Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Top Cow and Warner Brothers. No infringement of their rights is intended.

FATHER'S DAY

Ground Control to Major Tom. Ground Control to Major Tom. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on.

He gave a last turn of string around the neck of Major Tom's capsule, and tied it with a military knot.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.

Ground Control to Major Tom. Commencing countdown, engines on.

The paint inside the capsule sloshed as he placed Major Tom in the crook of the sapling, and pulled the tree back with careful precision.

Six. Five. Four. Three.

Check ignition, and may God's love be with you.

Two. One.

He released the sapling.

Liftoff!!

Major Tom soared far above the moon, and over the row of trees that screened the service area of Irons' mansion. He watched the capsule pass one hundred thousand miles and drop out of sight directly above the first and most coveted staff parking spot. The spot Parsons used.

Major Tom's spaceship knew which way to go.

Ground Control to Major Tom.

SPLAT!

Your circuit's dead-- there's something wrong. Can you hear me, Major Tom?

He crouched in the shrubbery as angry voices erupted from the parking area. The shouting was eclipsed by sudden, wild profanity. But planet Earth was blue, and there was nothing they could do--

A furious La Roche exploded through the bushes.

La Roche?

He ran.

*****

La Roche's new Buick was a mess.

Yellow paint covered the windshield and dripped down the doors and fenders in a macabre imitation of a Van Gogh painting. Irons circled the car, careful to keep his eight hundred dollar shoes out of the splatter range. La Roche stood to one side, a choleric flush spreading from under his collar up his thick neck. Parsons was planted stolidly on the other side of the car from La Roche, his features set in their On Parade mask. And he stood next to Parsons, alternately staring at the painted pavement and sneaking quick glances up at Irons.

With visible exasperation, Irons asked La Roche, "How did this happen?"

"It was a paint bomb, sir!"

"That is patently obvious."

La Roche's color deepened. "The little--" La Roche caught himself. "Ian rigged a catapult out of one of the new Japanese maples and used it to launch a paint bomb at my car." Grimly. "I have it all on tape."

"And where were you when it was happening?" Without giving La Roche a chance to answer, Irons turned his icy stare on him.

He tried to defend himself. "It wasn't supposed to be La Roche's car! It was supposed to be Parsons!"

Irons turned to Parsons. "This is your assigned spot. Why wasn't your car in it?"

"It was because of the crab apples, sir."

Irons raised an eyebrow as La Roche fumed,

"It had nothing to do with crab apples! His car wasn't there because he put Ian up to this!"

Irons ignored La Roche. "Crab apples?'

"Yes, sir. All week I've been finding crab apples scattered around the staff parking area, getting closer and closer to my car. This morning, they were all over the hood. I knew the little bugger had finally got the range. so I moved my car into Landau's space." Calmly. "Just as I did that, La Roche drove up and pulled into my spot."

The parking spot war had simmered ever since La Roche had taken over as head of Irons' personal security. The employee spaces had always been assigned strictly by hire date, with the coveted first spot going to whoever had been there the longest. La Roche, however, had decided that his superior position entitled him to the choice spot. So far, La Roche had not openly overturned Irons' previous policy, but La Roche made a point of grabbing the first spot whenever Parsons' car was not in it. And Parsons had taken advantage of that with exquisitely precise timing.

He could tell from a certain gleam that Irons too appreciated how his head of security had been outmaneuvered. Irons told La Roche,

"Have it cleaned and repainted, and give Richardson the bill. As for you...."

He quickly dropped his gaze to the tops of his boots.

"I have given you permission to torment the staff, not to vandalize their personal property."

"Yes, sir." He had better disable that dust buster.

"Tomorrow is Sunday. You will spend it writing an essay on Napoleon's use of artillery. Perhaps that will teach you the necessity of always being sure of your target."

Irons was done with them. But La Roche was not. Once Irons was out of earshot, La Roche stuck his jaw in Parsons' face, snarling,

"You can forget about those days off you requested. And you're going to be pulling doubles until my car's back!"

Parsons' features were immobile, his eyes fixed on something above La Roche's head. "Yes, sir."

"As for you, you little freak, the day will come when Irons won't put up with your crap any longer."

He met La Roche stare for stare. "The day will come when I will kill you."

La Roche blinked. Then grinned. "You can try, you little asshole." La Roche stalked off.

Parsons caught him before he could dart away to disable the dust buster. "La Roche is a right bastard. He'll take the first chance that comes along to get a bit of his own back. Don't go making threats--he just feeds off them."

It wasn't a threat. It was simply what would be.

"Are you going to be parking in Landau's spot from now on?" he asked Parsons.

"Bloody hell--!"

"I'm allowed to torment you."

"Right." Parsons pulled out his wallet. "Here's a five dollar bill. I'll give it to you if you don't torment me again until next week. I'll get enough torment from La Roche."

"OK." He took it, and placed it carefully in his pocket. He had never had any money before. A whole range of possibilities suddenly opened to him.

Irons had lots of staff.

He stood next to Parsons and admired the contrast of the yellow they used to edge the parking spaces against the polished black of the Buick. Parsons was now openly grinning.

Major Tom had really made the grade.

*****

He was gone.

Benjie was gone.

He looked all over his room, and in the conservatory, and the pool area, and even in the staff quarters. But Benjie was gone. He went through the house again, even the areas he was forbidden to enter. Even the areas where he knew he had not been. But he could not find him.

Santos, his official minder, found him going through the closets in the Game Room. "Professor Mallette is looking for you. You're supposed to be in your Latin class."

"I can't do Latin! I have to find Benjie!" He pulled open box after box. But there was no sign of his stuffed rabbit.

Santos closed them up again. "He's probably in your room.."

"I looked. He isn't there."

"When was the last time you had him?'

"In the library. We were playing Jerusalem." He had been the leader of the Templars. Benjie had been a Saracen. "He was hiding behind some dictionaries when Mr. Irons suddenly came home, and I had to leave. And then I forgot about him." Frantically. "When I went back to get him, he wasn't there."

"There's nothing you can do about it now. You have to go to that makeup class. Mallette's already pissed off at you."

He had not disabled the dust buster in time. "I have to find Benjie!"

"I'll look for him. Go."

He had no choice but to let Santos take over the search. As he huddled over his Latin text, he tried to concentrate on Professor Mallette's droning commentary, but all he could think about was Benjie. Sometimes he remembered Irons giving him the rabbit in a nursery, surrounded by bright colors and toys. Sometimes he remembered being in the Great Room, with a fire and a book of William Blake's poetry. Both memories were real, as was Benjie. And now Benjie was gone.

When he was free of the Gallic Wars, he found Santos waiting for him outside the schoolroom. One look told that the search had been futile.

"I'm sorry," Santos told him. "Maybe we can try the library one more time."

He was up on one of the ladders, feeling being the arrayed volumes, when Parsons came in.

"Don't bother looking any further," Parsons told them. "I found out what happened to him. He got Thomas Aquinased."

"Thomas Aquinased?"

"Yeah. You know, 'will no one rid me of this bloody meddlesome Bishop'? Or some such."

"That was Thomas Becket," Santos corrected.

"Whatever. Anyway, Irons was looking for some poncey French poetry, when he reached up for a book and the rabbit fell on his head. So he spouted off his usual about getting rid of it. And La Roche did."

He didn't wait to hear any more. Behind him, he could hear Santos calling his name, but he ran down the stairs and through the Great Room, and down the gallery to the conservatory.

Irons was there with a woman. He was forbidden to approach Irons when he had guests, forbidden even to come downstairs, but he burst in, shouting,

"Sir! Sir!"

Irons disentangled himself from the woman. "What are you doing here?"

He was too upset to heed the anger in Irons' eyes. "He took Benjie! He Thomas Aquinased him!" He realized his mistake. "I mean, he Thomas Becketted him!"

The anger turned to ice. "Have you interrupted me because something has happened to that damned stuffed toy?"

"Yes, sir! La Roche took him. Parsons said he fell on you, and you wanted to know who would rid you of him, and La Roche did!"

Irons finally comprehended. "Have I not told you before to leave that thing in your room?"

"Yes, sir. But we were playing--"

"If something happened to it, it is your own fault. You're too old for stuffed animals anyway."

"But sir--"

"Be silent!" As he quailed, Irons added, "There will be no more talk of that rabbit! It is gone, and that is the end of it. Go back to your room." Irons returned to his guest.

He still would have begged Irons to get Benjie back, but Santos pulled him from the conservatory. He climbed the stairs to the third floor, hardly seeing them through a veil of unshed tears. Santos offered to play a game with him, then to buy him another rabbit to replace Benjie, but he wouldn't answer. He didn't want games, or a substitute.

He wanted Benjie.

Santos had found out more. "Emory says La Roche took the rabbit with him when he took off for the holiday. La Roche said he was going to toss it out the car window and 'set it free'. He thought that was pretty funny." When he still did not speak, Santos offered, "Parsons is going to check up and down the drive, and the road along the perimeter. Maybe he'll find him."

Maybe.

He knew Parsons would not.

He sat in the darkness of his room, and felt the loneliness descend. It was always there, but Benjie kept it pushed back into the shadows. When he did his schoolwork, Benjie sat on the dresser and watched, and did not care if he complained about his tutors, or recited the stupid poems he had to memorize. No matter what he did, or what standard he failed to meet, the wise black eyes never judged him, or threatened to send him away. And now La Roche had taken Benjie and tossed him out of the car somewhere. Benjie was probably lying in the middle of the road somewhere, being run over and pecked apart by birds. Benjie....

Benjie was in a tree.

The vision came upon him between one breath and the next.

Always the Witchblade would seize him and hold him helpless as images and sounds raced through his mind. It was the reason he so feared its touch. But this time, the Witchblade only brushed against his thoughts, showing him Benjie suspended in a mass of leaves.

It was enough.

Irons would be mad. He flinched to think about the consequences of what he was about to do, but he got dressed anyway, pulling on his darkest pants and sweater, and the black watch cap he had appropriated from Parsons. He was forbidden to leave the grounds, but if he wasn't supposed to go after Benjie, why had the Witchblade shown him the vision? It was a good argument, and he filed it away to use when he faced Irons. Of course, to get off the estate, he had to elude both indoor and outdoor surveillance, a superbly trained security staff, his personal minder, and Kenneth Irons.

It would be no problem.

Some time later, he crawled out onto a limb that extended over the wall surrounding the estate. He had stuffed underwear and socks into his school pants, and arranged them to stick out from under the coverlet on his bed. To the cameras and to anyone who came in to check on him, it would appear that he had fallen asleep while mourning Benjie. Now, he tossed the flashlight he had stolen from the security office down to the ground, then uncoiled the rope from the greenhouse and tied it to the branch. The wall was reinforced by motion detectors, but he swung clear and dropped to the ground just past them. Then crouched in the shadows and waited. When no guard came running from the gate, he picked up the flashlight and set out to find Benjie.

The Witchblade had revealed that Benjie was in a tree, but it had not showed him where that tree was. He trudged along the road. shining the flashlight up into the tree as he passed the other estates. The night was very dark, the stars and moon hidden by heavy clouds. Few cars passed him; it had been a holiday today, although he didn't know which one. His old fear of darkness rose up, and he found himself aiming the light as often at the shadows as the trees. There was nothing there, he told himself. And if there was, he had his slingshot. But it became harder and harder to keep going.

The road began to bend around the grounds of the country club. Blackness stretched before him, unbroken by the lights of houses or entrance drives. He had not expected to go this far. He had expected to find Benjie fairly quickly. But it got later and later, and the shadows closer and closer.

"Benjie?" He knew Benjie couldn't answer, but he called his name anyway, as much to keep the shadows away. "Benjie?"

"Do you think it is going to answer you?"

Irons stood behind him. He took an involuntary step back. And exclaimed in a mixture of fear and relief, "I didn't hear you."

"I did not intend you to."

Irons was furious. "What are you doing out here?"

He took another step back. "I'm looking for Benjie."

"Did I not tell you to put an end to this?"

"Yes, sir. But this is Benjie!"

"Its name is Napoleon, and it is nothing more than a stuffed toy."

Its name was Benjie, and it was far more than that. "I have to find him!"

"Even though I have told you otherwise?"

"Yes!" he shouted. He no longer cared if Irons struck him. "He's the only thing you ever gave me!"

"I have given you many things," Irons told him coldly. "I have given you an education, and material support, and what little remains of my patience!"

"I know! But he's the only thing you ever gave me just because!"

That seemed to take Irons by surprise. Before Irons could recover, he began to follow the road once more.

"Come back here!"

He stopped, but did not turn around.

This time, he heard Irons' footsteps behind him. Irons was calmer, as if Irons had decided to try reason. "It is only a stuffed rabbit."

"I know. But he's all I have." Everything came pouring out. "I don't have a family, or friends. I don't have a mother! Not a real one who isn't frozen! And I don't have a father!" His misery was complete. "I don't have anybody." He began walking again.

After several steps he realized Irons was walking beside him. "Families are overrated. And this claim of not having a father is nonsense. You are not here as a result of parthenogenesis."

He didn't know what parthenogenesis was. "I'm here because you wanted me here."

"That is correct. It is the only relevant fact of your existence."

A memory came to him. "You told me once my father was in the rainbow."

"I did?"

"Yes. I remember." The when and the where were blurred, but not his recollection of Irons' voice. "You said he was in the rainbow. But I don't have any rainbows. It's always dark where I am."

They went for another short way in silence. Until Irons said in exasperation,

"How are you going to find that damned rabbit? You have no idea where to look."

"Yes, I do. The Witchblade showed me."

Irons stopped.

He stopped too.

"You were able to control the visions?"

"Maybe a little. I was thinking about Benjie, and then I saw him. Just him, not like all the other times."

Irons was pleased. "I have been hoping for this development for some time."

"Does this mean you won't get rid of Benjie anymore?"

"I didn't get rid of him the first time."

"Yes, you did. You Thomas Aquinased him."

"Thomas a Becket," Irons corrected him. Then Irons told him, "Return to the car."

"But Benjie--"

"Go!"

He obeyed.

He expected to find one of Irons' limousines with the usual contingent of security personnel. But to his surprise, one of the regular staff cars, a nondescript Lincoln, was waiting. He looked around for Parsons or Emory, then looked inside as well. The car was empty.

To his further surprise, Irons got behind the wheel.

"Sir? You know how to drive?"

"How do you think I got here?"

"Parthenogenesis?"

Irons glared at him. "Do you remember where this damned rabbit was in the vision?"

"Yes. He was in a tree."

"A tree. Well, that should make it easy to find." Irons drove slowly past the country club. And told him, "I want this understood. I am doing this only to test the accuracy of your vision."

"Yes, sir."

"If we do locate that object, it will be permanently confined to your room."

"Yes, sir."

"Stop hanging out the window!"

He drew back into the car, but continued to shine the flashlight at the passing trees. Once past the club, they started up the hill. They were following the route La Roche would have taken, but there was no Benjie. When the houses became commercial properties and apartments, Irons pulled over.

"It would seem that the Witchblade has led you on a false trail. Either that, or you have led me on one."

He could hear the thin thread of anger beneath Irons' words. Nonetheless, he insisted, "I didn't lead you on. I saw him."

"Perhaps if you practiced the disciplines Professor Yakusho tried to instill in you, you would be able to focus your efforts."

His own frustration came out. "Perhaps if I had a father, he would show me how to find Benjie!"

"Perhaps if you had a father, he would have taken away that damned rabbit a long time ago!"

"No, he wouldn't! He would--"

Irons placed a hand against his temple.

There was the shock of contact with a mind far more powerful than his own.

"Think of the Witchblade," Irons told him.

He didn't. He thought of Benjie.

And he saw him.

It was but a brief flash. As before, Benjie was dangling from a tree. But this time, he saw a highway, and a sign....

"I know where he is! He's by the ramp to the expressway!"

Irons took his hand away. "You see? You do not need a father to use the Witchblade."

Irons continued along the road until they could see the overpass of the Long Island Expressway ahead. Even at this hour, the expressway was humming with traffic heading back into the city. Irons pulled into a parking spot next to the big green highway sign indicating the on ramp was just ahead. "Here is the sign. Where is the rabbit?"

He hung out of the car window once more. "I think he's farther up by the light."

"He had better be."

They got out of the car, and walked the remaining blocks to the intersection. An access road ran parallel to the expressway; the on ramp split off from this road, climbing up along the overgrown slope to finally merge with the highway. The slope was thick with stunted shrubs and weeds, but no trees. He played the flashlight beam along it anyway as cars accelerated up the ramp. The Witchblade would not lie to him. He knew that in some deep place inside. But there were no trees, just weeds, and more weeds, and a kind of overgrown thicket where the two rows of guard rails met.

And a small, brown, dangling object.

"Benjie!"

Heedless of the cars or Irons' shout to be careful, he darted across the ramp. The bushes hadn't looked that high from the road below, but he found Benjie was out of his reach. Undaunted, he climbed up onto the guard rail and tried again.

Irons caught him as he began to overbalance backwards into the traffic. Irons lifted him up enough to grab Benjie by the leg, then set him down again.

"He was in a bush, not a tree," Irons stated.

He didn't care. He had Benjie back.

Irons grabbed him by the collar to prevent him from being flattened by a truck, then continued to grip it as they walked back to the car.

"I want this understood. It is only because I gave it to you in the first place that I am allowing you to keep this object. I intend you to be a warrior. And a warrior does not play with stuffed animals."

"A warrior has a father," he muttered.

Irons stopped. "What did I tell you about this fixation on your paternity?" Irons suddenly stared at something behind him. "And what did I tell you about holidays?"

He didn't understand. "That there weren't to be any?" He followed Irons' glance. And found they were standing before a shop window featuring large banners proclaiming a Father's Day Sale.

Oh. That was the holiday.

No one had told him.

He forgot Irons was mad at him. "Sir? What exactly is Father's Day?"

"It is a commercial fabrication that exhorts the common masses to run out and buy ties for their sires and grandsires." Irons pulled him along once more.

He hadn't known. He now saw that all the stores had similar signs, even the gas station across the street. "Is every father supposed to get a tie?" he asked Irons.

"No. Some lucky men get barbecue paraphernalia from their progeny." Irons' grip tightened. "Is that what this is about? A desire to participate in the senseless rituals of American society?"

"No, sir. If I had a father, I wouldn't buy him a tie or barbecue equipment."

"How reassuring."

When they got to the car, Irons released him, and reached into his pocket for the car keys. Then checked his other pocket, and after that the inner pocket of his jacket. Then leaned down to peer into the interior.

Then Irons just stood there and looked at the car.

After a moment, he ventured, "Sir, did you maybe bring a radio?"

"No, I did not bring a radio! I intended to deal with you, not to be stranded in front of a Radio Shack at two in the morning!" Irons looked around at the darkened storefronts. "Isn't anything around here open?"

"The donut shop is. It's back that way."

"The donut shop," Irons echoed sarcastically. "What a perfect end to this evening."

As they continued along, all he could think about was Father's Day. He knew Irons was annoyed with him, but Irons had not struck him, or threatened to send him away. So he risked a question. "Sir? Did you have a father?"

"That is a ridiculous question. How would I be here if I did not?"

"Parthenogenesis?"

"The next time you use that word, you will write it and its definition five thousand times."

"Yes, sir."

Irons strode ahead. He didn't ask any more questions, but he could sense a shift in Irons' mood, as though Irons was no longer contemplating how to punish him. As though Irons was remembering....

Remembering a room with ugly dark furniture and a huge fireplace that was never lit. And a man with silver hair shouting at him as he remained stubbornly silent. Until the man seized a cane and began to strike him--

"Stop that!"

"I was just--"

"I know exactly what you were doing." Irons grabbed him by the collar once more.

The donut shop had a single row of booths, a clerk in a coffee stained uniform, and a man and a woman standing before the counter. Irons regarded all of these with distaste.

He had eyes only for the donuts. "Sir, I'm cold. May I have some hot choculate? And a donut?"

Irons responded with sarcasm. "Does the rabbit want anything?"

"No, I don't think so. Sir, do you want a hot choculate?"

Irons just waived a hand in exasperation. Taking that as an affirmative, he went over to the counter. To his dismay, there was only one donut with sprinkles left, and it looked as though the girl was going to put it into a bag for the couple.

A warrior thought fast in emergencies. "Those sprinkles are moving!" he announced loudly.

The man, the woman, and the counter clerk all turned to stare at him. He kept his most ingenuous expression as the clerk told him,

"They are not."

"Yes, they are," he insisted. "I'm sure some of them were crawling around the top of that donut."

"There are no bugs in our food!"

But the man and the woman had heard enough. "Never mind," the man told the clerk. Then he and the woman walked out.

He made a pretense of looking again. "Maybe you're right. I must have been mistaken. Since they don't want that donut, I'll take it, and a choculate glazed one. And two cups of hot choculate."

Still glaring at him, the clerk rang everything up, then looked to Irons for payment. Irons reached into his pocket.

He saw a look of consternation cross Irons' features.

Irons took his hand from his pocket. And commented, "There is a certain irony in this situation."

"Never mind," he told Irons. "I've got it." He pulled out the five dollar bill Parsons had given him, and handed it to the clerk.

Irons stared down at him. "Where did you get that money?"

"Parsons gave it to me. He paid me five dollars not to torment him until next week."

He expected Irons to be proud of him. But instead, Irons was disapproving. "I rely on you to torment Parsons to keep him sharp. If you neglect this responsibility, you may someday place my life in jeopardy."

"Yes, sir." He suddenly felt much smaller.

"You have no need for money. I provide you with everything you need." Irons held out his hand. "Give me the change."

Reluctantly, he did as he was ordered. As Irons went to the pay phone to call the mansion, he deposited Benjie in one of the booths, then went back for the hot chocolate and donuts. He gave himself the chocolate frosted one, and the one with sprinkles to Irons.

When Irons returned, he eyed it dubiously. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have this one?"

The ones with sprinkles were his favorites, but he shook his head. "That one's for you."

For a moment, he was afraid Irons would refuse it.

"You are absolutely sure these sprinkles were not moving?" Irons asked.

He nodded. "I think it was a trick of the light."

"I think that is highly unlikely." Irons picked up the donut.

They were just finishing their hot chocolate when one of the four-wheel drive vehicles barreled into the parking lot and screeched to a halt across three parking spaces. Parsons, Emory and Santos got out, weapons drawn; the latter two took up positions outside the donut shop as Parsons stomped in.

Parsons was furious. "Mr. Irons, sir, begging your bloody pardon, sir, but if you would please get into this bloody car so that I can protect you, I would very much appreciate it, sir!"

One of the armored limousines had pulled in to block the rest of the parking spaces.

Irons set down his paper napkin. "I believe we're finished here." To him. "You may now take those sugar packets out of your sleeve and put them back in the dispenser."

Chagrined, he did so.

Parsons spotted Benjie. "Oh. It's back."

"Yes," Irons confirmed sourly. "It's back."

Surrounded once more by the trappings of his wealth and position, Irons strode out of the shop as the clerk gaped from behind the coffee machine. When they got into the limousine, Irons made Benjie ride in front with Santos and Garivelli, the driver.

He had to ride on the seat facing Irons.

Garivelli was curious. "Mr. Irons, how come you didn't call from the twenty-four hour pharmacy? It's only a block from where you parked the car."

He suddenly became very interested in the toes of his boots as Irons answered,

"That is a very interesting question."

There would be many interesting questions. He knew Irons was not done with him. But when they got back to the house, Irons merely declared, "We will discuss the consequences of this escapade in the morning. As for now, I expect you to put an end to this fixation on Father's Day, and fathers in general. And in particular, yours." Sardonically. "If you wish to buy a tie for someone, you may choose one for Parsons. His wardrobe could use updating."

"Yes, sir."

He was trying to walk without losing the sugar packets he'd stuck in his socks, when he heard Irons call him.

"Ian."

He turned. "Yes, sir?"

Irons' expression was inscrutable. "Thank you for the donut."

Warmth flooded through him. And he realized it must be happiness. "You're welcome, sir."

Parsons escorted him back to his room. "How'd you get out this time?"

"Parthenogenesis."

"Yeah, right."

He had bad news. "Mr. Irons says you can't pay me not to torment you anymore. He says he counts on me to keep you sharp."

Parsons took it stoically. "It was good while it lasted."

He agreed.

"What kind of tie would you like?" he asked Parsons.

He would get Parsons a tie as Irons had suggested. A red one, with horses, or dolphins, or maybe a blue one with stars. If he got Parsons a tie, Parsons might let him keep the black watch cap. Parsons had repossessed the hat as they left the donut shop, but if he had a new tie, Parsons wouldn't need the hat.

He carried Benjie into his room. His stuffed school pants were thrown onto the floor; he kicked them under the bed, and pulled a blanket around himself and Benjie.

"I'm sorry La Roche got you," he told him. Benjie did not answer, but he knew Benjie forgave him. He curled up against the comforting presence. And confided, "It was Father's Day today, and I didn't even know it. I should have known it.

"Mr. Irons says Father's Day is just a commercial fabrication that makes people run out and buy ties."

Benjie laughed at that.

He smiled too.

Then he bolted upright.

"I forgot!" he told Benjie.

He scrambled off the bed, and shouted at the video camera, "I forgot something! I'll be right back!" Without waiting for a response, he raced back down the stairs and through the connecting passageway to the garages. There, he took the keys to the Lincoln out of his pocket and hung them back in their place on the board. Then raced back upstairs again.

Benjie was still smiling.

Benjie knew the truth.

He switched on his rainbow light, and curled up once more as the colors began to play across the stark walls of his room. He watched the lights, and pictured his father, and smiled.

Irons had been wrong. If he had a father, he would not buy him a tie, or barbecue equipment. If he had a father, he would buy him the best thing in the whole world.

He would buy him a donut with sprinkles.