The park near Donald's home is the quietest place he knows, quiet in the way that feels earned, not artificial. Long stretches of grass ripple under the breeze. A line of eucalyptus trees borders the western edge, rustling like whispering paper. Families gather near the playground where the swings creak softly, where small children shriek and laugh in chaotic bursts. Dog walkers trace lazy loops along the path, stopping occasionally to chat.
To anyone else, it's peaceful. To him, it's reconnaissance.
Donald walks the paved trail, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes drifting across the environment. Not suspiciously, at least not outwardly, but with a level of instinctive observation that no teenager should possess. He notes distances, blind spots, the height of the tree line, the nearest sources of cover, the number of moving bodies in peripheral space. He counts without meaning to: seven joggers, three dog walkers, five children, one elderly couple, one ice-cream vendor.
Twelve potential obstacles. Three unpredictable variables. Two structural weaknesses in the fence line. No threats. He had made it a habit to analyze everything in that way. He tries to tell himself that's all that matters.
His adoptive parents always encourage him to come here to 'get air,' 'clear his head,' 'relax a little.' As if relaxation were something he could simply decide to do. As if it were a skill one could pick up the way a child learns to ride a bicycle.
The park lake glints in the afternoon sun. Dragonflies skim its surface. People sit on benches, reading or scrolling through their phones. His footsteps fall softly against the path, each one placed with unconscious precision. A part of him worries someone will notice, will ask why he walks like someone trained for silence.
But nobody pays him much attention.
He sits on an empty bench overlooking the water. A cool breeze slips across his skin. He tries to breathe deeply, evenly, the way his therapist encouraged, but each inhale feels too mechanical—as if he's performing an exercise rather than experiencing calm.
He watches a little girl drop her ice cream cone and burst into tears. Her mother kneels, comforting her. He studies the scene, trying to decode the tenderness in the mother's eyes. He understands pain, fear, discipline—those are familiar languages. But comfort? Comfort feels like a dialect he has no vocabulary for.
A dog barks. A jogger sneezes. A bike bell rings. He flinches at none of it, though he registers all of it. Then, without warning, the world around him begins to tilt. He feels the shift deep inside, as if a door hidden behind the walls of his mind has begun to open… again. The sunlight dims. The sounds distort. The ground beneath him dissolves.
Another memory.
He's small again, small and strapped to a cold metal table, the synthetic scent of disinfectant thick in the air. The overhead lamp beams down on him like a celestial interrogation. The room hums with machinery.
He sees the blonde nurse moving toward him, her steps leisurely, assured. Her white uniform is immaculate, her gloves spotless. Her hair is tied back in its perfect twist. Her eyes hold that same contradictory warmth, a warmth that has nothing to do with care and everything to do with satisfaction.
"Subject responsive," she says, her voice soothingly clinical. "Proximity cue detected. Pupillary dilation optimal. Good."
Beside her, another staff member adjusts a monitor displaying lines of data. And across the room thirty, maybe more… children. Boys. Some older, some younger. Some breathing. Most not. Each strapped to beds identical to his. The nurse takes a step closer to him. She's holding a notepad, pen poised. Her eyes study him as though he were a creature in a glass tank.
"You're doing very well," she murmurs, "We have high hopes for you."
Donald reacts to the voice, he wants to move, he wants to scream. But body and voice belong to the hands that conditioned them.
"Increase auditory stimuli," she instructs calmly.
A speaker crackles. A sharp, piercing tone fills the room. He winces. His ears ache. The noise feels like it's drilling straight into his brain. Somewhere, someone groans, another child still alive enough to respond. The nurse smiles under her mask.
"Good. Very good."
Her pen scratches the page. Then…
A hand touches his shoulder. Donald jerks violently—back in the park, knees hitting the bench, breath caught halfway up his throat. An older man, concerned and startled, steps back. "Easy there! Sorry kid, you alright? You were zoning out. Thought you might faint."
Donald forces his lungs to work, dragging air in slowly as the world reassembles itself around him: trees, water, sunlight. Real. All real. He tries to answer but his voice catches. He swallows, resets.
"I'm fine," he manages. Too stiff, too rehearsed.
"You sure?" the man asks. "You look pale."
"I'm okay," he insists.
The man hesitates—then nods, pats his arm awkwardly, and walks away. Donald watches him rejoin his dog, still shaken by how easily he had slipped. The memory had forced itself through gaps in his consciousness like floodwater through a broken dam. His hands tremble slightly. He hides them in his pockets.
Donald stands and starts walking again, needing motion, needing something to anchor him to physical reality. The crunch of gravel under his shoes. The rustle of leaves overhead. The chatter of a couple passing by.
He slows when he reaches the old stone bridge at the far edge of the park, a quiet spot where fewer people wander. Beneath it flows a narrow creek, water slipping over rocks in gentle murmurs. He leans against the railing, staring at the rippling surface.
A bird lands nearby, hopping along the rail, tilting its head curiously at him. He studies it. The softness of its feathers, the fragility of its tiny bones, the simplicity of its existence. He envies it. He closes his eyes. The memory lingers. The nurse's blue eyes. Her voice.
"Success."
He exhales through his teeth, controlled and deliberate. His heart is beating too fast, uncharacteristically fast. He grips the cold stone railing until the tremor in his hands subsides. And then he turns and walks towards his home, towards the strangers that claimed to be his parents.