Charlie lay in his bed, the rough wool blanket pulled up to his chin, feeling heavier than it should. The wooden beams of the ceiling seemed closer than usual, the faint cracks and stains drawing his unfocused gaze. Gretchin had tucked him in hours ago, her hands firm but gentle as if trying to shield him from the chaos outside. Twice, she had peeked through the curtain to check on him, each time lingering a little longer. Charlie pretended to be asleep, his breaths slow and steady, unwilling to meet her eyes.
The second time, Gretchin sighed softly before leaving. It wasn't a frustrated sigh but a tired one, the kind that made Charlie's chest ache even more. When the sound of her footsteps faded, he rolled onto his side, curling up beneath the weight of the blanket.
He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to cry anymore. He didn't even want to move. His chest felt tight, a crushing weight pressing down that refused to go away.
Sometime later, muffled sobbing broke the silence. The deep, raw sound barely reached his ears, but Charlie recognized it instantly. His dad.
The sound rattled him. He had never heard his dad cry before—not even when things had gotten really bad after Infusion Day. But now? Charlie bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. It was too much.
Eventually, the sobbing stopped, replaced by silence. Then, a familiar presence stood by his bed. Charlie felt the light pressure of his dad's hand on his shoulder, the callouses rough but comforting. He didn't move, didn't even flinch, as his dad spoke.
"Good boy," his dad murmured, his voice low and uneven. "I'm so proud of you."
The words hit Charlie like a punch. He wanted to respond, to look up at his dad, but he couldn't. The weight on his chest grew heavier, pinning him in place. He kept his breathing steady, pretending to be asleep until his dad's footsteps retreated.
Hours passed—or maybe it was minutes. Time had lost all meaning. The quiet of the room was broken again by low voices outside the curtain. Gretchin and their dad were talking, their tones hushed, but not enough to stop Charlie from hearing.
"The man's head," Gretchin said, her voice hesitant.
There was a pause. Then their dad replied, "Charlie?"
"Yeah." Gretchin's voice wavered. "Dad, do you ever feel like Charlie isn't… normal?"
"What do you mean?"
Gretchin hesitated, then sighed. "He saved my life, Dad. He used Mom's crossbow to kill that guy. I was done for. But it wasn't just that—it was the way he did it. The look on his face. Like he wasn't scared."
Charlie tensed, his chest tightening. He could hear the weight in her words, and it made him feel small and exposed.
His dad sighed heavily. "Do you know the school used to send notes saying Charlie was getting in trouble for not paying attention?"
"Yeah, I remember," Gretchin said.
"But do you know," his dad continued, "that your brother never got a single question wrong on any of his tests?"
"What?"
"Not once. The teachers were baffled. They were going to have him tested before everything went to hell."
"For what?"
"Intelligence," their dad said. "They thought he was bored. That's why he got in trouble—not because he couldn't do the work, but because it wasn't challenging enough to hold his attention."
"That's… surprising," Gretchin said softly.
"But it's not just that," their dad went on. "Your brother's smart, sure. Really smart. But it's more than that. I don't even think he realizes it himself, but he's got this way of… retaining things. Of processing things. It's not just academics—it's instinct. He sees something once, hears something once, and it sticks. And then he acts on it, just like that."
"So… he's different?" Gretchin asked.
"Very," their dad said firmly. "It's like he's wired for survival. Did you see him with the hunters? The way he watches, the questions he asks?"
"Yeah," Gretchin said, her voice thoughtful now. "They were talking about that the other day. They said he's always asking why they do things the way they do, like he's trying to figure out their secrets."
"Exactly," their dad said. "He absorbs everything, and then he uses it. Did you see him play soccer when we got here? He wasn't the best out there—not with the older kids. They outclassed him, sure. But he didn't stop. He kept pushing, kept playing, like losing wasn't even an option for him."
"I noticed," Gretchin said quietly. "He didn't back down, even when they were obviously better."
"That's the difference," their dad said. "Charlie doesn't give up. He adapts. He fights to win, even when the odds are against him. That's what sets him apart."
There was a pause before Gretchin finally said, "I hadn't thought of it like that."
Their dad chuckled softly, though there was no humor in the sound. "You and Charlie are more alike than you think. You've both got that drive. That ability to push through, no matter what."
Charlie lay frozen in his bed, his heart pounding. A winner? Him? He didn't feel like a winner. He felt small, lost, and scared.
But something about his dad's words lingered. Was that why he'd been able to shoot that man? Was that why he could think when others froze? He didn't feel smart, but maybe it wasn't about being smart. Maybe it was about seeing things differently.
He thought back to the hunters, how they'd smiled at him when he asked his endless questions. They didn't treat him like a kid, not really. They'd answered him, shown him things, even joked that he'd be running the hunts one day.
The thought stirred something deep inside him—a flicker of pride, of determination. His dad believed in him. Gretchin believed in him. And maybe, just maybe, he could believe in himself, too.