beatles and bergamot tea!”

“Not a huge fan of the Beatles,” Mickey shrugged, “They never made a musical.”

Letha’s eyes narrowed, “Just what constitutes a ‘spot of trouble’?”

“I was arrested a couple of times, got thrown out of school, that kind of stuff.” Mickey laughed as Letha’s eyes brightened, “Yes, I was just as messed up as you.”

“I not messed up,” Letha corrected tersely, “and what did you do to get thrown out of school?”

Mickey pursed his lips, looking away from her. Stepping in front of him, Letha shoes quickly filled with water, but she didn’t care.

“No, you cannot get out of it that easily,” she said, angling to make him look at her, “this is a sharing relationship; spill.”

“We’re in a relationship?” he asked quietly, grinning at her. He wiggled his eyebrows.

Letha glared at him, “I’ll slash you like a pair of tyres.”

Rolling his eyes, Mickey gestured for her to walk beside him. They strolled alongside the river, he on the bank studying his shoes, she a metre closer to the trees, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Eventually, Mickey spoke.

“When I was twelve, my dad was arrested. Two months later, he was convicted on two counts of manslaughter; the first of which being my mum. I was put in care, foster care, until I turn eighteen,” Mickey raised his hand before Letha opened her mouth, “Don’t worry, I’m getting to the exciting part. I was a total brat. Nearly got my first DUI at 14, but I didn’t have a licence so that stumped them. And six months later I was expelled for lighting my Principal’s car on fire.”

Letha shook her head, “They can’t expel you without a warning; you should have complained.”

Mickey pressed his lips together, looking at her, “I was given a warning. Right after I torched the school bathrooms.”

“I,” Letha muttered, “Am getting a distinct pyromaniac vibe from these recollections.”

“Toilet paper burns brilliantly,” Mickey commented, fixing his eyes on his shoes again.

There was another moment of silence, until Letha paused, staring at Mickey, “Why’d you do it? Torch his car, the school; why?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Mickey swung his head to look Letha in the eye. He didn’t look happy delving into his past, but Letha wouldn’t let it die.

“Seriously – why?”

“Because,” Mickey said, licking his lips, “I was the son of a bad man, and I needed to prove that to people. I felt the need to be my father’s son. I don’t know why, it’s a difficult question to answer, but I do know why not.”

Mickey waited for Letha’s assent to continue, “I’m not my father, and I deserve a chance to prove that to people.”

Letha started walking again, drawing ahead of Mickey. He followed quietly, keeping his distance as he tried to take deep, even breaths.

“What about you?” he asked eventually.

“Like you said,” Letha kicked at the gravelly riverbank, “I’m the daughter of a bad man.”

Mickey took several quick steps, gently taking her elbow. She flinched as he drew her back to face him, “are you ok?”

Letha ignored him, “So Azrael isn’t your father?”

“No,” Mickey said, “He’s sort of my foster father. He takes in kids who’ve had a rough time of it, and puts them on the straight and narrow.”

“So your entire family is messed up?”

“I guess you could say that about most families.”

Biting her lip, Letha shivered, turning away from Mickey to keep walking. Falling into step beside her,  he shrugged out of his jacket, slinging it around her shoulders. Letha would have protested, but the sun had set and her wet socks were giving her frost bite. The fabric smelled of lavender.

“So what turned you around,” Letha asked quietly, “What left that blue streak as the only reminder?”

Mickey shrugged, his shoulder bumping hers on every second step, “I met some amazing people who had gone through worse than me. I read a few biographies, saw a few movies, and decided I needed to buck up.”

Letha closed her eyes, waiting for the words she knew would come.

“And then I found God. Or he found me. He gave me purpose and meaning, and I gave Him my soul,” Mickey’s voice was soft, soothing, like he was coaxing a wild brumby to calm down. She tripped and as Mickey caught  her arm, the metaphor startled.

“The problem with the straight and narrow?” Letha mumbled quietly, jerking her arm free, “You know which way it’s headed, but it’s really easy to slip off.”