Valley of Fire

Las Vegas, NV

March 2024

“Okay, Peter, scoot over to your left a little bit.  That’s good.  Elyse, make sure Josiah stays in front, don’t let him wander.  Here, Josiah!  Look here!  Elyse, tickle him or something to get him to smile when it’s time, okay?  Rosemary, your dress is tucked into your leggings a little bit from when you went potty, pull it out.  That’s better.  Camden!  Come here now.  I won’t ask again.”   Madison Sterling’s voice echoed slightly against the red rocks of the beautiful national park where her large family was trying earnestly to get next year’s Christmas picture just as the sun was coming up over the horizon.

“Camden!  Come on!  There will be plenty of time for exploring!” Jared Sterling called as he tried to hold his place to get the shot.  “The lighting won’t stay like this forever!”

There was no answer.

“Camden!” the older kids started to call him, frustration evident on fourteen-year-old Peter’s face.  “Camden, the longer you take the longer we have to stand here!”

“Camden?!” Madison called again, this time a bit of worry creeping into her voice.  She stepped away from the smartphone’s tripod mount, her new Tevas gripping the rocks as she peeked around the petroglyph-laden boulders.  The morning sun hit her eyes as it bounced off the lava-like formations at her feet.  Camden had been right there a moment ago, and the homeschooling, vacationing family had the place to themselves at the early hours of the weekday.  It’s not like he could have gotten lost in a crowd.

“Is he not there?” Jared asked his wife.

She took a few more steps around the gorgeous red rock formation.   She could see a fair amount of the park from here, which was why she had chosen this spot for their picture.  Camden was nowhere in sight.  Dread befell her.  Her eight-year-old was easily distracted.  He loved to explore, and nature was his passion.  But even with his frequent wanderings, it was not like him to wander so far so quickly.  What if they weren’t alone?  What if someone saw the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy and…

“Mom?”

Her head spun, and relief washed over her.  In an alcove, against some faint petroglyphs, Camden stood frozen in place in his red Sterling Family Getaway printed t-shirt and jeans.  Had she not just looked there a moment ago?  Where had he come from?

Camden was standing stock-still.  Something was not right.

“What is it?” she asked him, hurrying over.  Her mind immediately concluded that there was some kind of animal there that he had surprised.  A rattlesnake?  A scorpion?  She paused just outside the alcove, not wanting to spook whatever it was into action.  Formulating a quick plan, she resolved to grab Camden quickly and pull him out of harm’s way.

She peeked her head around the corner to look into the alcove, and gasped.

A small, naked boy stood holding a little spear at Camden, his face the picture of sheer terror.  His intercostal muscles heaved his chest up and down and he had tears forming in his eyes, but was trying desperately to look fierce. 

“Oh, my,” she said, and placed her hands on Camden’s shoulders, stepping into the alcove slowly.  She gently displaced her son and stood in front of the smaller boy.  “Hello,” she said with a kind smile.  “It’s okay.  You’re okay, sweetie.”  She held her hands out palms-up in a gesture of goodwill. 

His light brown skin was dusty, his knee was sporting a fresh wound, and his long, dark hair was unkempt.  She estimated him to be somewhere between five and seven years old.

“Madison?!  What’s going on?” Jared’s voice could barely be heard through the strange acoustics of this near-alien environment. 

Madison got down slowly onto her knees, reaching out to the little boy gently.  Slowly, his spear lowered as he searched her eyes.  “That’s it,” she said softly.  “There you go.  You’re safe.  You’re okay.  Come on.  Come here.”

She beckoned him.  He looked desperately between her and Camden, and then took a step forward.

“Camden?  Where’s your mother?” Jared demanded, making his way toward them.  “We’re losing the lighting.”

“Dad, shhhh,” Camden urged him, stepping out to intercept his father.  “You’ll scare him.”

Jared froze and shook his head. “Oh, no.  No, no, no, we are not taking some animal home with us again.”

“No!  He’s not an animal!” Camden said firmly in a hushed tone.  “He’s a kid!  A naked kid!”

Jared was suddenly alarmed, and he looked around.  “What?  Where’s your mother?”

“In there,” Camden said, and pointed to the alcove that could so easily be missed amidst the swirling rocks.

Jared peeked his head into the narrow alcove which was barely large enough for an adult to fit.  There he saw Madison hugging a thin little child.  She glanced up at him, shook her head nearly imperceptibly, and turned back to the boy.   Jared, dumbfounded, withdrew from the alcove silently.  He and Camden glanced at each other.  Jared exhaled a small sigh.  “Well,” he said to his son.  “You certainly know how to make our vacations interesting.”

***

Climbing Gym

Georgetown, DC

March 2024

A petite, well-toned leg rose carefully.  A size 4 climbing shoe toed a tiny foothold as a similarly small hand mantled against a sloper and pushed the teenage climber’s body in a controlled, slow manner.  Her other hand hung freely.  An urgent but confident young voice yelled down, “Slack!  Clipping!”

At once, Mulder fed the appropriate amount of slack with precision. 

Charlotte Mulder’s experienced fingers slipped the rope into the quickdraw, and she continued upward to grab a jug—a big, meaty, wonderful hold.  Every muscle in her small body relaxed as she supported most of her weight with that arm grasping the jug.  “Phew!” she exclaimed, and looked down at her dad.  “That was the crux!  I got the crux!”

“Keep going!” he called up to her, and smiled.  “You’ve got this.”

Charlotte loved climbing.  From about age 9, she had been coming to this gym with Mulder in tow, instead of the other way around.  Unlike nearly every other sport she had tried, climbing allowed her to solve a puzzle on her own.  It didn’t matter that she could read Mulder’s thoughts—his climbing style and body type were completely different from hers, so his ‘solutions’ were not helpful.  There was no unfair advantage, as there was in most team sports.  And despite her small size, and sometimes because of it, she had quickly become one of the best youth climbers in the gym. 

With ease, she brought her other hand up to the jug and pulled her entire bodyweight upward, smearing the wall with her climbing shoes until she secured one toe on another tiny foothold.  Then, flagging her other leg outward for balance, she stood and grabbed a pinch.  A crimp was next, but that wasn’t a problem for her small fingers.  Next, she got two fingers into what was designed to be a single finger pocket, and clipped again.  Then she traversed to her left, falling into another jug.  Hooking her heel around a hold that was all the way up by her hip, she pulled herself with her toned quads until she could shift her heel and use the base of her foot to stand.  She was almost at the top.  Another clip. 

Teetering in a precarious position between walls that met at a 90 degree angle, she was at the extent of her leg span and had little leverage.  The split position looked painful, but when Mulder caught a glimpse of her as she turned to her next move, he saw determination instead of discomfort set into her young features.  Charlotte managed to turn her hip into the wall and bring her arm up, without seeing the hold, to grab it and pull herself up again, bringing her legs closer.

“And that’s why I can never do this route,” she and Mulder said simultaneously.

He looked up at her, annoyed.

“What?” she said with a grin.  “You say the same thing every time I’ve tried it.  It’s not like I have to be a mind-reader.  Besides, if you just tried it, you wouldn’t have to do a split there.  Your legs would reach, no problem.”

“Hey, Charlotte!  Looking good, kid!” her coach yelled up to her as he rounded the corner of the gym.

“Thanks, Coach Dave!  I got the crux today!  This is my clean attempt!”

“Clean it up!” he called.

With his encouragement, Charlotte situated her legs on a hold that normally would only fit one toe, and stood with newfound energy.

“She’s getting good.  Like, really good,” Dave said, his arms folded as he watched Charlotte climb.

“Oh, yeah.  I think she might sweep that competition next month,” Mulder said.

Unbeknownst to them, Charlotte grinned at their thoughts more than their words.  It wasn’t mere patronizing encouragement.  Both Mulder and Dave believed in her, and that made her chest brim with pride. 

“You’re doing a great job yourself, Dad,” Dave said, and elbowed him lightly.  “You sure you don’t want to compete with the adult beginners?  No age limits.”

He gave a sort of tolerant smile and said, “I’m happy climbing just for fun.”

“Not too many 62-year-olds can lead a 10d, at least not in this gym.  Think about it.  Might surprise yourself with how well you do.”

Mulder considered telling the other climbers in this gym his age to be one of his rookie climbing mistakes.

“Dad’s not a beginner!” Charlotte called, her brunette braids flipping back and forth as she turned from the wall to her coach and back to the wall again.  “He’s been climbing for four years, Coach!” 

“Damn, girl has good hearing,” Dave muttered with an embarrassed chuckle. 

She clipped another quickdraw and added, “He just doesn’t want to compete with the intermediates because they’re all younger than him.  But if you did, Dad, you probably wouldn’t finish last.   Or maybe you would.  But it would still be fun!  Only thing to lose is your pride!  And $10!”

Mulder rolled his eyes.  He was good for his age.  Almost too good, and getting better.  He and Scully had noticed that they weren’t aging the way they were expecting to.  At 62, they both looked more like they were approaching their late 40s or early 50s.  It went beyond healthy eating and exercise.  Looking at pictures from previous years, in some ways it almost seemed like they had started getting a bit younger.  Scully theorized that as they both had been exposed to alien DNA and interdimensional travel, their aging had somehow slowed.  She had earnestly counseled Mulder to try not to draw attention to it, especially not at the climbing gym.

And so Mulder, despite being the oldest climber in the gym capable of lead climbing the intermediate-advanced routes, would never compete.  Charlotte knew this, of course.  Her telepathic abilities made it nearly impossible to hide anything from her, especially as she got older.  But she was still a thirteen-year-old girl who wanted to tease her father.  This was her way of doing it.

Dave placed a hand uncomfortably on the back of his neck.  “Sorry, Mulder, anything else I say, I’m just gonna put my foot in my mouth.  I’ll let you two get back to it.  Get it, Charlotte!  You totally got this one.”

Charlotte pumped her fist in acknowledgement before Dave finished talking.  She had several moves left before she had ‘sent’ the route.  Using one side of the corner for her hands to grab two crimps and the wall she faced to place her toes in miniscule pockets, she pulled herself vertically until she was able to press against the wall.  Then came the gaston.  Two opposing holds, requiring an outward press with each hand.  This was another crux where she had previously fallen.

She grunted with exertion, desperately tapping the wall with her foot as she held her body in place in what looked like an impossible position.  Finally, her foot found a hold, and she switched her hands, mantling up to the next clipping position.  Clip.  One more quickdraw, and then the top.

Her previously happy and somewhat carefree disposition changed slightly as her concentration narrowed.  She faced the wall, looking at the jug that was intended to be a rest hold, something to grab after such a hard move as the last.  But at Charlotte’s 4 ft 10 inches, it was not a simple reach.  It was a dyno – a leap, with feet and hands momentarily free.  She stilled her nerves.  Mulder could see her chest rising and falling.

Believe in yourself, he thought, loud enough that he knew she heard.  I’ve got you.  I’ve always got you.

Charlotte scrunched her body down, arms extended.  Mulder bent his knees, prepared to give her a soft catch if needed.  Then her legs sprung, her body arched toward the jug, and a little grunting cry escaped her lips.

Her right hand landed squarely on the jug, and the rest of her body followed.  “YES!  YES!” she screamed in triumph.  She clipped, her gesture almost angry if one didn’t know better.  With an exertional grunt, pulled herself up with a one-arm pull-up to the next hold.  She hauled her small leg to the jug she had just grabbed and matched, then let go with her hand and stood to reach the top. 

A flood of relief and excitement flowed over her as she clipped the anchor chains.  “I DID IT!  A 12a!  I DID IT!  I SENT IT!  DAD!!!”

Mulder felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes watered involuntarily.  His chest felt like it would burst.  He had to actively resist the urge to shout in joy.  It was surprising, and almost alarming, if it hadn’t made him feel so good.  They were unmistakably not his emotions.  They were near-overwhelming joy, and accomplishment, and gratitude. 

She looked down at him, feeling what he was feeling, and recognizing the significance of it.  “Take!” she called, almost as an afterthought.

He pulled in slack and the belay device caught her tight.

“Lower,” she said, softer this time, and Mulder carefully released the device and allowed the rope to slowly slide through his gloved brake hand, which never left his hip.

Her small shoes tapped the mat as she landed.  Mulder approached her and enveloped her tiny frame into a strong embrace.  She wrapped her arms around him.

The moment lasted a few more seconds before she pulled back and asked, “Dad…did you…”

“Yes,” he said briefly.  We’ll have to talk about it later.  But…this is interesting.

She nodded.  “Yeah,” she agreed.  “It really is.”

***

Mulder and Scully Residence

Later that Evening

“Charlotte, would you—”

“In the process,” Charlotte interrupted Scully as she grabbed the silverware out of the drawer and headed to the table to do as she was about to be asked.

“Walter!  Come down to dinner, please!” Mulder called up the stairs.  He placed a bowl of freshly-baked rolls on the table.  Scully brought Stouffer’s lasagna and placed it on trivets that Charlotte had tossed into place just in time.

Mulder returned from the fridge with the butter and pulled out his chair.  “Walter!  Now!”

The red-headed, lanky nine-year-old finally made his appearance.  Running down the stairs barefoot and dressed in a tunic shirt and suspenders, he jumped the last three stairs and nearly landed on an errant Lego.  Coming to the table quickly, he silently took his seat.

The family paused, with Mulder sitting in respectful silence as Scully looked around briefly to ensure reverence, then said the traditional Catholic grace.  “We thank thee, O Lord, for these gifts we are about to receive.  From Thy bounty, through Christ, the Lord, Amen.”

Platefuls of lasagna were served.  Eager hands grabbed for the fluffy rolls.  The first moments of the meal were spent in silence as taste buds were satisfied.  It wasn’t a gourmet meal.  But it was one of the kids’ favorites, it was easy to make, and came with straightforward cleanup.

“Did you tell your mom about the gym yet?” Mulder asked Charlotte.

Charlotte instantly grinned.  “Mom, I led a 12a!  I led it!  My first one!  It was amazing!”

“That’s wonderful!” Scully beamed. 

“Dad thinks I’ll win the competition next month,” she said, and took a bite of lasagna.

“I think it’s highly likely she will,” Mulder agreed.  “Leading 12a’s at 13 years old.  It’s impressive.”

“You should be proud of all your hard work to get this far,” Scully congratulated her.  “Walter, honey, what did you do today?”

Walter continued to eat his lasagna, not sullenly or defiantly, but simply as if he had not heard Scully at all.  He began to study the designs on the handle of his fork curiously, and then continued eating.  Scully glanced at Mulder, who nudged Walter.  He startled.  “What?”

“What did you do today at school?” Scully asked him. 

“Oh.  We were given an assignment this week to relocate the human race to another planet.  The 5’s and 6’s are learning about physics and they’re helping us with calculations for escape velocity.  The 4’s and 3’s are learning about what conditions are right for farming and how far a planet has to be from the sun so we don’t melt or freeze.  The 2’s are learning about different forms of government and picking how to divide the new planet into nations.  And the 1’s are drawing pictures of rockets and stuff.”

Walter’s Montessori school was a one-room schoolhouse concept for gifted children.  It allowed the children to focus on expanding their natural talents, while supplementing their weaknesses with tutelage from older children.  It was Walter’s idea to go there.

“That’s fun.  What’s your job?” Mulder asked him.

“Finding out how crops grow, and what agricultural practices work and what ones don’t.”

“Could be very handy if you choose to go into agriculture in the future,” Scully commented.

“Maybe,” he shrugged.

Mulder’s phone rang.  He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the face that appeared.  “Clawson,” he announced to the table, and answered the call.  “Mulder.”

“Hey, is Scully there?  I’ve got some pretty big news.”

Mulder placed the phone on speaker and set it on the table.  “You’re on speaker with Scully and the kids,” he said.

“That’s fine.  Charlotte will figure it out anyway.”  Charlotte beamed without an ounce of guilt.  “Deputy Director Skinner announced his retirement date.”

“No,” Scully’s disappointment was evident. 

“Email came through today.  I’m surprised he didn’t tell you two.  I wanted to make sure we get a good retirement party for him.  The guys in Violent Crimes and Behavioral are going to pool their money and get him a set of golf clubs or something—”

“Skinner doesn’t golf,” Mulder protested.  “What he wants is a piano.”

Scully raised an eyebrow.

“He does,” Mulder and Charlotte answered in unison.  “He’s telling the truth,” Charlotte attested.

“He doesn’t play the piano.  Does he?” Scully asked.

“Not yet,” Mulder told her.

“A piano is probably more than the Taco Tuesday money pool they’re going to re-appropriate,” Clawson said.  “How about you two look into the piano angle, and I’ll…ah…try for something else.  Something smaller, maybe.”

Mulder shrugged, and Scully shook her head. 

“Anyway,” Clawson continued, “Call me later, okay?”

Charlotte looked intrigued, but then disappointed. 

“Out of range?” Mulder asked her with an accusatory look.

She gave him a lopsided smile and said, “I had to try.”

“I only call with classified information if I’m further than a mile away,” Clawson said, and Mulder could imagine the young man’s grin.

“We’ll call you later this evening,” Scully promised.  “And we’ll have a talk with Charlotte…again…about eavesdropping.”

He chuckled.  “Talk to you soon.”  The call ended.

“Why didn’t he call us?” Scully asked.  “I would have thought we’d be the first people he told.”

“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Mulder tried.

“Ashamed to leave?” she thought.  She looked a bit dejected.  “It won’t be the same without him.”

“That’s what they said about us, and look, we resurrected ourselves as consultants.  I give him three weeks,” Mulder said, and took a bite of lasagna.  “That’s why he didn’t tell us.  He’s just taking vacation.”

The meal carried on uneventfully.  When it was through, Scully asked Charlotte to finish her homework and her catechism study for Confirmation, which was coming up soon.  She also sternly added, “And when your dad and I are on this call with Clawson, I do not want you eavesdropping.”

“Sometimes I can’t help it.  You’re so loud,” she protested.

“Then you need to be listening to music or watching TV to distract yourself,” Scully told her.  “Come on, Charlotte.  You’re old enough that you can take some responsibility for this.”

The thirteen-year-old’s exasperated sigh came with fervor only achieved by teenagers and three-year-olds.  She turned on her heels and stomped up the stairs.

Scully walked toward the study to join Mulder.  She noticed Walter sitting cross-legged in the hallway, balancing a fork on the hardwood floor.  “Whatcha doing?” she asked him gently.

“I’m trying to balance this fork,” he answered obviously.  “What are you doing?”

“I’m about to call Clawson,” she said.  She paused as she appraised her son. “Is everything okay, honey?”

He looked up, catching the fork as it fell.  “I guess,” he answered.

A bit concerned, she rested a hand on the doorframe of the study and offered, “Let me know if you’d like to talk about it.”

He tightened his suspender strap with one hand as he nodded dutifully toward her.  Then he got back to his fork balancing.

As Scully stepped into the office, she closed the door behind her.  She glanced back momentarily, and then said to Mulder, “I’m worried about Walter.”

“He’ll get bored and come back in a few weeks, Scully,” Mulder answered playfully.

“Not Skinner.  Our Walter.  He’s…very quiet.”

Mulder nodded.  “Yeah…I noticed it started about two weeks ago.  A little after he switched his clothes again.”  He sealed a bag of sunflower seeds with a binder clip and put them away in his drawer.  “We could ask Charlotte,” he suggested.

“No,” Scully said.  “That’s increasingly volatile.  He seems to value his privacy more and more.  And she wasn’t able to tell us much, anyway.”

The kids seemed to have an unspoken code where Charlotte didn’t divulge what was in Walter’s mind.  After she had graduated from the lower elementary years, she stopped using her ability to tattle on his every misadventure and started protecting him instead. 

But Mulder and Scully struggled to understand Walter.  Periodically, they had asked Charlotte for help, with mixed results.  When he was younger, Charlotte detailed his very vivid dreams that Walter didn’t have the language to describe.  As he grew older, she explained that he was sometimes acting out what he saw in his dreams, mostly in his pretend games.  His games became increasingly elaborate, and at times, Walter withdrew into them, oblivious to the world.

He was not, by most standards, a genius.  He didn’t make it into MENSA, though they had him tested at five.  His grades were above average, but not to the point where it was suggested he should skip a grade.  With his abysmal social skills, they were at one point concerned he might be on the spectrum, but he was evaluated and they were told it was not Asperger’s.  At times, he seemed like a normal kid.  Other times, he seemed almost like he was recovering from a trauma.  He also went through fads that made little sense to his parents.  For months at a time, he would refuse to wear anything but what seemed like period clothing from some different era.  Last Christmas, he had asked for toys that Mulder had to Google.  It turned out they were antiques from the early 1910s and were worth thousands.  After explaining their rationale, they had settled for a Nintendo Switch.  It lay untouched in his bedroom.

Walter was certainly gifted in the same way Charlotte was; they had proven that.  However, his ability seemed to lay inert.  He had not teleported since he was an infant.  His parents had no good explanation for their son’s eccentricities.  But they were very thankful for a school that supported him, and classmates who liked him despite his odd disposition.

“I think I might try talking to him again.  See if he’ll tell me what’s going on in his life,” Mulder suggested.  “I know it sounds lame, and it’s failed a hundred times.”

“If nothing else, he’ll know we’re interested when he’s ready to talk,” Scully said.

He nodded.  “Okay.  Maybe tonight.  Let’s call Clawson.”

When the call connected, Scully started with, “We talked to Charlotte, but do we need to come in to hear this in person?  She’s had a lot of self-control issues with eavesdropping, lately.”

He shook his head.  “No.  Don’t come in.  This is a new case, but it doesn’t involve anything grotesque or anything that would endanger her.  It’s definitely going to interest you.  You folks remember about 20 years ago that an unexpected visitor to a Sacramento shopping center caused quite a stir, got himself shot by an over-zealous mall cop, and ended up becoming a highly sought-after commodity by some very dangerous would-be colonists?”

“You’re talking about the Anasazi man,” Mulder said, memories flooding his mind.  What a time that was.  While he fought through the blinding pain of being close to alien artifacts, he and Scully had nearly rescued the Anasazi and, with the help of Marita Covarubias and Alex Krycek, discovered that Mulder’s physiology could hold the key to saving the human race from the black oil virus.

Clawson nodded.  “Yes.  We’re all very aware that there are still portals between this and the alternate universe.  But what if there’s a portal currently open to, say, the 13^th century?  On the eve of Colonization.  To a society of scared and rapidly scattering Anasazi?”

“Are you saying there’s an 800-year-old Anasazi that fell through a portal recently?” Mulder asked with enthusiasm that brought a small smile to Scully’s face.  He opened his desk drawer and took out his sunflower seeds again.

The younger agent nodded excitedly and said, “Yes.  And no.  He’s not 800, Mulder.  He’s six.  Problem is, no one can communicate with him.”

“How do we know he’s an Anasazi?” Scully asked.

“DNA test.  He also has magnetite in his blood.  He’s about to be released from University Medical Center in Las Vegas.  The family that found him has petitioned to foster him.  They’ve fostered before and are already in the system.  They are tentatively approved.  They were vacationing in Vegas when they discovered him two days ago.  They agreed to stay in Vegas for the next few weeks while this gets straightened out.  At least, the woman’s staying.  The man might have to head back with their kids.”

“How did we find out about this?” Scully inquired.

“That’s a great question.  You’re probably expecting me to tell you that we have some kind of AI algorithm that searches for keywords previously found in the X-files.  That his DNA popping positive for Anasazi blood made some alarm go off somewhere.  Right?”

“Apparently wrong,” Mulder said, and compulsively opened the bag of sunflower seeds, popping one into his mouth.  “So how did we find out?”

“The old-fashioned way.  Someone left an anonymous tip.”

Scully noticed the way Mulder’s eyebrows ascended and watched him sit back.  He was fascinated before, but he was captivated now.  He had caught a familiar scent, and Scully knew he would be incapable of ceasing pursuit.  “When do we leave?” he asked, tossing the shell of the seed into the trash can before reaching for another.

“Wait a minute,” she placed a gentle hand on his forearm.  “Explain to me what this assignment actually is.  We found this boy.  Okay.  You said no one can communicate with him.  What is there for us to do, exactly?  The Syndicate is gone, Strughold is dead, and the colonists have been turned away.”

“There’s the possibility of an active portal,” Mulder said.  “We need to investigate if that’s true and if it is, find a way to close it off to the public so no one else’s six-year-old ends up displaced by 800 years.”

Clawson clicked his tongue and pointed a finger at Mulder.  “Gold star.  And even better, if you can find a way to send the kid back, I’m sure his parents would be grateful.”

“The Anasazi all disappeared in the 13^th century,” Mulder said.  “We thought they were abducted by the Colonists…how do we send him back if there’s no one to go back to?”

“You may not be able to,” Clawson conceded.  “It’ll be crucial to try to find a way to communicate with him, figure out if there’s anyone left where he came from.  And also…I probably don’t have to tell you this, but if someone sent me an anonymous tip about this, then it’s possible—”

“The Syndicate could still be active,” Scully finished.  “But for what purpose?”

Clawson gave a little shrug and suggested, “Maybe the same purpose we exist.  To investigate the paranormal.  Though maybe they take a little more of a Section 31 approach.”

Mulder was reveling in the Star Trek reference.  “Krycek is still alive.  And as far as we know, Spender somehow hasn’t succumbed to lung cancer yet.  Either one of them might have sent you the tip.  It’s also possible that the wrong people might find out about this kid and try to put him in a facility to be experimented on for the rest of his life.  We need to get to him.  If for no other reason than the fact that he needs protection.”

Clawson nodded.

Scully glanced at Mulder with some hesitation, and he looked over to her, feeling her gaze.  She seemed to want to suggest something, but at the same time, not want to verbalize it. 

With his eyes, he asked her, ‘what?’

She looked to Clawson momentarily, then at Mulder again.  Speaking directly to him in a low tone that Clawson certainly heard, she asked, “If no one can communicate with him…what if…”

He seemed to follow her thoughts in a sudden instant of recognition.  And then he, too, was conflicted.  “But if there’s any danger involved…”

“We could be right there, during very brief, supervised visits.  We could always split up if danger arose.”

He nodded slowly.  “It could be the only way to reach him in a timely manner.”

“What is it you two are talking about?” Clawson asked.  “And have you decided you agree with each other yet?”

Mulder and Scully both looked at Clawson with some trepidation, and Mulder opened his mouth.  Just then, the office door opened and a thrilled-looking thirteen-year-old girl wearing purple pajamas exclaimed, “I would LOVE to come!”

***

Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport

06:25

Mulder glanced in the rearview mirror as they pulled into the drive leading to the economy lot.  He couldn’t help but smile at Charlotte’s wide-eyed wonder.  Rusted Root fittingly played ‘Send Me On My Way,’ on Scully’s Spotify, and Charlotte’s gaze was locked on the large national airport looming in front of them.  They had a layover at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, but it was predicted to only be about two hours.  With the time difference, they would be in Las Vegas by the afternoon. 

“Everyone, remember all your stuff.  I don’t want to go through security twice,” Mulder said to the kids.

Walter silently exited the car, while Charlotte practically leapt out.  She opened the hatch and pulled her backpack on and her rolling suitcase out.  She was ready to go before Mulder and Scully had even shut their doors.

“Slow down, Charlotte,” Scully counseled her.  “Remember—there are going to be a lot of people in there.  You need to focus on your breathing and remember everything Gibson taught you about crowds.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom.  I’m fine at the gym.  I’m fine at school.  I’m even fine at movie theaters.”

“But Dulles is practically shut down because of that software hack,” Mulder told her as he hefted a backpack full of climbing gear.  “So Reagan is going to be even more crowded than usual.”

“I’m too focused on our climbing plans to let anyone else in right now,” she said with confidence.

“Okay,” he accepted, and put a hand on her shoulder.  “I just want you to be prepared.”

“Can we talk about Red Rocks again on the plane?  I put the guidebook in my carry-on,” she said excitedly.

“Yes,” he promised her with a smile.  “Your very first multi-pitch climb is going to take some strategizing.  Thankfully, we’ll have some time since we’re saving leisure for the end of the trip.”

“Walter, you need to put your shoes on,” Scully said, noticing for the first time that Walter’s sneakers were again absent.

“Why?” he asked.  “Don’t you have to take off your shoes when you go through security?”

“You don’t,” Mulder said.  “And even if you were old enough, we all have TSA Pre.  So shoes on.”

He sighed, and went back to the car to put them on. 

“You were going to leave them behind?!” Scully said in disbelief.

He shrugged in response.

“Walter, you have to wear shoes.  There’s broken glass, gravel, who knows what else on the pavement.  Shoes are non-negotiable.”

He didn’t respond to his mother’s directive.  He slipped his sneakers back on his feet and shut his car door.  “Ready,” he announced.

The family headed toward the airport entrance.  The outside terrace which normally housed the baggage check was out of order, so they were forced to go inside.  They entered the main lobby, and were immediately swarmed with a crowd larger than Mulder and Scully had ever seen there.

“Hold my hand,” Scully told Walter firmly, and he obeyed.

“Come on,” Mulder led the way.  They pushed toward what they thought was the line for check-in.  It was so crowded that the ribbon partitions separating the different airline desks could not be seen.

Charlotte’s vision swam.  A man with rolled-up shorts displaying tattoos on both legs bumped into her without a word.  A group of 60-somethings with Hawaiian shirts walked by.  A little child ran in front of her, her mother hot on her heels.  They circumnavigated an elderly man with a cane who appeared unsure of where to go.  A woman to their left was yelling at someone on the phone.  “I didn’t ask for it tomorrow, I need it today—”  Two boys argued over control of an iPad, threatening to launch the thing to its doom if one of them should choose to let go. 

“…Fifty minutes until the meeting starts…”

“…can’t believe she would do that to me…”

“I’m so starving, I need a cheeseburger…”

“…he’s going to expect me to call him now, he’s so controlling, he doesn’t give me any room to breathe…”

“…then tomorrow I have the meeting with Pat, and the next day…”

“I’m never coming back to DC.  I hate this place.”

“Does Reagan have free wifi?  I can’t remember…”

“So if my budget is $5700, I’ll need to pay Robert, that’ll be $1500, then there’s the…”

“Charlotte?” Scully realized after a moment that Charlotte was not next to her anymore.  “Mulder, stop, where’s Charlotte?”

Mulder spun around, his stomach reflexively plummeting.  His eyes darted from a woman on her cell phone to a child skipping next to his mother to the elderly man who still didn’t know where to go…and could not find Charlotte.

That’s when he felt it.  A blinding pain between his eyes, and a sense of overwhelming dread.  He dropped his suitcase handle and it clattered to the floor as he held his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.  He saw spots in his vision. 

“Mulder?” Scully looked to him with concern for a fraction of a second, then looked again for Charlotte, the new panic of losing a child overwhelming her familiar worry for her partner.

Mulder felt like he was going to collapse.  He could feel his knees buckling.  His vision was spotty, as if he had looked into headlights.  He opened his eyes momentarily to try to find something to lean on, only to feel a stab of pain again.  “Scully!” he cried, his voice too weak for her to continue to ignore.  She grabbed his arm before he fell.  Looking around desperately, realizing she was the only capable person in their family now, she called, “Charlotte!  Charlotte, where did you go?!”

The crowd was parting slightly, not too far from where they had last stood.  Voices of concern permeated the background chatter of the incredibly crowded space. 

Scully’s eyes latched onto the sight of Charlotte’s purple backpack, and she practically dragged a disoriented Mulder and ambivalent Walter toward her.  They abandoned Mulder’s rolling suitcase where it had clattered to the floor. 

Charlotte was on her knees, bent over and clutching her head, sobbing.  “Make it stop,” she whispered, though she certainly could not be heard.

Scully let go of Walter and Mulder and touched her shoulder gently.  “Charlotte,” she spoke, not softly, but firmly and with urgency.  “Charlotte, get up.  Get up now.  We have to go.”

Charlotte’s eyes squinted open through her pain, and she narrowed her focus on her mother.  Then she saw Mulder.  Her eyes grew wide, and she practically jumped to her feet.  She closed the distance between them quickly, and grabbed his head with her two hands.  Her eyes slid shut.  A moment of shared stillness passed, and Scully had the thought that they looked almost like they were locked together.  Seconds later, Mulder’s eyes opened and his face was no longer contorted in pain.  But Charlotte suddenly collapsed into Mulder’s arms.  He looked up at Scully, concern and confusion written plainly on his face.   

Several people in the crowd gasped.

Scully grabbed Walter’s hand at once.  “Come on,” she said, and led the way decisively toward the exit.  “We’ll come back for the bag.”

They reached the economy lot again.  Once the hatch was opened, Mulder sat with Charlotte in his arms on the bumper as she began to stir.  Charlotte’s eyes slid open.  She was drowsy, almost as if she was post-ictal from a seizure.  She asked softly, “What happened?”

Mulder glanced at Scully briefly before replying, “We decided to drive.”

***

Route 270, westbound for Las Vegas

Mulder and Scully’s Car

07:30

“Okay.  Geraldine canceled our flights and said we’ll get credit toward our next flight out,” Scully reported from the passenger seat.  “Clawson notified Social Services and the Sterlings that we’ll be late by a few days.”

“We ought to try to make it to Illinois today.  We could stop in Springfield or someplace similar,” Mulder suggested.  “It’s eleven hours, give or take.”

She agreed with a nod.  “Sounds fine.” She sighed and looked behind her.  “She’s still out?”  She looked at her watch.

“At what point are you going to start getting concerned?” Mulder asked.  “From a medical standpoint.”

“I’m already concerned,” Scully answered frankly.  She glanced at Walter.  “Walter,” she called him.  There was no answer.

“Walter,” Mulder beckoned, a bit louder.  Still no answer, but Scully stilled him with a light touch to his arm before he raised his voice further.

“I actually don’t need to talk to him.  I was just seeing if he was zoning out again, so we could talk.”

He glanced over at her, curious.

“What happened in the airport, Mulder?”

“I think Charotte had a panic attack—”

“I know what happened to Charlotte.  What happened to you?  You haven’t had an episode like that since…”

Since…Strughold.  Transdimensional conduits and alien artifacts.  Egypt.  And, of course, the last time an Anasazi was transported through time.  The timing wasn’t lost on him.  He shook his head.  “I don’t think this is…Scully, I think this is unrelated to the Anasazi.  This happened in the gym yesterday.”

Her eyes widened.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it wasn’t like what happened in the airport.  It was…wonderful.  I felt Charlotte’s joy after she sent that 12a.  I felt it like it was my own, but it definitely wasn’t coming from me.  Then, in the airport this morning, I felt her pain.  It was unexpected, and overwhelming.”

“So…you’re saying the common denominator is Charlotte.  That you’re starting to have a form of telepathic connection with her.”

He nodded.  “I guess I am.”

Scully was silent for a moment.  “You realize what this means, Mulder?”

He paused for a beat and then answered, “I’m about to start singing Taylor Swift songs and crying in the shower?”

She allowed a smirk to grace her expression.  It was just like Mulder to deflect during a situation with serious consequences. 

“I don’t mind it, Scully, if this becomes a permanent thing that happens now and again,” he said.  He glanced behind him momentarily and said, “Just think about it.  I’ll feel what she’s feeling when I walk her down the aisle.  When she gets her first job.  When she graduates.  If this is a phase, then fine.  But if we’re developing a connection…I think I can live with that.”

She reflected on his thoughts for a moment, now unsure if she wanted to share her worries with him and rain on his parade.  She reached over to him and he reciprocated by holding her hand.  “Mulder,” she started, still hesitating after he had revealed such a tender thought a moment before.  “Charlotte and you share some neurological physiology.  But there are definite differences, too.  I’m just concerned that…if these experiences intensify…Charlotte’s brain is built for it—and look what it did to her to be fully ‘on’ just now.  Imagine what it would do to you.”

Mulder was quiet. 

“I think it’s wonderful that you two have such a powerful connection.  But…just keep me updated, okay?  I’m worried about both of you.”

He nodded.  “Deal.  I’ll let you know if it happens again.”

“Thank you.”

They were silent for several minutes, when suddenly, Walter’s unexpected voice interrupted Scully’s reach for the Spotify app.

“Mom?” he asked.

She turned, probably faster and with more enthusiasm than she should.  When was the last time Walter started a conversation?  It had to have been weeks ago.  Play it cool, don’t overreact, she thought.  “What’s up?” she asked him with what she hoped was enough disinterest to not spook him.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

She deflated a little, and glanced at the clock on the phone’s screen.  “One hour of screen time, okay?  No internet except the kids’ browser.  No Youtube except for the kids’ app.”

“That’s fine,” he said simply.  She noticed his shoes had been ejected from his feet again.  She passed the phone back to him.

“We have a very long drive ahead of us,” Mulder said.  “What do you say to two hours of screen time today?”  His tone barely audible, he added, “It’s not like Walter’s been on a screen for fun for a couple of weeks, anyway.”

She agreed with a nod, and said, “Two hours, Walter.”

“I won’t need two,” he responded simply, and unlocked the phone screen. 

“Oh?  What are you looking up?” she asked him.

But he was again lost in his own world.  She gave him several more moments to answer, but then gave up with a sigh.

Mulder passed his phone to her.  “Spotify?” he offered.

She accepted the phone and went to the app.  “Taylor Swift?” she teased him.

He responded, as only Mulder could, by trying his hand at a falsetto, “The haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate baby I’m just gonna shake shake shake shake shake shake it off, shake it off.”

***

Route 72 – Close to Springfield, IL

17:37

They had made great time.  Ventura Highway played softly on Scully’s app.  Charlotte busied herself studying routes in Red Rocks for a while, eating up all her screen time doing so.  When finished, she relegated her attention to drawing in her sketchbook and listening to music on her MP3 player, which did not connect to the Internet. 

Walter also spent much of the trip drawing.  In fact, he filled up page after page of his already well-loved sketchbook until he had no room left.  He read a Goosebumps novel for about a half hour, much to Mulder’s delight.  Spooky’s kid should love the series, he had reasoned, and bought several for Walter last Halloween. 

But for the last hour, he had just watched farm after farm pass by, staring out the window with a blank expression.  Suddenly, he saw a road sign for Springfield and perked up.  “We’re in Illinois,” he realized.

Scully looked behind her.  “Yes,” she said, surprised at his sudden revelation.  “We’re probably going to try to stop in Springfield for the night.”

“Can we go to Nauvoo?” he asked with urgency that seemed out of context.

“Where’s Nauvoo?” Mulder asked his son.

“Two and a half hours from Springfield,” he reported.  “It’s not a hard drive.  There’s a motel that has rooms available tonight.  We can call and make a reservation.”

Charlotte looked up from her book – The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, and glanced at Walter.  She assessed her brother thoughtfully for a moment and then offered, “It’s really important to Walter that we go there.”

“What’s in Nauvoo, Walter?” Scully asked.

He looked conflicted.  He either couldn’t or didn’t want to answer.  He glanced at Charlotte, as if asking for her help.  The two locked eyes and had a silent conversation.  Then Charlotte said, “Walter wants to…he needs to see it.  It…would make him really happy.  And…a little bit sad.  He dreamed about it.”

He nodded his agreement.  “I want to see it when I’m awake.”

Mulder and Scully glanced at each other.  Scully plugged it into her phone and said, “It’s on our way out west.  I don’t see why not…”

“We won’t have a lot of time for touring the area, buddy,” Mulder told him.  “We’ve got to hit the road early if we want to get to Las Vegas in a reasonable amount of time.  Remember that this is a work trip first.”

He acquiesced with a shrug and said, “Okay.”

“Let’s get some dinner in Springfield before we drive through more flyover country and get stuck without any food,” Scully suggested.

“C’mon, Scully, the diners in the middle of nowhere are the best,” Mulder protested.

“If they exist,” she countered.  “Pull over in Springfield.  We’ll find something fast so we can get to Nauvoo.”

And so they did.  After a brief debate, they settled on Arby’s drive-through and Mulder agreed to splurge on some extra mozzarella sticks at Charlotte’s prodding.  Then they were back on the road. 

Two and a half hours later, they pulled into a cute little motel with yellow siding and flower pots on the windowsills.  The immaculately-kept building was better than 9/10 of the motels Scully remembered staying with Mulder in the past thirty-some-odd years.  The only available rooms had double queens, so Walter eagerly offered to sleep on the floor.  He chose a spot right by the front door. 

The family was exhausted from the long drive and prolonged immobility, and decided to retire early.  It wasn’t long before everyone was asleep.

***

Motel Nauvoo

02:20

Walter smiled as he walked into the little cabin once more.  He loved it here.  He watched as Sister Gibson gave an apple to a begging 2-year-old Joseph and the boy scampered off. 

“Archie!  Come on in, sweetie,” Sister Gibson told him, and he felt warmth in his chest.  In her outstretched hand was an apple for him as well.  She knew he would be hungry.  He took a bite of the fresh, juicy apple and savored the sweetness on his tongue.  He had never tasted food as good as that in Nauvoo.  It filled his belly with warmth and joy.

Six-year-old Moses was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the cabin, trying to balance a fork on its handle.  His older sister, nine-year-old Laura, knelt down next to him and said, “The trick is you gotta find the right groove in the wood so it doesn’t knock it off-kilter.”

The fork fell, and Walter laughed as he sat down next to the kids. 

“Afternoon, Archie,” Laura greeted him.  “Wanna go down to the town later this afternoon?  Sister Crow said she would let us paint the new toy horses.”

“Yeah!” Walter said excitedly. 

“Let Manomas come, too,” Sister Gibson counseled her children, and lifted her four-year-old daughter off of a chair where she had been ‘helping’ her mother in the modest cabin kitchen.

Laura groaned.  “She won’t know what to do and she’ll get filthy,” she protested.

“Then supervise her,” Sister Gibson directed her older daughter.  Her expression fell slightly as she glanced out the window, seeing her nineteen-year-old son Robert outside.  “Why don’t you children run along?” she suggested.

“Let’s go!” Laura suggested, and Walter rose with Moses to follow her.  Manomas trotted along behind them.

“Mama!” Joseph came inside a moment later, holding his hands up in the air.  “All done!”

Walter watched as the tall, lanky Robert walked inside and glanced down at him.  “Archie,” he greeted. 

Walter paused a moment just outside the cabin.  This wasn’t right.  This wasn’t when this conversation happened.  It was much later.  He shivered suddenly, and realized it was not a warm evening in early autumn, but now the air had the brisk bite of winter in Illinois.  He stood outside the cabin, catching the first part of Robert’s conversation with Sister Gibson.  In the characteristically low tone of a man with a burden to bear, he revealed, “…in the next few days.”

Sister Gibson said something inaudible, and Laura called from down the street, “Archie!  C’mon!”

Walter turned and ran after her on the shoes Brother Gibson had cobblered together for him and wearing the sweater Sister Gibson had hand-stitched.

Time shifted.  As Walter jogged after Laura and Moses, he saw shops of the vibrant city closing gradually.  He saw, in his mind’s eye, the images he had seen so many times.  Houses burning.  People he knew, seriously injured by violence.  Places he loved, piles of rubble.  He didn’t want to see them again, but he didn’t know how to avoid them.  He found he couldn’t look away.

This dream was different.  It was as if several dreams were coming together all in one.  When he had seen the earlier scene, he was encouraged, as if maybe he could go back to that happier time when the Temple was under construction and the city was a bustling metropolis of happy people.  But by the time the children got downtown, Laura and Moses faded into nothingness, and Walter faced a line of horsedrawn carts and handcarts ready to flee.

“Archie,” Brother Gibson beckoned him, and he looked up to see his surrogate father with an outstretched hand.  He quickly huddled under the man’s arm, shivering in the cold.  “Stay close with us now,” he was instructed firmly.  “Robert, William,” he addressed his two oldest sons, “mind the horses.  Before we leave I’m going to go back to the cabin and see if there’s something to keep Archie warm.  Come on, Archie.”

A few minutes later, they re-entered the deserted cabin.  Walter could see the ghostly images of Joseph and Manomas playing tug-of-war in the very corner where Archie often slept.  He imagined a freshly-baked pie on the windowsill.  He looked at the table, where the large family squeezed in for dinners, and always found a place for him. 

“Here,” Brother Gibson said, pulling an old blanket they had apparently decided they didn’t have room for before they vacated.  “Wrap this around you.”

“Brother Gibson,” an elderly voice called, and they turned to see Sister Holladay standing there.  “I was hoping I’d catch you with the boy.  I know you don’t have much to give him…well…this belonged to Thomas when he was that size, and I thought maybe it could help.  I also knitted some mittens…”

Walter wanted to cry with relief.  He slipped the coat over his sweater and put the mittens on his hands.  “Thank you,” he said, tears in his eyes.

She blinked away her own tears, and pulled him into a hug.  “We’ll survive yet, young man,” she told him.  “Now let’s not be left behind.”

Walter opened his eyes slowly to the soft whir of a sound machine and the gentle tick of an analog wall clock.  The images were so fresh in his mind that he could taste that apple on his tongue.  He looked at his mom and dad and sister sleeping soundly on the beds.  Carefully, he disentangled himself from his pile of blankets on the floor, and stood.  He slipped on his sneakers and looked back at his parents again, to ensure they had not stirred.  Then, with silent precision, he unlatched the door and opened it just enough to squeeze through.  Leaving it unlocked, he closed it with just as much care.  And then he began walking.

***

Nauvoo

07:01

A gentle stream of morning sun flickered through the thin curtains and illuminated the motel room.  Softly, slowly, the light increased, as if whispering a kind ‘good morning’ to the guests who traveled there.  There was something special about this place, Scully thought as her eyes slid open.  The peace was palpable.  She looked at Charlotte’s calm expression.  She had always liked to watch the child sleep.  It was the only time her spit-fire daughter was calm, but it went beyond that.  It allowed Scully to take in the girl’s appearance, to commit her features to memory, in a way that couldn’t be done without awkwardness during waking hours.  She did the same thing with Walter, and with Mulder.  She rolled over and saw that Mulder was stirring.  She sat up slowly, stretching a bit.  Her eyes fell on the pile of blankets near the motel door, and noticed Walter was already up.  Immediately looking toward the bathroom, she saw he had not closed the door.  She stood up and her bare feet padded over to the small bathroom, with a plan to close the door over and give her son some privacy.

When she peeked inside, her eyes darted from the toilet to the empty shower and then back to the main room.  She immediately looked for the water bottles.  She remembered that there was a nourishment room at the end of the row of motel rooms and thought perhaps he had gone to get some water.  But his blue Contigo water bottle with UFO and rocket ship stickers still sat on the TV stand.  She noticed his shoes were missing.  She took a deep breath to calm her heart rate and tried to think rationally.

Mulder was sitting up and noticed immediately that Walter was gone.  Then he looked to a slumbering Charlotte, and finally to Scully.  His eyes searched hers, and they had a silent, instant conversation as he quickly swung the covers off of him and got up.  He pulled his jeans on, grabbed a shirt, and donned his shoes.

Scully was dressing quickly as well.  As soon as they were decent, they left the motel room, leaving the door cracked.   “You think he went to get water?  Or a snack?” he asked, glancing down to the nourishment room.

Scully was already walking in that direction.  “No,” she admitted.  “But we should still check before we go out to look for him.  He put his shoes on.”

It took only seconds to open the nourishment room’s door and look inside the small space.  The bright, yellow-walled room had a microwave, ice and water machine, and sink as well as non-perishable snacks.  But it was empty.

“Okay,” Mulder said, unconsciously placing a hand on Scully’s shoulder.  “I’ll wake Charlotte and start driving around.  We’ll find him.  She should be able to find him quickly.  You stay here in case he comes back while we’re gone.”

She nodded.  “Okay.  I’ll call the police if I don’t hear from you in twenty minutes.”  She was all business, Mulder realized.  Her expression and tone were without panic.  She walked with purpose toward the motel room, shoulders squared.  It was all an act.  She was terrified, and trying to convince herself that this was not going to become the worst disaster of her life.  She could not lose another child.  He knew that.  He was not allowing his mind to consider the possibility that something horrible had befallen Walter, or that someone had taken him while the family slept.  Logic dictated that the boy was probably just irresponsibly and impulsively taking a walk.  This was not a dangerous town, he had taken his shoes so there was some purpose to his absence, and he had probably not been gone that long. 

“Charlotte.  Wake up,” he heard Scully’s urgent command as he rounded the corner and entered the motel room again.

Charlotte stirred and whined at being prodded awake initially, but then seemed to regain all her faculties.  She sat up abruptly and looked between her parents.  She threw the covers off and said, “I’ll get dressed.  I feel him…but he’s faint, like he’s far away.”

“We’ll start driving, then,” Mulder said, and met Scully’s eyes.  He gently touched her shoulders.  “We’ll find him.”

She nodded.  “And then he’s grounded for a month,” she said, but everyone in the room knew her fear was far outweighing her anger.

Charlotte climbed into the front seat of the SUV.  She was technically too short and light to sit in the front seat, even at her age.  But most states waived the requirement at age thirteen.  Mulder had, at one point, joked that it was a good thing, too, or Scully would have to sit in the back seat.

“That way,” Charlotte pointed, but it was honestly a guess.  Walter’s ‘signal’ was very weak in her mind.

“As soon as you know what he’s thinking about, I want you to tell me,” Mulder told his daughter firmly. 

She was silent.

He turned left and then looked over to her.  “I know you’re trying to protect him, Charlotte, but now is not the time.  He’s a nine-year-old boy by himself in an unfamiliar place.  He could get himself into real trouble.”

“I know this is serious,” she said, her tone grave.  “But…I’m sorry, Dad.  Now is not a good time to tell you this…”

He looked between the road and his daughter, the question on his face.  She didn’t volunteer immediately, so Mulder said, somewhat impatiently, “What is it, Charlotte?”

“I can’t read Walter.  Not the way I can read other people.”

Terribly confused, he shook his head and said, “But you used to tattle on him all the time.  You’ve read him before.  You just read him in the car yesterday.”

“Something changed.  I don’t know why but…right around when he was five or so he started being able to block me.  I haven’t been able to read him since.  I can read his emotions.  I can hear him when he’s really loud.  But if he wants to, he can keep me out.  And it isn’t that hard for him.  He kind of does it without thinking.”

“So when we last asked you—”

“I…kind of…took some liberties.”  At his annoyed expression, she said, “I was embarrassed!  I’m sorry…”

He was silent for a moment while the more rational part of his brain centered itself and reminded him that this was his thirteen-year-old daughter, whose job was not to spy on her brother or use her innate abilities at his will.  It would be like being angry at her for legitimately not seeing or hearing something.  This was not her fault.  “No, Charlotte, I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“Keep going straight,” she said quietly, her embarrassment not quite resolved even though she knew she had not disappointed him.

They drove in silence through the little town that was just waking up.  Scattered tourists could be seen walking through the quaint village.  Shops were opening their doors.  As they drove closer to downtown Nauvoo, more run-down buildings gave way to well-kept mom and pop stores.  The formal Hotel Nauvoo advertised its existence with a well-manicured lawn and historic-looking sign.  They drove on. 

“Up ahead, keep going around that bend and then turn right,” Charlotte instructed him.  “I think he’s that way.”

They passed a large, immaculate white building with a steeple.  As they rounded the aforementioned bend, they entered into an historic district that was mostly empty lawns.  Wooden fences that looked like they were from the nineteenth century lined the roads accessible by car, and there were interspersed dirt roads too narrow for vehicles.  The lawns were peppered with the occasional small brick building and historic sign explaining what used to stand there.  As they drove on, it became more populated, with white sided houses and historic colonial-style brick buildings rising in number.

“Turn here,” Charlotte said.  “I think he’s this way.  I feel him more strongly now.  He’s…he’s both happy and sad at the same time.”

“At least he’s alive,” Mulder muttered, not realizing he had said it aloud.  Although, with Charlotte, it didn’t much matter.

They ended up in a historic village.  Actors in period costumes were opening shops for tourists.  They passed a printing shop, a post office, and a gunsmith’s shop.  Nineteenth century wagons were scattered on fine gravel paths.  A horse drawn carriage awaited guests.  It was still early enough that families were only just starting to trickle in.  “I think that way,” Charlotte told him, and he turned down another road.  The historic village fell away and was replaced by more grassy fields interspersed with brick buildings.  They turned onto Parley Street, and began driving towards the Mississippi River. 

As can happen to parents in stressful situations, illogical and improbable but unbelievably horrifying scenarios grace one’s mind before immediate dismissal.  Was Walter standing on the bank of the Mississippi, ready to jump in?  Was he actively drowning?  These thoughts were regarded for only fleeting moments.  Charlotte could feel him, and she didn’t feel terror.

“Call your mother and tell her we’re getting closer, not to call the police,” Mulder remembered suddenly.  He passed his phone to Charlotte. 

Charlotte texted Scully instead of calling her.  She then passed the phone back to Mulder and said, “Keep going straight.”

They passed a sign that labeled a grassy field with a gravel sidewalk the “Trail of Hope.”  Small signs were placed along this sidewalk as they got closer and closer to the Mississippi.  “We’re getting much closer,” the thirteen-year-old said.  “He’s way louder now…I think he might be in there.”  She pointed to a building that was close to the river bank.  As they approached, it became clear it was a memorial.

Mulder’s eyes scanned the area with intense focus.  He found himself slipping into the hypervigilance he had acquired from years of field work.  There were no other cars down here.  He didn’t see any tourists, either.  The memorial was a partially-enclosed wooden structure with walls that did not reach the floor.  His heart rate increased when he saw the unmistakable sight of his nine-year-old’s shoes.

He threw the car into park and said, “Stay here,” though he knew Charlotte wouldn’t.  He exited the car and walked with purpose toward the memorial.  Anger welled in his chest.  How could Walter do this?  He was old enough to know better.  Had he no concept of how dangerous it was for a child to wander this far?  He was just under two miles away from the motel.  Mulder was fully ready to deliver a firm Dad lecture that his son would not forget.  But as he entered the memorial, he found himself forced to pause.

Walter stood with his eyes closed in the middle of the room.  He was crying, but also smiling.  Laughing a bit…the soft, sad chuckle of someone who was saying goodbye to a dear loved one.  His hands were out to his sides, as if he was holding onto people nearby.  He sniffed.  “Okay,” he said aloud.  “But I don’t know all the words yet.”  He then began to hum some tune Mulder didn’t recognize.

Behind him, Charlotte started to sing softly in tune with his humming.  “Come, come, ye Saints.  No toil nor labor fear.  But with joy, wend your way.”

Mulder turned and looked at her.  With tears brimming in her eyes, she walked toward Walter.  “Though hard to you, this journey may appear.  Grace shall be as your day.”

She ever so softly placed her hand on his shoulder and pulled him into a gentle side-hug.  Her words were quiet and reverent.  “’Tis better far for us to strive.  Our useless cares from us to drive; do this and joy, your hearts will swell.  All is well!” She ended with a whisper.  “All is well.”

Mulder watched as Walter opened his eyes and his children exchanged a long, pointed gaze where much was communicated.  His anger left his heart.  He looked around at the names listed on the walls inside the structure.  His eyes fell on his children again.  They were experiencing something he couldn’t feel.  Something otherworldly.  Something paranormal.  He felt strangely out of place and small.

“Come on,” Charlotte told Walter gently, and led him out of the memorial.  “Let’s go back to the motel.”

Mulder had no choice but to follow his children, longing to understand.  He took one look back at the memorial.  What did he expect to see?  The ghosts of the people whose names were on those walls?  He shook his head.  He could see nothing other than well-maintained plaques, with the morning light creeping through the opening of the structure.  He turned again to the car, and silently got in the driver’s seat. 

For a moment, no one spoke or moved.  Charlotte looked like she wanted to say something, but remained silent.  Finally, without another word, Mulder put the car in drive.  He handed the phone to Charlotte, his request implied.  She texted Scully.  ‘Found him,’ she wrote simply.

But had they?  Mulder looked in the rear view mirror, seeing Walter drying his eyes with his pajama shirt as he looked out the window.  Had they found him, he had to wonder, or was part of his son still back in that memorial?  Was part of his son always somewhere else?  And would they ever be able to really find him?

***

Later That Day

Route 80

The drive was solemn.  Walter stared out the window for hours.  Charlotte was trying to read her novel, but every time Mulder and Scully looked back, she was at about the same place.  She would periodically look over to Walter as if she wanted to say something, but she would then go back to her book.  Mulder drove while Scully pretended to read an email from Clawson, and then when she finally did get through the email, she moved on to a book on her Kindle app.

Gordon Lightfoot’s lyrics permeated the silence. 

If you could read my mind, love,

What a tale my thoughts could tell.

Just like an old-time movie,

‘bout a ghost from a wishing well.

Fitting, Mulder thought.  He found himself profiling Walter.  Vague curiosity had shifted into genuine concern.  What if his son had done this in downtown DC?  Standing vulnerably with his eyes closed in the middle of a crowded attraction, he would have been a prime candidate for kidnapping.  Human trafficking.  Assault.  Or even something more innocent but still devastating, like getting hit by a bus.  This could not happen again. 

In a castle dark, or a fortress strong

With chains upon my feet.

You know that ghost is me.

What was trapping Walter inside his own mind?  Was he somehow communicating with ghosts?  And why did he keep removing his shoes?  Did that have anything to do with whatever world he was retreating to?  Charlotte knew something.  But she wouldn’t…or couldn’t…communicate it to her parents right now.

And I will never be set free

As long as I’m a ghost you can’t see.

Mulder pulled the car off to a rest stop.  It looked well-maintained, with picnic benches and shady trees.  The family disembarked silently, automatically.  The lyrics still bounced around in Mulder’s head as he stretched.  “I’m gonna hit the men’s room.  Walter?”  His son silently followed as they headed to the bathroom.

When they were finished, Walter eyed the picnic benches and then looked to his dad.  Mulder seemed to sense what his son wanted, and gestured toward a shady spot.  They walked over and Walter sat on the seat while Mulder sat on the corner of the table.  Walter was quiet, staring at his hands.  Finally, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Mulder gave him a moment to elaborate.  When he didn’t, he placed a hand on his shoulder.  “What’s going on with you?”  His voice was gentle and caring, free of judgment.

Walter appeared to not want to divulge.  He looked down, his expression conflicted. 

“What were you seeing back at Nauvoo in that memorial?”

Scully and Charlotte exited the women’s room.  Charlotte immediately steered Scully away from Mulder and Walter, obviously trying to give them space.

Walter hesitated, wringing his hands.

“You can tell me,” Mulder assured him.  “If you’re worried you won’t be believable, you’re talking to the right guy,” he added with a smile.  He bent his head down a bit, trying to catch Walter’s eyes.  “Hey.  Walter, buddy, I’m on your side.  I love you.  Just tell me what’s going on.”

“You and Mom should both know,” he said suddenly.  “If I’m going to tell you, it should be you both.”

Mulder looked up, spotting Scully and Charlotte.  He waved them over.

Sensing that this was a serious conversation, Scully sat down next to Walter on the picnic bench.  Charlotte sat down on the seat opposite her brother.  When Walter remained silent for a few more moments, Charlotte said gently, as if uncharacteristically asking permission to speak, “You can tell them, Walter.  Tell them what you saw.  They’ll believe you.  You know they will.”

Walter glanced at his father first, and then his eyes fell on Scully.

“Mom will believe you, too.”

Charlotte’s words made Scully’s chest clench.  Why had her son assumed she wouldn’t believe him?  What would give him that impression?  She wanted to pull him into a hug and reassure him with maternal tenderness that, of course, she would believe him.  But she forced herself to give him the space he needed.

Finally, he said, speaking primarily to Mulder, “When I dream, I’m not me.  I’m…other boys.  At first I thought they were just dreams.  I thought that for a long time.  Then, our school started doing historic research projects.  And…I realized that they’re real people.”

Mulder was quiet.

“Sometimes I can still feel them during the day.  They’re here…I’m them, even for a little bit,” he tried to explain, clearly struggling to form the words.

Charlotte seemed just a tad surprised.  She had clearly not gotten the full gamut of what Walter was going through, Mulder realized.

“The people you saw at the memorial…” Mulder started.

“They’re all real.  I can feel them.”

“I could see them,” Charlotte offered.

Scully looked at her daughter in surprise. 

“They weren’t really there.  Or…maybe they were.  I don’t know, but I could see them through Walter.  He was being really loud.”

“But otherwise you can’t read Walter, can you?” Mulder revealed, and Scully looked between the two of them.

Mulder could already see in his partner’s expression that she was annoyed to just be informed of this.  He explained, “Charlotte told me she can’t read Walter the way she can read other people when we were looking for him.  She said unless he’s very loud and drops his inhibitions, he can block her out.  Without even trying.”

“I’m not trying to block you,” the boy said to his sister. 

“I know,” she promised him.  “None of this is your fault.”

Scully exhaled, taking everything in.  She touched Walter’s knee.  “So when you sleep, you experience the memories of a boy from Nauvoo?”

He nodded.  “For the last couple months, I guess.  His name was Archie Lytle,” he said.  “He was an orphan.  He was my age.  He lived in Nauvoo.”

His quiet, solemn tone told Mulder that there was a deep, emotional connection there.  He asked, as gently as he could, “What happened to Archie, Walter?”

But Walter didn’t answer.  It was pretty obvious to everyone there what had happened to Archie. 

Scully asked her next question, steering the conversation away from the sensitive subject.  “And before Archie, whose memories did you experience?”

“His name was John Pfieffer and he lived in Mystic, Connecticut in the 1930s.”

That explains the pageboy hat he wanted, Mulder thought.  “Do all of these children…are they all…”

“They all die,” Walter said abruptly, his eyes moistening. 

“Oh, honey,” Scully said, and pulled him close to her.  Walter allowed himself to relax into her embrace and cry.  He cried for Archie, and John, and Hans, and Piotr, and the countless others he had come to know as if they were…himself.

Mulder and Scully exchanged a concerned glance.  Their thoughts were plain.  How much had poor Walter suffered in silence, not comprehending what he was seeing and then, when he was old enough to understand and verbalize what was happening, thinking that his family wouldn’t believe him?  How unfairly difficult it must have been for a boy as young as their son to have to diagnose himself.  And what had he seen?  What horrors of death had Walter’s eyes beheld at the tender age of nine…of six…of three?  How far back do the memories go, Mulder wondered.  He himself had memories that started at eighteen months.  Though that was exceedingly unusual, he wouldn’t be surprised in the least if Walter did, too. 

“We all believe you,” Charlotte spoke aloud the words she knew Walter needed to hear.  He nodded, and continued to embrace Scully.

“And we all support you,” Mulder added.  “Thank you for telling us.”

“You can always tell us about your dreams,” Scully told him.  “We want to know.  And we believe you.”

He nodded, content to continue his embrace.  For a little while, Scully thought he might fall asleep like that.  After several more minutes, she suggested, “Well…shall we get back on the road?  Maybe we can try to get to a rest stop with a Chick-Fil-A next.”

“That sounds yummy,” Charlotte said, trying to inject some enthusiasm in her voice.

Walter silently stood and walked back toward the car, with his family not far behind.

When they got moving again, Gordon Lightfoot picked up where he had left off.

If I could read your mind, love

What a tale your thoughts could tell.

Just like a paperback novel

The kind the drugstores sell

When you reach the part where the heartache comes

The hero would be me

But heroes often fail.

And you won’t read that book again

Because the ending’s just too hard to take.

***

Motel 6

Somewhere east of Denver

It was late and the kids were sleeping.  With the delay that morning and unexpected construction on the Eisenhower through Kansas, they had settled on the first motel they found instead of trying to get into the metropolis.  It was certainly a far cry from the picturesque Motel Nauvoo, but it was only for one night and it was easily better than 10% of the motels Scully remembered staying in over the years.

The carpet was well-worn but appeared clean.  There were no signs of mold or filth.  It was not in a shady part of town; in fact, it was not really in any town.  It was just a motel, plopped down at the edge of flyover country before one entered the first signs of civilization east of Denver.  Their family was sharing the entire motel with a single other occupant; a truck driver who wore stained overalls and had offered them a coupon for the diner about thirty minutes west of them. 

The tan walls clashed a bit with the cheap, false cherry wood furniture.  There was no complimentary breakfast.  There was no complimentary anything.  But Scully found herself relaxing for the first time that day.  She allowed herself to slip under the covers and reveled in the feeling of being able to melt into the thin, too-firm-but-somehow-also-too-soft mattress.  It was fine.  It was familiar.  Sometimes, familiar was good. 

Mulder climbed in after her.  He looked at the two kids briefly.  Walter, back further now from the door, and Charlotte in the other bed, both sleeping soundly. 

Mulder and Scully interlocked legs as they faced each other.  It was an easy way to be close.  It felt good, and pure, and wholesome.  They locked eyes as well, and their fingertips found each other.  Finally, Mulder rested his hand on Scully’s thigh and rubbed it gently.  “How are you doing?” he asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” she responded, and Mulder reflected that those two words meant volumes more.  Based on her tone, she was fine.  She was not particularly distressed.  But she was not fantastic.  She was confused, a little bit hurt, a little bit overwhelmed.  She elaborated, searching his eyes as she said, “While you were driving this last leg I looked up the people Walter was talking about.  Mulder, there’s no John Pfieffer in Connecticut in the 1930s or 1920s or ‘40s, either.  There’s no record of an Archie Lytle in the census documents in the 1830s through 1850s.  But I did find something.  Archibald Lytle was listed as an individual on the pioneer trek West from Nauvoo in 1846.  He has no known birth or death date recorded.”

“That would seem to corroborate what Walter said,” Mulder told her.

“But Mulder, what’s to say that Walter didn’t look up the same information I did and invent the entire story?”

He shook his head.  “Are you saying you don’t believe him?  I know what I saw, Scully, he was standing in the middle of that memorial singing some hymn that I know we didn’t teach him.  And then Charlotte said she felt people there…think about his behavior all these years.  It all makes sense.  He oscillates between being aloof and being engaged, he sometimes seems like he’s recovering from some kind of traumatic incident when just the previous day he was playing in the yard.  And asking for clothes and toys that are clearly not from this era.”

She looked disappointed at his words.  “I’m not saying I don’t believe him.”

“You’re saying you believe he believes what he’s saying, but isn’t necessarily experiencing what he’s saying,” he stated.

“Is that so implausible?” she asked.  “Is it any less plausible than our son traveling back in time to various eras and assuming the consciousness of dead children?”

“Normally I’d say no.  I’d say that your explanation is more plausible.  But we’re talking about our children.  We already know that Walter has the ability to teleport to different locations.  It’s how he was returned to you as an infant.”

“But he hasn’t done it since, and he hasn’t left our sight.  We’ve seen him sleeping.  He’s saying this happens every night.  If that were the case, then surely we would have noticed.”

“I don’t think he physically teleports.  I think his consciousness is all that moves back in time.”

She looked incredulously at him.  “Okay, let’s say for a moment you’re right.  How does that work?  How does a person’s consciousness assume someone else’s body and not inevitably end up changing history?”

“If Walter was changing history, we would never know, because by the time he was finished—”

“We would already have had our own pasts changed,” Scully concluded for him.  “But think about your own experience, Mulder.  You lost two years.”  Eight years ago, the day before Krycek and Charlie Scully knocked on their door at zero-dark-thirty and told them two universes were colliding and handed them a baby, Mulder had awoken remembering none of the past two years.  A battery of tests turned up no medical cause for it.  “If Walter was truly shifting his consciousness to someone else, then how is he not missing time?”

“Because it happens when he sleeps.  He’s already ‘missing time,’” Mulder answered simply.  “Plus, we proved with my own experience that it’s possible to regain that time.”  His recollection of those two years was fuzzy—he was unable to recall with eidetic clarity the details of major events that occurred, as he was typically able to do.  However, he remembered both experiences; solving cases with Scully, carrying on with life, and also being imprisoned in Strughold’s lab, being strapped to an examination table, experimented upon, held in captivity, emaciated and tortured alongside Skinner’s son Andrew.  And, as he found out later, his own daughter, was right across the hall from them in her own version of hell.  Five-year-old Charlotte had survived the experience, too.  She didn’t talk about it.  She said, in some ways, it was like it hadn’t happened.  They didn’t know if that was because of some metaphysical shift in the space-time continuum, relieving her of some of her memories in the way Mulder was relieved of his, or if it was due to a protective psychological lapse in recall.  Either way, the child was incredibly well-adjusted for what she went through, especially as a telepath in that situation.

Scully was quiet as she contemplated their debate.  “I think I’d like to get Charlie, Andrew, and Gibson to help us do a sleep study.  We can find out what’s truly happening when Walter is sleeping.  It’ll provide some evidence as to whether he’s experiencing a physical or psychological phenomenon.”

Mulder nodded his agreement.  “I think that’s a great place to start.”  He weaved his fingers into hers again, and met her eyes.  “Regardless of the findings…think of the burden he’s bearing, Scully.  It seems like he’s seeing death every time he closes his eyes at night.”

She looked down, almost in shame.  Of course they wanted answers…but how could she lose sight of the fact that Walter’s reality, real or imagined, was absolutely horrific?  Especially for a child.  “We may need to get him some professional help.  But I don’t know where we’d go to find it.”

Mulder paused and then deadpanned, “Bruce Willis.”

It took Scully a moment, but by the light of the parking lot filtering through a defect in the motel blinds, Mulder finally saw a smile grace her lips.  It was the same smile he remembered and cherished from the past thirty years.  He loved seeing her genuinely laugh.

“Well…one thing is certain.  We’re not going to solve this while on the road to this case.  Now that we know what’s going on, we can help him the best we can, and get him a sleep study and maybe some psychological help…probably not from Bruce Willis…when we get back in DC.”

He nodded his agreement.  “In the meantime we have to focus on this case.  I’ve been too distracted to do any actual research to prepare.”

With ease, Scully jumped into science mode.  “I’ve been reading the latest information we have on portal activations and space-time distortions.  There are several reports from the last three years from geophysicists who suggest these irregularities in the fabric of space-time surrounding Earth are accelerating.  Since Strughold’s machine was shut down and the rift closed between this and the alternate universe, none of the rifts were large enough, as far as we know, to allow anything substantial to travel between them.  There have been no reports of people physically transiting them—”

“Plenty of clairvoyant people have been using them for millennia, though,” Mulder jumped in.  That was the entire premise of their understanding of many of the X-files.  Since the events surrounding Strughold’s machine that connected the two universes, they had come to explain many paranormal phenomena by deductive reasoning.  A ghost could be a partial manifestation of a being living in an alternate universe, and its disappearance could be as easily explained as a rift closing, for instance.  The theory of clairvoyance was that those with this gift were able to utilize these rifts in space and time to envision information they otherwise would not have had. 

“We have yet to prove that conclusively.”

“Come on, Scully.  You yourself have overseen fMRI scans of people who claim be clairvoyant, and people whose abilities are confirmed, like Gibson.”

“And all we’ve demonstrated is that they have electromagnetic activity that seems to function in time with space-time distortions.  That proves correlation but not a causative relationship.  Especially if you consider the fact that the Earth’s electromagnetic field has influenced multiple species’ development.  Avian species migrate with it, bovine species align their bodies to it when grazing—why wouldn’t some gifted humans’ brain development have a correlative relationship with it?”

Charlotte stirred, and Mulder glanced over Scully’s shoulder and said, his tone even softer now, “I think we ought to table this conversation until tomorrow.”

She nodded her agreement, and scooted closer to him.  As they embraced each other, Scully felt her eyes drooping.  She was more exhausted than she realized.  Mulder had done most of the driving, but the evets of the day had still impacted her.  She allowed her consciousness to float in a world between sleep and wakefulness, and her last coherent thoughts were of how her son felt when he fell asleep each night.

***

Late morning

I-70

Somewhere just over the border in Utah

They had gotten an early start.  Walter had slid into a quiet solitude again, looking out the window and taking in the captivating sights of beautiful rural Colorado.  Scully and Charlotte collaborated on music throughout the morning, choosing a variety of modern, upbeat songs.  Currently, Imagine Dragons were serenading them with Believer.  In the passenger seat, Mulder tuned out the world and studied the case materials he had to this point neglected.  Phone service was spotty throughout this leg of the journey.  Mulder looked up, took off his reading glasses, and looked around to find them surrounded by a sparsely populated plain speckled with small mountain ranges.  They were one of the only cars on the road. 

He blinked, feeling a bit like he had just awoken from a nap.  Stretching his tall frame as best he could in the confined space, he turned around to check on the kids.  Charlotte had turned again to her book, and Walter was still looking out the window.  At that moment, his son turned to him and met his eyes.  There was a depth of sadness there that took Mulder by surprise. 

“Are you okay, Walter?” he asked gently.

The boy nodded once, and looked out the window again.  Scully turned the music down, glancing in the rear view mirror momentarily before turning back to the road. 

Barely audibly, Walter said, “It was in a place like this…maybe even here.  I can’t really tell.”

Charlotte looked up from her book.  She was quiet for a moment, and then asked, “Can we pull over?”

Scully’s eyes darted back to Charlotte’s and for a fraction of a second, she caught her daughter’s expression.  She didn’t hesitate to slow down and come to a stop on the shoulder. 

Charlotte took Walter’s hand.  “Do you want to get out?” she asked her younger brother.

He looked down at his feet, touching his shoes which were surprisingly still donned.  He looked afraid.

“It’s okay,” she told him.  “Everything’s okay, Walter.  You’re in 2024.  Remember…you’re Walter Mulder and you’re in 2024.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her statement.  Charlotte opened her door and encouraged Walter to follow her out the passenger side.  Mulder immediately got out and Scully followed. 

The silence itself was almost audible.  Without much wildlife and only the occasional car driving through, this place felt isolated in a way the DC-dwelling family was wholly unfamiliar.  Charlotte continued to hold Walter’s hand, at first leading him into the roadside wilderness plains.  But after a few steps, Walter led her.  Slowly, he slipped his hand away from hers.

The boy’s steps were slow, but steady.  Then, gradually, they became a bit staggered.  Scully moved as if to run after him, but Mulder caught her arm.  She looked behind her in protest, but he shook his head.  “He’s okay,” he said softly.  “Just give him space.”

Walter suddenly fell to his knees.  He stayed there for a moment, his eyes closed.  Then he leaned over, his hands on the dry dirt, his fingernails digging into it.  His head was bowed. 

“Mulder,” Scully’s protest was stronger now, her dissatisfaction with what she was seeing evolving into intense concern.

“He’s seeing something we aren’t,” Mulder told her softly.  “He needs to work through it.”

Charlotte looked to her dad at that moment, her expression slightly afraid.  Mulder reached out and took her hand. 

Walter sat down.  With shaking hands, he reached down to his sneakers.  His fingers hovered above the laces.  It was as if he could not bear to remove them.

“That’s enough,” Scully decided, and broke free of Mulder’s gentle constraint on her arm.  She moved with purpose toward her son, and slowed her approach only a bit once she was close to him.  She came to sit next to him in the dirt, her steady hand slipping over his shaking, smaller hand in gentle, maternal reassurance.  She ducked her head a bit to try to make eye contact with him.  “Walter,” she spoke warmly.  “Walter, look at me.  You’re okay, sweetie.”

He didn’t break his gaze at his shoes.  “I…I don’t want to see them again,” he said.

Scully looked at her son’s feet, and then at his terrified face.  She enveloped his hand in both of hers, and brought it closer to her chest.  “Then don’t,” she told him.  “Look at me instead, Walter.  Hey.  Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real.  It’s not there.  You’re here right now, with me.”

Despite Walter having more of Scully’s features than Mulder’s, in that moment, Scully didn’t see the Celtic blue eyes and red hair of her ancestry.  She had no time to contemplate if she was seeing it in her mind’s eye, if she was hallucinating, if she was simply allowing her imagination to run away with her, or if somehow, she was seeing another child.  But the gaunt, dark-haired, brown-eyed boy that stared back at her was not her son.  She gasped, unable to keep her composure.  His image was seared into her mind even as she blinked and saw Walter again.  Her eyes darted between his eyes and his shoes.  Now her hands shook slightly as she withdrew from her embrace of his smaller hand, and ventured down to his sneakers.

Walter slammed his eyes shut as she undid his laces and slipped off his shoes, then his socks.  Perfectly normal feet set her heart at ease.  She exhaled.  Looking back at Walter, she knelt forward, leaning one hand on the dirt as the other hand cupped his cheek.  “You’re okay,” she told him, and in that moment she was reassuring herself as much as she was her nine-year-old.

But he didn’t open his eyes.  A tear streamed down his right cheek.  Supporting himself with one outstretched hand, his fingers again dug into the dirt.  Slowly, almost unnoticeably, Scully felt dread rising in her chest.  It was the same terrifying feeling that descended upon a person who believed someone was behind them.  Turning slowly, discovering no one to be there, the feeling refused to abate so that each subsequent turn, backward or forward, was overshadowed by foreboding and the sense of impending terror.

She found herself drawing her gaze downward again to his bare feet.  When Walter finally did open his eyes, Scully didn’t see him do it, because her eyes were fixed on the grotesque sight of two small feet, covered in gangrenous wounds.  She had seen such wounds many times on the elderly, the homeless, the mentally ill who succumbed to the elements after they or their caregiver failed to seek the appropriate treatment.  Infection, sepsis, and death would easily overcome an already malnourished body.  And as her gaze finally rose to Archibald Lytle’s fever-filled, emaciated gaze, she knew with certainty that this was what had happened to a nine-year-old orphan boy on a long trek westward, almost 180 years in the past.

Another blink, and it was gone.  All of it.  Walter’s eyes stared back at her with expectant hope.  He had seen how her expression had changed.  And he knew she knew.  She took his hand.  “Walter…I am so sorry,” she said.

The boy hugged his mother.  Their embrace was at first gentle, and then he squeezed, and squeezed his eyes shut, and slowly smiled in relief as maternal love and understanding squeezed out the last of the terror from his spirit.  His nine-year-old mind couldn’t fully comprehend the depth of relief he was feeling just then.  But somehow, he knew that this monumental occurrence would stay with him for the rest of his life.  The first moment of his life that he was not just believed, but seen.  Fully and completely seen.

***

Hilton Garden Inn

Las Vegas, NV

When they arrived at the inn where Madison Sterling was staying, they pulled into a parking lot lined with police cars.  Scully’s phone rang at that moment.  It was Clawson.

Before the man could speak, Charlotte said, “They’re looking for him.”

Mulder’s head snapped back to look at his daughter in alarm, and then at the phone.  “Clawson,” he demanded.  “What’s happened?”

“Madison Sterling just called the local police.  I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she just reported the Anasazi boy missing.  Someone apparently kidnapped him.”

–To be continued–

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