Chapter One – Lost

Joanne Vulpine slammed down the brakes as hard as she could, driving into the grassy lay-by and narrowly avoiding the figure of a young boy who had jumped out at her car from the side of the road. As she looked out of her car window, she caught the expression on the boy’s face illuminated by the piercing, setting sun: instead of being one of shock, or fear, or even relief to be alive, it was one of disappointment. Intrigued, she got out of her car to comfort the lone child.

He was only a young boy; barely coming up to her waistline, he looked so thin he could snap in two at any given moment. He was obviously undernourished, for he had the unhealthy pallor of a ghost about his face, and his bones were clearly visible through his slightly translucent skin. He wouldn’t look at her; he kept his arms down by his side, his face turned away, partly covered by matted, dirty blond hair, and sat down to stare at the dark, swirling clouds above. Joanne looked at the boy – his body was bruised, and several marks sat across his bare back that looked horribly like lashes. The ground around them was littered with the remains of a few small, dead animals, but not a trace of flesh remained on the bone. A deafening silence pervaded between the two; not a sound came from either the boy in his young age, or the young, rosy-faced woman in her late-teens, for several minutes. Then, timidly, Joanne gathered enough courage to speak.

“What is your name?” she asked, with a note of motherly anxiety in her voice. She couldn’t bear to look at the poor child without breaking into tears, or embracing him in open arms. The child, still silent, turned to look at her. A wild, wolfish glint in his eyes, he stared at the woman with a blank, empty face, and eyes red and swollen with tears. Joanne crouched down low so her eyes were level with the young boy’s. She let a friendly smile wash over her face, thinking it would help the boy feel less afraid; still, the child stared at her, wide-eyed and expressionless. They stared at each other for several moments; Joanne’s bright green eyes met the young boy’s sharp, icy blue ones, partly covered by his hair, which sat unkempt and feral on his small head. Joanne brushed her own sleek, peroxide blonde hair out of her rich, glowing face and bit her plump, red lip – the child was either incredibly afraid, mute, or there was something else up with the situation.

The boy turned away again, and resumed staring out at the heavens above. The field around him was as grassy and wild as the child; the road was a path carved out of the dirt and there wasn’t another building around for miles. Joanne wondered how the child came to rest in such a remote place, why he decided upon jumping out at passing traffic on his own, and why he was wearing naught but rags around his lower body and a single bracelet weaved out of thick string. As pity and sorrow coursed through her soul, she slowly came to a decision not to leave him in the middle of a darkening country road and take him into the city in which she lived to get him some help. At least, once she could get him to speak.

“Come here. I’ll help you.” She held out her hand and made towards the boy; sensing danger, he backed away with a frightened look about his face. Joanne frowned slightly, her lips barely twitching, and realised the boy must have been out for quite some time to be so afraid of her. Relentlessly, she extended her hand again, but this time, did not approach him, but waited patiently. The lone child, still frightened, stared at her hand for a few seconds, tilted his head, and leaned forward. There was something wild about the child’s behaviour – all this time, he hadn’t said a word, yet the wolfish, feral sparks in his eyes spoke more words than a dictionary held meanings. Joanne thought to herself: the child may have been abandoned, living on the streets for some time… and she had more reason to seek out help for the poor child.

Then, the child reached out for her hand, somewhat timidly, and clasped it in muddy, stained fingers bearing the mark of a rough life. Joanne examined the hand for a moment – there were scratches and bloodstains on both sides, and along the arm were lashes and teeth marks. A tear ran down her cheek as she picked the child up and made her way back to her car. The engine still running, she opened the passenger side door, moved some documents from the seat to the glove compartment, and sat the boy down. His eyes were wide with curiosity for his unfamiliar surroundings, and he gasped a little, rubbing his eyes as he stared at the interior of Joanne’s black Ford Escort and admired the setting. With a feeling of relief, Joanne buckled the boy’s seatbelt (which he was now apprehensively fingering), closed the door, and made her way to the other side. As she got in, the boy spoke.

“Lupus,” he said in a husky, tremulous voice. Joanne paused, and turned to look at the boy. His wolfish stare was concentrated on the handle of the glove compartment, and a tear fell down his grazed cheeks. Joanne reached into the compartment in the side of her car door, pulled out a pack of tissues, and passed one to Lupus. He looked up at it, and then looked at her face, tilting his head slightly with a bemused look. Shyly, she dabbed his cheeks, sighed as Lupus yawned at her, and then turned to the road. She had only passed her driving test a week ago, and was quite proud of her recent achievement. Yet she never carried a passenger in her car before… least of all, a child. Her apprehension toward taking young Lupus in a car that was being driven by a novice showed as she gripped the wheel with quivering fingers. Her worry for the child’s safety was soon resolved, for her curiosity towards the young boy abruptly took over her mind – where had he come from, why was he alone, why did he lack adequate clothing, and what happened before he met her that led him to hurling himself out at passing traffic, without anyone to stop him? So many questions she’d like to ask…

Joanne turned to her left again, and saw that Lupus had fallen asleep in the setting sun. His hair sat messy and untamed upon his boyish, youthful head, dejectedly tarnished by weathering and premature experience. His eyelids were scratched, too – what had happened to the boy that led to all of these bruises? Was it merely the natural marks of sleeping rough, or something altogether more sinister (though she couldn’t think of anything worse than a child sleeping rough)? Joanne returned her gaze to the unfolding road before her, and a new feeling of worry for her new charge swept over her ticking mind – she hadn’t thought of it yet, but where would the child sleep? She lived in a lonely apartment: one bedroom and very little space for a growing child. Barely enough even for her, she used to dejectedly state on the off-chance that someone would hear her and lift her by the arms to somewhere better off… but she was alone. There was no-one to hear her woes, in truth. There was nobody to listen to her, nobody around for guidance. She could complain; she could cry about it, yet she never even mentioned it to anyone… but nobody would care even if she did.

<to be continued>