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| - When Simon was four years old, the men in blue took Arthur away for good. “You wait here,” his brother had said, one foot already through their apartment door. “There’s a bad man out there. I’ve got to go talk to him.” Simon hadn’t had anything to say to that. He didn’t know who the bad man was or why Arthur had to go talk with him. Arthur just flashed him a smile before bounding out the door, feet pounding against the grated stairs leading down to the street. Simon didn’t see what happened next. He heard voices, then yelling, and when he’d rushed to the door to try and see what was going on his mother appeared to push him away. Climbing onto the kitchen counter, Simon looked out the window and saw men in blue put Arthur into a car and drive away. His mother cried for hours that night. Arthur didn’t come back the next morning, or in the evening, or the morning after that. He’d simply vanished and Simon didn’t even know where to look for him. His mother became quiet after that. The scent of her grief filled the apartment like a perfume. After that night, she never cried--Simon learned from his mother that tears made no difference one way or the other--but he could still see the pain that lined her face, the distant look in her eyes whenever he asked after Arthur, and the way she began keeping him close by her, as if he too might be snatched away at any moment. Before they took him away, Arthur had often taken Simon out down to the city streets where they’d play in the dirt and garbage that lined the sidewalks, finding treasure in the things the people from the tall buildings threw away. After Arthur was taken their mother did not let Simon outside, but he snuck out anyway, slipping off to the places he and Arthur had played. But without Arthur there was nothing to do; Simon just sat on the pavement, hoping that his brother might show up again. The other kids came by, calling for him to join them, but he didn’t pay much attention to them and they soon decided he wasn’t worth the effort. A few dogs--thin, mangy strays who slept near the sewers--would come by to investigate him. Sometimes Simon slipped them food and they seemed to like it. Aside from the kids and the dogs, there was someone else who came by when Simon snuck out onto the streets. He couldn’t remember too clearly, but a man’s face had smiled down at him one day and asked what he was doing. “Who are you?” Simon had asked. For some reason, the man thought this was funny. “Who, me?” the man laughed. “Guess you could say I’m your father. Sure is a funny thing, isn’t it?” Simon wasn’t sure what the funny thing was; when he asked his mother about it she smacked him and kept him from going outside anymore. A few weeks later, Simon got sick. Lying in a bed drenched in sweat, shuddering and begging for water, he saw that same man again through his feverish haze, arguing with his mother in the kitchen. Simon was too sick to hear what was being said. Afterwards, his mother gave him some medicine that she hadn’t had before, and he got better. “Who was that man?” he’d asked her later, sitting up in bed for the first time in days. “No one you need to worry about,” was the only thing she’d tell him. But there was an edge to her voice, one that was neither grief nor pain. It was fear, and that fear made Simon afraid for reasons he couldn’t understand. “Where’s Arthur?” He didn’t know where the question came from. He’d never asked about Arthur before, but being sick had made him lonely for his brother. “He had to go somewhere else.” His mother’s face pinched and she looked away. “He has to help them with important work.” “What kind of important work? Who’s he with? When will he be done? When’s he coming back?” “I don’t think he’s ever coming back.” His mother got up and left the room quickly. “It’s better this way.” “Better? What’s better?” She stopped, halfway through the door. “I don’t know. That’s just what he told me.” It wasn’t long after he got sick that he was taken away. Men and women in suits came to the apartment and spoke to his mother. She yelled at them and told them to get out, but they wouldn’t leave. One of them took Simon by the arm and took him to the door. He struggled and tried to reach his mother, but they gave him one of his soft toys, a dog Arthur had once given him, and he calmed down. His mother said something to him, but Simon couldn’t remember what it was. He was small and tired and confused; he couldn’t remember much of anything. She stopped arguing with the people in suits and let them lead him away. They took him from the apartment he’d grown up in, down to the streets where he and Arthur used to play. He looked up just before they put him in the car and saw that man again, talking to his mother. Her face was full of pain and grief, the same pain and grief she’d held when they took Arthur, only this time it was far worse. The man said something to her and put an arm around her shoulder. It felt strange, seeing someone like that touch his mother, but there was nothing for Simon to do. The anguish in his mother’s face never went away, but she didn’t shake off the man’s arm. Then they shut the door to the car and he couldn’t see her anymore. He hugged the stuffed dog and wondered if they’d take him where they’d taken Arthur.
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