TITLE: Visiting the Uncles AUTHOR: CobraGirl CATEGORY: C, A RATING: PG SPOILERS: XF Existence, LGM Bond, Jimmy Bond KEYWORDS: XF/LGM crossover ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Ephemeral, HOF - go right ahead. Everyone else - ask and ye shall receive. FEEDBACK: Need you even ask? Good, bad, indifferent, it all goes to . And remember, constructive criticism is a girl's best friend. DISCLAIMER: They aren't mine. If CC decides to abandon them, I get first dibs on Langly (or a Langly clone, at the very least)...but until then, they're his and 1013's. AUTHOR'S NOTES: First attempt at writing an XF fic in nearly two years. First attempt at writing the Gunmen, period. First attempt at capturing the voice of an eight-year-old. Tell me if I've succeeded - and if not, what I can do to improve the next time around. SUMMARY: Nearly eight years after "Existence," Scully and William pay a visit to the Lone Gunmen. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Every year there's a day Mom has for visiting my uncles. Well, I know they're not really my uncles - they're just close friends of Dad's. She explained that to me when I was four. But she also said that because he's known them for so long, and because he's so close to them, they're like his brothers. And I've always called them Uncle, anyway. The day Mom picks out is always the second Saturday in April. The number changes every year, which confuses me - it's April 15th one year, then April 14th the next, and on like that - but Mom says it's more consistent that way. I don't get it, really, but I have to take her word for it. I bet it's one of those Things You Learn When You're Older...like why Heidi MacGregor from next door kissed me on the cheek, or why Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose don't live together anymore. Dad never comes along with us on Uncle Day. Mom says it's because he visits my uncles on other days. Besides, she adds, this is a day we can spend together, just us two. It's like when Dad takes me to Camden Yards every now and then; this is Mom's version of an Orioles game. I like seeing my uncles, but I think I like going to baseball games better. The day starts early, even earlier than school. Mom wakes me up at seven with a tap on the shoulder and some quiet words. "Rise and shine, Will," she whispers. "It's time to get ready." I yawn and rub my eyes. Sleepydust makes their corners itch, and I rub harder to get it out. Mom pulls back my covers, smiling a little when I squint up at her. "Come on. I'm making you breakfast...." I stumble to my feet and follow her out of my room. It takes me a few seconds to notice the smell coming from the kitchen: eggs and bacon and toast and sausage, food we only eat on special days like this. When we reach the kitchen, I see that there's only one plate of breakfast food on the table. More is cooking in pans on the stove. It makes a loud hissing noise, like the snake I found once, as I look up at Mom. She nods and gives me a little push toward the table, so I go ahead and sit down. I watch her move toward the stove before putting my napkin in my lap, picking up my fork, and starting to eat my scrambled eggs. Mom finishes fixing her own food a minute later and sits down across from me. It's quiet for a while as we both eat our food. Dad's probably still asleep, I guess - he's had breakfast on Uncle Day with us before, but I know he likes to wake up late. I don't mind too much. The quiet's kinda nice, and if he were here, he'd be talking a lot. I'm not very hungry, so I put my plate by the sink after only a few bites and go to my room to get dressed. Mom put some clothes by my bed last night, as usual, but these ones are a lot nicer than my usual ones. I don't like the shirt that much. It's sort of ugly, and the collar always makes my neck itch. But if Mom put it by my bed, I have to wear it....I pull it on and button it up, then put on the underwear and tan pants that're folded next to it. The pants are hard to get on, and I have to jump up and down a few times before they're all the way up. Mom's already dressed and waiting for me when I come back out. She's got two packages with her: one's a bunch of flowers, the other's a gift for Uncle Langly. He turned forty years old a few weeks ago, and even though it's been a while, we went ahead and got something for him. "Did you brush your teeth?" she asks. "Yes," I lie. "And your hair?" I don't know if I can get away with two lies, so I say, "No." She sighs and jerks her head toward the bathroom. "Go and do it." I sigh and slink off to the bathroom, where I grab Dad's comb and run it through my hair. It only takes a few seconds, then I'm back in front of Mom. She peers down at my hair, then smiles and asks, "Ready to go?" I nod, and we leave the house. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Uncle Byers doesn't live too far from us...only a half-hour, Mom says. But it feels a lot longer. I spend most of the time staring out the window, watching the way the trees turn into a big blur if you look at them one way and become normal if you look at them another way. It starts to hurt my eyes, though, so I stop and lean back in my seat. I can feel the car shaking under me. Ten minutes later, we turn into the driveway and stop the car. Mom and I get out, but leave the gifts in the car. I wonder if Uncle Byers will feel left out and start to tell Mom that we should've gotten something for him, too, but she's already walking down toward the door. I hurry to catch up to her. When I was old enough to notice how many locks were on Uncle Byers' door, and the camera in the corner, I asked why he had those kinda things. Mom said he had some kinda disease called pair-noya, which means he's scared other people will hurt him. People he doesn't know, though, so he's not scared of us. She said my other two uncles were pair-noyed, too. She steps back a little when we get to the door, then rings the doorbell. I can hear a soft buzzing noise echoing around inside. Uncle Byers never takes very long to answer, but I know he always looks through the camera to see who's outside before he opens the door. To make sure he doesn't know we're strangers, I grin and wave at the camera. Then I hear the locks - click, click, click - and he opens the door. He doesn't look very good: his hair's messy, his face is kinda white, and there are puffy blue marks under his eyes. The wrinkles on his face look deeper than before, too, which makes him look a lot older than he really is. It makes me feel sad when I see him like that. But it isn't long before he smiles. I feel a lot better when he does that. "Hi, Uncle Byers!" I say. I jump forward and hug him tightly around the middle, grinning the whole time. I really have missed him a lot, even though I didn't know it up until now. He smells good, like soap and the stuff Dad puts on after he shaves. I've surprised him, and he makes an "oof!" sound before laughing a little. "Hi, William," he says. And to Mom: "Hello, Agent Scully. Come in." I'm still hugging him, so he has to waddle back to let Mom inside. She chuckles quietly as she watches us. "Hi, Byers," she says. "Sorry my greeting isn't so enthusiastic." "Not a problem. I don't think I could handle two hugs of the same caliber, anyway." He reaches behind his back and gently touches my hands. "And it's great to see you too, Will, but I really need to breathe." I let go, still smiling. "Sorry." He smiles back and squints at me a little bit. "You've gotten a lot taller," he tells me. "How old are you now, anyway?" I know he remembers, but I tell him anyway. "Eight," I say, holding up eight fingers to show him. There's something wrong with that answer. Uncle Byers' smile droops a little, and he blinks a few times. Did he really forget? "You are?" he whispers, and it sounds like there's something small caught in his throat. "Almost." I stand up as straight as I can and stick my chin out a little. "In a few weeks." He sighs a little and shakes his head, looking at Mom. "Eight years. I can't believe it's been that long...." Mom bites her lip, nods, then gives him a tight hug of her own. She's tall enough to reach around his shoulders - I guess that's why he never tells her to let go so he can breathe. They stay that way for a little while before Mom pulls back. "How've you been managing?" she asks. "As best I can, I guess." He glances back at the computers. "I won't deny that it's been difficult, these past few years, but Jimmy's always been a big help. It's a little easier, even though it's just him." Jimmy - not Uncle Jimmy, just Jimmy - is someone that my uncles met about a year before I was born. I've seen him a few times. He's really nice to me, and he likes sports a lot, too. But...I dunno. He's never really been an uncle. Maybe it's because Dad hasn't known him for too long and calls him a "complete moron" while we're at home. He doesn't say that in front of me, but I've still overheard him a few times. Mom and Uncle Byers aren't paying much attention to me anymore, so I wander toward the computers. They're old and big, nothing like the one I've got, but I still like them. The big rule here, though, is Don't Touch Anything, so I can't play any games on them. But I can look at them, at least. I pull myself up onto one of the tall chairs and fold my legs so I'm sitting on top of it Indian-style. Up on the computer is Uncle Byers' newspaper. Back when I was little, all of my uncles owned it, but now it's just him and Jimmy. I'm starting to learn how to read, so I squint and try to pick out the words I know while still half-listening to their conversation. "Where is Jimmy, anyway?" "Oh, he's out delivering the latest issue to the printers. He probably won't be back for a while; he left a few minutes before you arrived." "Mmm. You, uh, wouldn't happen to have any advance issues lying around, would you? I was thinking I could maybe give it to Langly when I see him - you know, as part of a belated 40th birthday present." "Will they even let you give it to him?" "I'm not sure, but I think it's worth a shot. They let me give him a Discman and a few of his old CDs a while back, and I think that's a bit more of a security threat than a newspaper." "Even so. I mean, after all the negative publicity, _The Lone Gunman_ isn't looked on very favorably. I know they bought a subscription after a few requests, but they canceled it right after everything happened. Must've thought it would be a bad influence on the other...." He sounds so upset - and angry, too - that I look around the computer to watch him. He's hunched over one of the tables with his forehead resting in one hand. Mom touches his arm and bends over to whisper in his ear. I can't hear what she's saying, but it's probably the same sort of stuff she tells me after I've had a bad dream. It doesn't look like it's helping Uncle Byers feel better, though. He mumbles something, and even though I don't understand exactly what it is, it sounds the same way his last words did. And I might not be as near to him as Mom is, but I can still see that his eyes are shiny. He's starting to cry. I chew my lip. What should I do? I want people to leave me alone whenever I cry, so maybe I should just go back to trying to read the newspaper and act like I didn't see him. But Mom has her arms around his shoulders again, and she's always got good ideas for handling these kind of things. She's smart like that. I slide off the chair and walk around to where they're standing. Still worried that I'm not doing the right thing, I reach up and touch the hand that's on the table. "You okay, Uncle Byers?" I ask. He looks down at me. There are still tears in his eyes. He smiles, but it's not like the way he smiled before. His eyes don't crinkle up at the corners or anything. "Yeah," he whispers. "I'm okay." On the table, he turns his hand over and squeezes mine. He's lying, but I wouldn't like it if Mom caught me when I was lying, so I don't say anything. I just give his hand a little squeeze back and rest my head on his arm. All three of us stay that way for a minute or two. Then Mom lets go of him, so I do too. He shakes his head and stands up, moving to another part of the table. "Here's a rough draft we printed out about a week ago," he says, picking up a few folded papers and giving them to Mom. "It's not the same as the real thing, but I'm sure Langly will appreciate it all the same." "I know he will." Mom puts the folded papers in her purse and gives him another smile. "Thank you, Byers." "Thank _you_," he tells her. "It's good to see you and William again. Uh, will Mulder be paying a visit soon?" "He should be. I'll probably come with him, too, so we can talk some more. Okay?" "Perfect." His smile, this time, is the kind that makes me smile back without even noticing. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Uncle Langly lives much, much farther away. It's almost an hour later before we get out of the car, with Mom holding the gift and the papers, and walk up to the building. I don't like it here - it's big and gray and has really high fences all around it. And on top of the fences are more wires, wound up like Slinkies, with sharp spikes all over them. It scares me. Mom told me once that this is a place where people go if they do something really, really bad. We both know Uncle Langly's not a bad person, but a lot of other people seem to think that. She tried to explain exactly what he did that made everyone think he wasn't good. I don't get all of it, but I think it's mostly because there were some secrets hidden somewhere, and he used a computer to find them, and people noticed he'd taken the secrets and got really mad. So now he has to stay here. I'd hate living with the big fences so close to me. I wish there was some way he could get out. Part of staying here means that you can only have people visit you if they ask first. Because she visits him a lot, Mom has a special card she gives to the people in charge whenever we come. They slide it through a machine, she tells them she's here to see Richard Langly, and they nod and tell us to take a seat in the waiting room. Before she got the card, Mom had to fill out a big sheet of paper every time we came to see him. The chairs in the waiting room aren't comfy like the chairs at home. They're small and hard, with cold metal on the sides and plastic that sticks to my skin when it's hot out. I sit down next to Mom and swing my legs back and forth while we're waiting to be called. I'm tired of waiting, but I know it won't take too long to find Uncle Langly. There's a girl around my age who's sitting across from me and kicking her legs around, too. She's got straight brown hair and thick glasses. Her mom's next to her, too, but she's reading a magazine instead of just looking straight ahead. I watch the girl for a while, since there's not much else to do. When she realizes I'm staring at her, she looks up and smiles a little. "Hi," she says. "Hey," I say back. "What's your name?" "Suzie. What's yours?" "William...but a lot of people call me Will." She nods and looks back at her feet for a second. "Who're you here to see?" she asks. "My uncle." "Really? Why's he here?" I shrug. "Dunno, really. He did some stuff with a computer, that's all I know." I look over at Mom for a second, then back at Suzie. "Are you visiting someone, too?" "Yeah," she says with a nod. "My dad. I don't really know why he's here, either...I think he was selling something he wasn't supposed to be selling, or something." Her mom makes a loud, quick sighing noise and turns a page in the magazine so fast it almost rips. She looks mad, but she doesn't say anything to Suzie or me. I swallow and lean against Mom's arm anyway. I hope Suzie's mom won't yell at me...some of my friends' parents have done that to me, and it always feels ten times worse than when Mom or Dad yells. But just as I start feeling scared enough to run back outside, someone comes out and tells Suzie and her mom to come with him. Suzie smiles at me again, hops out of her chair, and walks into the visiting room. I wonder what her dad's like. Is he mean or nice, or loud or quiet, or happy or sad? I kinda want to go back with her, but I know both our moms wouldn't like that. So I just close my eyes and listen to the soft music they've got playing in the room. It's not a lot longer before the same guy comes back out and says, "Scully, Dana?" Mom nudges me a little to get me to move my head, then stands up and starts to follow the man. I grab her hand as we walk into the visiting room. It's big, almost the size of my whole classroom at school, and it's split in half by a counter and a glass wall that goes up to the ceiling. There's little holes in the glass with chairs in front of them, so you can sit and talk to someone on the other side. Mom sits down, puts the presents on the floor, and lets me crawl into her lap while we're waiting for Uncle Langly. At the other end of the room, I see Suzie and her mom talking to a big man with a mustache - her dad. A door on the other side of the glass opens, and a few people lead Uncle Langly into the room. He's dressed in the special clothes he has to wear here, which're bright orange and have some black numbers stamped on them, and his hands are chained together. He looks a lot like Uncle Byers did: tired, pale, and sad. There's a big bruise on the side of his face, and it almost makes my own face hurt just by looking at it. It doesn't look like it hurts him too much, though, because he winks when he sees us. Mom says there was a time once, so long ago I couldn't even talk very well, when Uncle Langly's hair was really long. Way past his shoulders and almost halfway down his back - even longer than some of the girls' hair at school. But here, they don't like it when people have long hair, so he had to get it cut off. It's even shorter than mine now. Sometimes, though, if I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate real hard, I can remember what his hair used to look like. The memory's fuzzy, a little like a dream after you wake up, but it's there. And it's kinda funny, because it looks so much different than it does now, but kinda sad, too. Especially when I catch him touching his hair and looking like he's close to crying. Once he sits down across from us and the people take off the chains on his hands, I scramble up onto the counter and press my hand on the glass. "Hey, Uncle Langly," I say. "Hey, kid." He puts his hand against the glass, too, in the same spot my hand is. When I was smaller, I used to be able to wiggle my fingers through the holes in the wall and touch his hand. Now, though, this is as close as I can get to touching him. He tries to smile at me, but it looks like I was wrong about the bruise hurting him, because he takes in a quick breath and touches the mark with his other hand. "Are you okay?" Mom speaks up. Her voice sounds like the times I've skinned my knees on the sidewalk. He nods and takes his hand off the glass, so I do too. He's still got his right hand on the bruise, though. "Just a little fight I got into yesterday. My new cellmate doesn't like me too much." He laughs a little, but it's not a happy laugh. "So, how're you two?" "Same as usual," Mom says with a shrug. She gives me a little push, so I get off her lap. "We, um, have something for you." He blinks. "You do?" "Yeah, if the guards don't mind...." She bends over and picks the gifts up off the floor, holding them up so he can see. "Happy belated Big Four-Oh, Langly." "Oh, man." He smiles as best he can. "You got me gifts?" "Well, yeah. Forty's a major milestone, you know. You've officially hit middle age," she says with a grin. "God, don't remind me." He turns around and waves at one of the men standing behind him. "Hey, is it okay if they give me some stuff?" The man looks over at Mom and me. Holding up the presents a little higher, Mom points at them. The man turns and walks through the door, then comes out another door on our side a few seconds later. "What kind of stuff?" he asks us. "Birthday gifts," she says. He peeks into the bag and rummages through the tissue paper to see what's inside, gives a quick nod, and looks at the newspaper. He frowns when he reads the headline. "I'm sorry, he's not allowed to have this," he tells us as he hands the paper back to Mom. "Have what?" Uncle Langly asks. "What? Why not?" Mom frowns too and looks up at the man, sounding like she doesn't understand what's going on. I don't, either. "At the time of his trial, it was deemed that this particular paper carried certain...well...anarchist themes. It's therefore unsuitable reading material for the inmates." "'Anarchist?'" Mom echoes. I don't know what that means, but it can't be good from the way she's saying it. "Sir, with all due respect, this isn't an - " "It's not open for debate, ma'am. He's not allowed to have it." "Have _what_?" Uncle Langly demands again. Mom sighs. "A rough draft of _The Lone Gunman,_" she tells him quietly. "Oh." He slumps back against his chair. "Yeah. Someone tried to slip me a copy about a year ago 'cause they knew I used to write for it...didn't exactly work. Bastards." He grumbles and kicks one leg against the divider a few times. Mom gives me a quick glance, then looks at the man again. "But he can have the other gift, right?" "Yeah, it's fine." He disappears through the door on our side and reappears through the door on Uncle Langly's side. Giving him the small bag, he steps back so he's in line with the other men in the room. Uncle Langly sits back up and peers into the bag, then starts to laugh loudly as he pulls out the gift. "This is _great!_" he shouts. "Man, Scully, where did you find this?" It's an action figure of someone I don't really recognize. When we bought it, Mom told me that the person was named Joey Ramone, and that he was part of a music band that Uncle Langly used to listen to a lot. If I had it my way, I would have gotten him a real action figure, like Spiderman or Wolverine...but it looks like he really likes it, so I guess that's okay. "It was at this novelty shop a few miles from where we live," Mom explains with a smile. "I'm surprised nobody bought it before we did - I've heard it's pretty rare." "No kidding...." He pushes his glasses further up his nose and looks at it closely, still chuckling. "Really, this is awesome. Thanks so much." "You're welcome." Since Mom's lap is empty again, I climb back onto it and let her put her arms around me. "So, uh, how are things?" He shrugs and puts down the action figure. "Dunno. Pretty good, I guess. It's just...." He sighs and points to his bruise. "You know the guy that popped me in the face? The one I'm staying with now?" We both nod. "He's in for murder and rape. And all yesterday, I kept thinking, 'Why the hell am I here?'" He balls one hand into a fist and drops it on the counter with a soft thump. "Here I am, never intentionally hurt someone in my life, just here because I pissed off the men up top. I mean, I was just trying to help do the right thing, and I get plunked in a jail cell next to someone who's done some seriously horrible stuff. It's so fu - " He stops himself and looks at me for a second. I wonder why him and Mom keep doing that. "It's just frustrating, y'know? This whole system is really starting to get to me." "But it won't be much longer," Mom says to try and make him feel better. "You're up for parole pretty soon, aren't you?" "Two more years," he mumbles, not looking at us. "And that's assuming I don't get in any more fights. Feels like forever." At the other end, Suzie's dad stands up. A few men put chains on his hands and lead him out the door. As Suzie walks back out into the waiting room, she gives me a small wave and mouths, "bye, Will." I wave back, then twist my head around and look up at Mom. "What's 'parole?'" I ask her. "It means they might let him out early." "They are?" I almost shout, and I jump back up on the counter and put both my hands on the window. "They're letting you out soon?" He looks back up at me. "Maybe, yeah," he says. "But it's still gonna be a while." "That's awesome!" I can't stop grinning. They're going to let him go! He won't have to stay here anymore! "Two years, Will," Mom gently reminds me. "We're still going to visit him here two more times before he can leave." "Oh." When she puts it that way....I slide back off the counter and onto her lap, not feeling nearly as happy anymore. "But hey," Uncle Langly puts in, "It could be worse. It could be something like ten more visits. You'd be in twelfth grade by then...almost ready to graduate high school." Twelfth grade? I try to imagine being that old, but I can't. It's way too far into the future. "Whoa," I whisper. Mom laughs a little. "See? Two years isn't so bad." I nod. "But I still want it to be sooner," I tell them. Uncle Langly tries another smile. "Me too, kid," he says. Scratching the back of his head, "Hey, you saw Byers today, didn't you?" "Yes," Mom says. "Is he, uh, doing okay? He stopped by last month, and he looked really out of it." "It's been rough," Mom admits, but doesn't say anything else. After a few seconds, I decide to go ahead and say something. "He didn't look too happy. He was crying a little, too." I think for a little bit, then add, "I think it's 'cause he misses you and Uncle Frohike." "Yeah?" It's not really a question, though. He glances down and starts drawing little circles on the counter with one of his fingers. "I miss him, too," he says quietly. "He visits a lot and stuff, but I still miss him." He does the not-happy laugh again. "Hell, I even miss Jimmy. Never thought I'd see _that_ day." Mom opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, the same man who told us we couldn't give Uncle Langly the newspaper steps forward. "Time's up, folks," he tells us. I want to stay longer, but I know the men won't let us. They never do. So me and Mom stand up, while Uncle Langly holds out his hands and lets the men chain them together like before. "See you next year, right?" he asks as he stands up. "Of course. Bye, Langly." I wave good-bye. "Bye, Uncle Langly," I echo. "Bye, guys." He raises his hands and gives us the best wave he can manage, then he's through the door and I can't see him anymore. It's kinda weird, thinking that I'll only see him do that two more times. Weird, but good. Walking past the fences outside doesn't scare me half as much anymore. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It only takes ten minutes to reach the next place. I still really don't know whether to like it or hate it, since it's only the third time I've come. There's lots of grass and open spaces, but it's too quiet, and the air gives me goosebumps sometimes - the bad kind that you get when something scary happens. See, it's one of those places where you bury dead people. Uncle Frohike got in a really bad car accident when I was five. He ended up dying a few days later. I don't remember it that well...I just remember Mom and Dad and my uncles and Jimmy crying a lot, and having to come to this same place wearing a black suit and a tie, and all the flowers that were around me, and dropping some dirt onto a box in the ground. I think that's the only time Mom hasn't yelled at me for picking up some dirt. I know what it means to be "dead" now, but I didn't really back then, and that's what I remember too - wondering why everyone was crying and why Uncle Frohike didn't wake up when I touched his face. Mom pulls over and stops the car at the bottom of a small hill. She grabs the flowers off the back seat, and we start walking up to the top. It's really hard to do. The ground is kinda wet from the rain yesterday, and my shoes keep slipping on the grass. I have to hold her hand for most of the way up. The spot where Uncle Frohike's buried doesn't stand out very much. It's a carved stone that comes up to my shoulders, almost exactly like a bunch of other carved stones in the same row. I'm glad Mom's here, because otherwise I wouldn't be able to find it. I can read his name, sure, but it'd still be hard. It's always been my job to put the flowers on his grave, so I take them from Mom's hand and pull off the plastic wrapped around them. It makes a crinkling noise that sounds really loud, even though I know it isn't. I put one hand on top of the stone, whisper, "Hi, Uncle Frohike," and kneel down to lay the flowers on the ground. Then, like usual, I walk a little ways away so she can talk to him alone. Mom always told me that Uncle Frohike's up in Heaven, so I can say anything I want to him and he'll be able to hear me. I bet that's probably the best part of being an angel - being able to hear things from that far away. And being able to fly, too. But I'm not sure if it's worth it, though, since nobody can see or hear you 'cept other angels. I hope he's happy up there, anyway. I sit down next to a small plaque in the ground, where someone named Mark C. Davis is buried, and look for four-leaf clovers in the wet grass. Maybe I can give it to Uncle Frohike if I find one. I'm not trying to hear what Mom's saying, but I catch a few words anyway. Something about Dad and my other uncles. And I think I hear my name, too, but I'm not sure. She talks for a long time. I've found a lot of tiny ants in the grass, but no lucky clovers, when she finishes and walks over to me. "Do you want to say anything to Uncle Frohike?" she asks. I nod and stand up. Some of the water's gotten on the back of my pants. I don't like the way they stick to my legs as I head over to his stone and kneel down. Mom stands back where I was before - I guess she thinks I should be able to talk to him alone, too. "Hi," I say again. And since I don't know if he can _see_ this far, I add, "It's Will." I stop for a few seconds to think of something to say. "Is everything okay up in Heaven? Are the other angels nice? I hope they are - I wouldn't like it if mean people were the only people I could talk to. Though I guess if they were really mean, they wouldn't even be in Heaven." I shrug. "I really hope you're happy, because Uncle Byers and Uncle Langly aren't. They wish you were still around. So do Mom and Dad, I think." I run one of my fingers through the grooves that spell out his name, without really thinking about it. "So do I, even though it's hard to remember what you were like sometimes. "I was looking for four-leaf clovers while Mom was talking to you. I was gonna give it to you if I found one, but I didn't. I'm sorry. If I find one sometime, I'll save it and bring it to you the next time I visit, okay? At least you have flowers now, though. That's almost as good." I stop for a little while, still feeling the letters on the stone and remembering what I was thinking about before. "Hey, is flying as fun as movies and TV make it seem?" I ask suddenly. "Or is it kinda boring? I think it'd be fun, but maybe it's like one of those things that you get tired of after a while. But you haven't been up there for too long, so I guess it's still fun, huh? I hope it is. "That's...it, really." I touch the top of the stone again and use it to pull myself up until I'm standing. Mom notices that I'm done and starts walking over to me. I pat the stone and say, "Bye, Uncle Frohike. See you next year." Mom, once she's where I am, kisses her fingers and puts them on Uncle Frohike's name. She's done that every time we visit. I don't really know why...maybe it's another thing I'll learn when I'm older. So we walk back down the hill, still slipping a little on the grass. But before we get back into the car, I turn around and wave up at the sky. Just in case he can see this far. ==End==