Someone broke into his house, so he spent the next night in his neighbor's living room. The person who gained himself way into his house didn't take his share of things, common sense would be denied in this. He took a few very invaluable things, ceramics, a couple of music tapes, and a necklace. Even if they weren't worth any value, it did leave a mark in the thief's dupe. All had personal value, as the dorky puppy show-piece was an object for grandma's memory and life, music recordings hooked specially to birthday's with friends and gifts, and the special Jesus-fish necklace to remember his roots by. The thief also stole a book or two or three, all the boy knew was that at least he stole one (the small bookshelf didn't look too tidy.) The thing that triggered the boys fear was he was sleeping during the stealer's raid.

That night, he'd hear on and off noises in the un-light. And when he dreamed that night, he dreamed of noises. So secretive. He heard footsteps and small words, less than whispers. He'd keep his eyes closed and he knew they were there, it was just if they would kill him or not. Or take the Lady's possessions. He looked open and saw light, small light. He swore it wasn't there before, besides the bright lamp light coming from the Lady's room. It was always on, she was always reading. She'd talk to him about what she was reading at the time; she spoke to him every now and then when he held his doorway from invasions and punks and puffoo-ing his cancer darts. She told him, the Boy, God wanted people to read, or at least her. He could see the reasons....

Distracted for a second...

He heard breathing. He thought of the bad men, he thought of those shows, rapes, pornos, slices, screams. He wanted to talk to the Lady: she was always up. Always reading, doing what God told her. And that little light that kept inviting. He thought of his other thoughts, thought of being around her with that mind.

"Maybe," he thought "this is the scares for the exposed." He didn't like it, but he always thought about it and was now scared. "Maybe," he thought "the Lady wanted company, being expecting or the other."

"Maybe," he thought "she could read my mind."

"Ridiculous or not."

He wanted to talk to her. He wanted her to talk about her books. He wanted to smoke a killer around her. Smoke didn't seem to bother the Lady. The Lady said she always preferred to be around the pipe tobacco. She said this since the Boy always smoked but never for a reason. Just luxury. She always said the pipe tobacco brought better feelings. The smell of it was always sweet.

He decided his thoughts were cleaner now. He thought he should see her now.

Meth, caine, hardboiled, psychotic. Ten day nights. Heart. Hard not even pacing. Killers. How many were there on a street? Too many. None of that mattered now.

The darkness was there again. One salvation, the tiny lamp light. He couldn't be in the space between outside of his fort. Not to get pipe tobacco.

"I should call for her," the Boy thought.

"That's too much..."