Forgotten Memories

Mick forces himself to listen, even though he doesn't want to. And hearing what Dan had to say made more sense than he'd want to admit, too.

"Dang it, Dan." His voice was quieter now, though still irritated. "I would have at least expected you to come get me or tell me before now. Do you realize how dangerous it is for Dylan to be out there alone? Whether we like it or not, he's marked for the Agency. Maybe one day when I'm gone, they won't have reason to go after him, but right now, they do, and you just let him walk away - alone."

Taking a deep breath, Mick sets his hands on his hips. "I don't know what to do with you. But I do know what to do with Dylan, and that's get him back here before something happens to him. I just hope he really did head to town. If he didn't or if he's not there anymore, you're going to be the one looking for him."

Spinning on his heel, Mick steps off the porch, not allowing any more to be said. He stalks towards his own truck, fishing his keys from his pocket. But as he reaches the pickup and reaches for the handle, something makes him stop. Looking at the window, he stares at his reflection that stares right back at him. He wanted to hit the road right now and go after his childish son who was behaving quite stupidly. He wanted to find him and wring his neck is what he wanted to do - first for stealing a car, second for driving at all - he didn't even know Dylan knew how to drive! And third for worrying him sick - for two days in a row!

But as he studies his own reflection, he suddenly sees a younger version of himself... a version that was hardheaded, angry and hurt. "What would you do, Mick?" he asks himself aloud. He knew. If he were Dylan, he'd run, turn his back on the world and wallow in misery. And if his dad showed up to ridicule him... it would just make him hate everything all the more. Whether he liked it or not, Dan had a point - tightening Dylan's leash would only make him want to run all the more.

Mick slowly lets go of the pickup's door handle, his eyes drifting to the keys in his hand. As much as he wanted to go after his son... as much as he wanted to slap him upside the head and rescue him at the same time... maybe it was time he let go.

Taking a deep breath, he tucks away his keys again and slowly wanders back towards Dylan's bunkhouse. Letting himself in, he eases down on the edge of Dylan's bed, the mattress creaking under the weight. He'd respected his son's privacy since Dylan had decided to stay here - a decision that Mick had sometimes worried about but had forced himself to honor. He was a little surprised to see now how neatly the bunkhouse was kept. Perhaps he'd expected more of a mess, but other than a few pieces of dirty clothing hanging out of the laundry basket in the corner and a towel on the bathroom floor, it was clean.

Taking a better look around, Mick eventually gets up and starts looking through Dylan's chest of drawers, hunting for any clues as to where he would have gone, or maybe... maybe deep down he needed to be assured that his son really had left of his own freewill and it wasn't some Agency trick.

Finding that many things were missing, such as Dylan's pocket knife, watch, backpack and a couple sets of clothes, it was enough to convince Mick that his son had indeed left on his own - otherwise he would not have had time to pack, let alone be methodical in the items he'd taken. Dan was right - Dylan had left of his own accord. Had his son hated it here that much? Had their argument truly pushed him over the edge? Was Mick such a terrible father? Had he failed so miserably? Maybe it was better if Dylan did leave... if he were that miserable here.

Swallowing the urge to cry over the feeling of ultimate failure, Mick starts to leave. But as he does, his foot hits something under the bed. Kneeling down, he retrieves an old, worn out, bent, duct taped shoe box. Odd. He didn't remember seeing this before. It must have been with the few personal belongings his ex-wife had sent here once they knew Dylan would be staying.

Sitting down on the floor, Mick sets the box in his lap and lifts the lid. He was surprised to find quite the array of small items. What was even more surprising, though, was what those items were. His fingers gently pick up an old baseball and he cradles it, a thousand images swirling in his mind. This was the same baseball that he had bought when Dylan was just a little tyke. They'd rolled it back and forth on the floor countless times before eventually being able to play gentle games of catch. And now... Dylan... he still had it?

Growing intrigued, Mick sets the ball aside, finding an old jackknife, a few birthday cards, a couple rocks that must have had some significance, a worn and cracked yo-yo, an old report card that showed an A - probably one of the only As he'd ever gotten in school - a few marbles, a quarter that would seem to be nothing special but obviously there was something special about it to Dylan, a broken wristwatch and an unmarked key. But the thing that interested Mick the most was a small handful of photos, curled, some torn and all worn as if handled and shifted around many times.

Now fully engrossed in what he was doing, Mick leans back against the bed and begins looking through the pictures. They were almost all of family, and many from before Mick had left. Several were of Mick, Jill, Jade and Dylan - he recognized one as a church picture and some that they'd had professionally taken. There was a picture of Mick holding Dylan just after he'd been born. That photo alone brought tears to Mick's eyes. There was a picture of a family picnic - Dylan looked no more than six years old... it had to have been right before everything fell apart. They all looked so happy sitting on that red and white checked blanket in the park. Dylan was wearing a crooked baseball cap, Jade was proudly holding up a fistful of drooping dandelions and Jill was sitting in Mick's lap with her arms around his neck. It must have been a friend who shot the picture - Mick had forgotten about that day.

Swiping at his eyes, Mick returns the pictures to the shoebox. There were more but he couldn't look at them. It hurt too much. Putting the lid back in place, he returns the box under the bed where it belonged - where it hadn't been meant for anyone else's eyes.

Mick remains on the floor for a while longer though. Pulling up one leg, he rests an arm on his knee and stares at the wall. Only someone who cared would keep a treasure box like this. Only someone who card would want to keep those pictures. The past really did mean something to Dylan... he apparently had a heart after all. He apparently did cherish the good times and the good memories of his father. If he had harbored only bitterness, he would not have kept any pictures of Mick at all - but he had. And he had kept them with his other prized possessions.

Mick chews on the inside of his lip. He wanted to go look for Dylan so badly - especially now. Especially after discovering his son's heart, however hidden it might have been. Whether Dylan showed it through his words and actions or not, there was proof here that he could care - that he did care. And now all that Mick wanted was his son to be back here and safe. And yet, as heartbreaking as it was, he knew he couldn't go after him. Dan had been right to let him go. It wasn't an easy thing to admit, even to himself, but he knew it to be true. Mick had been trying so hard to keep Dylan here... he'd been holding the reins so tightly... that Dylan had finally retaliated.

Eventually, Mick gets up, leaving the bunkhouse be. But he doesn't return to the dining hall. Instead, he goes to the house, finding himself sitting on the couch in the living room. He'd go back out in a while... as soon as he could focus again.


Sitting alone in the booth at the little diner, Dylan toys with a paper napkin. He'd ordered a coke, but that was all. He wasn't hungry. He'd almost gone to California once - why not now? The only downside was that the bus was running late.

After another sip of pop, Dylan shifts sideways in the booth and glances out the front window of the diner. A few people went by on the sidewalk, but it seemed a rather quiet day. It never had rained, which seemed to be the topic of choice for just about everybody around here.

Sighing, Dylan resumes his slouched position as his mind took him places he didn't want to go... yesterday's fight with Mick... how he was always screwing up... how he felt unwanted... getting poor Ashlee in trouble... being trusted by no one. Was it any wonder he didn't want to be at the ranch anymore? Was it any wonder he wanted out? Why had Mick tried so hard to keep him there anyway? It had been stupid from the beginning. He should have just been left alone that day the Elite had found him... By now he'd either be dead from a drug overdose or living who knows where with who knows who. But at least he'd be in charge of his own life rather than feeling like he was a prisoner.


"Well, there goes one day down the drain." It was late afternoon now and Gunner had just woken from a much-needed nap after this morning's adventure. He'd managed to get himself up and out by one of the trees to sit down next to Bree in the shade.

Thankfully, he was feeling much better and looked a lot better too. The swelling in his face was almost all gone and though where he got stung still burned and itched some, that swelling had gone down too.

Plucking a piece of grass and leaning against Bree's shoulder, he sighs. He spots JT lazing back in the grass a ways away with a fishing line in the water. He had Amanda for company. Gunner grins. "They are cute, aren't they?" He turns his head, still resting on Bree's shoulder, so his face was almost touching hers. The sparkle in his eyes was a silly one. "I think we're cuter," he teases. "I'm feeling a lot better now... suppose we sneak away for another attempt at a walk?"


"Okay." Scott smiles, glad Hope understood. He wondered if, perhaps, there was a bit of disappointment in those sparkling eyes of hers. That much made him feel badly. But he was happy that she was at least willing to be friends with him, despite the past.

Gently placing his camera back in its box, he pauses, running his finger around the edge. "I don't know what the future holds," he admits quietly. "I just need to... to find myself... before.... before there's an 'us.'" He bites his lip, his eyes still lowered. There was a part of him that really did want to have Hope back in his life as more than a friend. But right now, he wasn't even sure he could last away from Brookshire, let alone handle a relationship again.

Lifting his gaze, a little smile returns. "Thanks for believing in me. Even though I'm home, my fight's not over... I don't know if it ever will be. So just... keep believing, okay? 'Cuase some days I have trouble with believing in myself."