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When Dylan awoke, the first thing he saw was his mother. It made sense, her bright red hair was like a beacon, blazing away against the starkness of the white room. Finian was beside her, holding her hand. And Caitlin was clenching it back so tightly her knuckles had gone ghost-like. She'd never had to worry about a child like this before. Deirdre was always so responsible, or at least it looked that way to her. And Dylan had run off before, but Caitlin had just known he'd be fine. He was a genius, after all, and able to use his intellect to keep himself safe even at 11 years of age. But while Dylan was just lying there, motionless and looking so tiny against the bed, she had no such reassurance. Dylan's brilliance couldn't get him out of death if the injuries were bad enough.
( Wee Wee Sir Dylan )
( Wee Wee Sir Dylan )
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