Steven's eyes burned, and he had to swallow the hard ache that rose in his throat. John, were gone for good? That they wouldn't be coming to pick him up, no matter how hard he hoped or how many stars he wished on, that night or any other. How could he be expected to comprehend that his folks, Zack and Jillie St. Matt was small, with his dad's dark hair and his mother's violet eyes, and he was exceptionally intelligent-maybe even gifted-but he was still only five years old. It wasn't hard to guess who he was waiting for. Something tightened in Steven's throat at the poignancy of the sight. A bundle-probably his favorite toy, a plush skunk named Fred, rolled up in his blanket-rested beside him, and the boy's tiny frame was rimmed in an aura of silvery-gold moonlight. The door stood open to the fresh high-country air, which was crisply cool on this early June night, but not cold, and the little boy-Steven's newly adopted son- sat on the cement step outside. One by one, the mental tumblers clicked into place: Some instinct-or maybe just a stir of a breeze-awakened Steven Creed he sat up in bed, took a fraction of a moment to orient himself to unfamiliar surroundings.
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