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the words feeling inadequate for the depth of his gratitude. Sarah reached across the table and took his hand. "You're welcome, Will. Now, finish your soup, and then we'll get you settled in. You have a long journey ahead of you, but you don't have to walk it alone." CHAPTER TWO: THE HOUSE ON SYCAMORE STREET The morning light crept through the thin curtains of William's small bedroom, painting pale gold stripes across the worn wooden floor. He awoke slowly, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. For a moment, he thought he was back in one of the countless motel rooms he and his mother had inhabited, and he reached out instinctively for her warmth. But his hand found only empty sheets, and the memory of the previous day came flooding back — the Greyhound bus, the frozen depot, the forest, the kind black man who had found him, the sheriff who had dismissed him, and finally, the house on Sycamore Street, where he had been given a new life. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked around the room. The sun was brighter now, revealing details he hadn't noticed the night before. The walls were painted a soft, faded blue, and there were a few simple pictures hanging on them — a portrait of Jesus with his arms outstretched, a landscape of rolling hills that reminded him of a painting his mother had once admired in a museum, a photograph of a family that he assumed was the Thomases. The room was small but tidy, with a dresser, a mirror, and a bookshelf filled with children's books. It felt lived-in, loved, and he realized with a start that this was someone else's room — probably Elijah's, the son Sarah had mentioned. A soft knock on the door made him jump. "Will? Are you awake?" It was Sarah's voice, warm and gentle. "Yes, ma'am," he called out, his voice still hoarse from sleep. The door opened, and Sarah poked her head in. She was wearing a simple housedress and an apron, and her hair was pulled back in a neat bun. Her face broke into a wide smile when she saw him sitting up. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she said. "I hope you're hungry. Breakfast is almost ready. I've made biscuits and gravy, and there's fresh eggs from our chickens. Why don't you get dressed and come downstairs?" Will nodded, and Sarah withdrew, closing the door behind her. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, testing his balance. He felt better than he had in weeks — stronger, more alert. The warm soup and the good night's sleep had done wonders. He dressed quickly in the clothes Sarah had left for him — a pair of trousers that were a little too short, a button-up shirt that was slightly too big, and a sweater that smelled faintly of lavender. He looked at himself in the small mirror above the dresser, studying his reflection. He saw a pale, thin boy with straw-colored hair and winter-blue eyes. He didn't look like the other children in this town, the ones he had glimpsed from the bus. He looked like an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. But maybe, he thought, that didn't have to be a bad thing. He made his way downstairs, following the smell of frying bacon and fresh biscuits. The kitchen was a warm, bustling space filled with the sounds of cooking and the murmur of voices. Sarah was at the stove, stirring a cast-iron skillet, while a boy about his age sat at