Wolf Warren.
The more days that pass, the more James remembers about his life before the Winter Soldier wove himself into his brain. Day by day, he has worked up months' worth of memories in his head, and he makes sure to write down the most important ones. He stole himself a small, pocket-sized journal from some craft store only days after he discovered the items Warren had been hiding in the bottom of his backpack, and Warren still doesn't know about this journal. James is sure that if Warren ever did find out about it—which he inevitably will, sooner or later—he would be all over it. He would beg to read it, and when James said no, he would stay up late in order to read it while his papa was asleep.
As it turns out, Warren is an incredibly fast learner when it comes to reading.
When he was learning to kill—to be cruel, animalistic, and heartless—he was a very slow learner. So slow that HYDRA almost quit on him. How could the son of the Winter Soldier be such a weak, useless boy? Still, they were unable to replicate the ability they gave to Warren on anyone else, and they were not going to waste it. They pushed him and pushed him until he did what they wanted, no matter what it took to get him there.
But Warren seems to be a natural when it comes to language. He has practiced reading children's books incessantly. The backseat of their, now third, stolen vehicle has become his own personal library. The spot behind the passenger seat is now a neatly organized pile of stolen books. They stop at libraries whenever they get the chance, and Warren is allowed five books per visit. James is starting to regret this rule. He didn't think they would be stopping at almost every library they passed by. But it keeps Warren happy, and that is more important than anything.
Warren has even begun writing his own short stories in his notebook. He still makes a plethora of spelling errors, but he learns from each one Papa points out to him, and he enjoys it, too. And when Papa teaches him a new word, he writes it on his arm to help him remember to use it in the next story he writes.
As Warren reads, writes, and thinks up his next story, James plans out their next move. He's been procrastinating about getting them out of the country. The longer they stay on the road, the harder change gets. Part of him wants to live this simple, quiet life with Warren forever. But it isn't fair for Warren to have to live in the passenger seat of a car, especially after only recently gaining the freedom to have actual space of his own, rather than being tossed in an empty cell with nothing but the clothes on his back. He deserves a home—an apartment at the very least—with his own bedroom, his own bed, and his own bookshelf. James has to give him that.
So, James made the decision last week. They have to leave America before the first snow. It isn't suitable to live in a car when the temperature falls below freezing.
The weather has already begun to turn cooler. The grass is starting to turn yellow and get all shriveled as the grayish clouds block out half the sunshine. Leaves are turning all shades of red, orange, and yellow, and many of them have fully turned brown and are falling from the trees. When Warren and James stop to go on a walk and stretch their legs, Warren likes to jump onto the brown leaves, since those are the ones that give a good crunch.
James has been driving aimlessly around the midwestern states. He doesn't think it's safe to stay in one town, one county, or even one state. So they go through towns nearly every day. If they stay in a place for more than just a night, it's only for a few days, and then they're on the road again.
They haven't stopped since James started up the engine this morning, and Warren is starting to squirm. The area they're in now, though, isn't ideal for going on walks. Nearly every street has a speed limit of forty-five or higher, the sidewalks are all too thin and way too close to the curb, and in order to get anywhere, they'll need to cross very busy roads. They will have to stop in at some store or something. Warren will probably need the bathroom, anyway, and it will give them an opportunity to grab some food for the road ahead.
At the moment, the closest stores are the chains that are at nearly every strip mall in America, like Target, Five Below, and Michaels. James supposes he'll let Warren pick where he wants to go.
"Gettin' bored of driving yet?" James asks as he turns the radio volume down a few notches.
"Yeeesss," Warren responds, dragging out the word with an exaggerated groan.
James laughs and rolls his eyes. It's one thing to be tired of being in the car and another to act like the car is going to be the death of you. "What d'you say we stop in at one of these stores? Any of them look interesting to you?" he asks.
Warren twists his lips to the side and stares out the window for a moment. "No libraries?"
"Not any I can see. How about something else?"
After letting out another exaggerated sigh, Warren replies with,"'Kay." He turns his attention out the window once again and watches as the stores go by. Papa pulls into the right lane—the slow lane—to drive at a speed at which Warren can make a good decision.
One thing that has drastically changed about Warren since he left HYDRA and gained his freedom is that he has become somewhat obsessive about making choices. He makes his decisions very carefully and very wisely. He loves making them, too. He turns the smallest decisions into big, important ones because he is so thrilled to have choices. He also has opinions now, which is very cool. His opinions are very firm and very precisely chosen, and there is no changing his mind. He decided his opinions and those decisions take forever and last forever. Even decisions like choosing which store to go into take a good few minutes, and bigger decisions sometimes even take hours.
"Any time now, bud," James encourages. The cars behind him are starting to get annoyed by how slow he's going. He doesn't get why they won't just go around him.
Warren narrows his eyes to try and read the signs on each store. Most of them have big, colorful letters that stick out of the wall. One of them, though, only has an orange and yellow banner hanging out front. It blows with the wind, flapping up and down, up and down. When the wind calms, Warren can make out the letters, which are in funky, yellow writing. Spirit Halloween, it says. Warren's not sure what those letters spell.
"Sp-ih- rit Hall-o-ween," he tries out loud.
James follows Warren's eyes to the sign. "Spirit Halloween," he reads.
"Halloween?" Warren questions, turning to look at his papa.
"Yeah. It's a holiday. Kids put on costumes and go door-to-door getting candy," James explains. He tries to remember the Halloweens he had as a kid. What were his costumes? Did he go trick-or-treating with Steve? Probably. There's a faint chocolate-y flavor in his mouth when he thinks about it for too long. He clears his throat. "It's probably a costume store. Wanna check it out?"
Humming, Warren makes his decision. He nods. "Yes."
So that's what they do.
✮
Spirit Halloween is a lot brighter on the inside than Warren would prefer. The floors are shiny white but stained with dirt and footprints, the lights are a harsh yellowish color—one of them keeps flickering on and off—and it is also unreasonably loud inside. Kids keep screaming every minute or so, and Warren isn't sure what they're screaming about. It makes him feel like shrinking in on himself. He grabs his papa's hand and sticks close to his side. He's safe there. He knows that for sure.
The place is even overwhelming for James, too. There are life-size statues of angry scarecrows, skeletons, and black-haired demon women that somehow move whenever people walk past them. Some of them talk. A green-faced witch keeps saying something about mixing people into stew, over and over and over again.
James squeezes Warren's hand. "You okay?" he asks.
"I thought there were costumes," Warren murmurs warily. He inches even closer to his papa's side.
Past the eerily lively statues, James can see aisles filled with little plastic bags and clothes shoved inside. "There are. Over there. You wanna check them out?" he asks, pointing to the aisles in the back of the store. Warren hesitates to answer, his eyes wandering over each and every animatronic. They're freaky, and he doesn't seem to like them one single bit. "We don't have to if you don't want to, y'know. We could go over to another store," James reminds him.
Warren frowns, furrows his eyebrows, and lets his eyes fall to his feet. He huffs. "Do all American kids dress up for Halloween?" he questions.
James shrugs. "Well, I'm sure not all of them do."
"Did you?"
"Me?"
"When you were like me," Warren specifies. By like me, James assumes he means seven years old. "Did you dress up for Halloween?"
And James wishes he could answer enthusiastically. Maybe a memory of his coolest costume, or the most fun Halloween night, or the scariest mask in known history. But he can't pick anything out of his brain. No memories. Not yet, anyway. Maybe he'll think on it more when they get back on the road. He'll tell Warren when he remembers. But for now, he has nothing. He's sure he did dress up, but he's not sure what he dressed as or anything.
"Yeah, I dressed up," James answers truthfully. Warren nods, lifting his head once again. "That doesn't mean you have to, though."
"But I wanna," Warren whines.
He sounds an awful lot like a normal kid when he uses that whiny voice, but that doesn't make it any less obnoxious to hear. James knows why Warren is doing it, though. He wants to be like the other kids, and he wants to dress up for Halloween. He wants to do something fun that he's never done before. But he's scared of the statues. James keeps seeing him eyeing them with a mixture of disdain and anxiety. He doesn't want to walk past them, probably. It's funny how even the kids who have been through the worst things can still have little fears like Halloween statues that they know are fake. Because above everything else, Warren is a kid. He has fears, just like anyone else. But he wants to brave them.
With his eyebrows pinched together and his lips pressed tightly shut, Warren stands up a little straighter. He stays close to his papa's side, squeezes his hand hard, and starts walking forward. He tries tunneling his vision in on the aisles ahead, but he can see the creatures on either side of him. An oversized, furry fake spider jumps out at him, and he flinches and shrieks, but he keeps walking. Papa stays right next to him and rubs his thumb across Warren's knuckles to remind him of it.
Twenty steps feel like a mile, but they make it through the field of animatronics without being chopped up and mixed into a green woman's stew. Luckily.
Warren lets out a sigh of relief as he releases his papa's hand. "I don't like those guys," he tells Papa.
James tries not to laugh, but it's hard. "Yeah. I can tell," he says as he ruffles the brown, stringy mess that is Warren's hair.
Warren leaves his papa's side to wander through the aisle. James trails behind him, following his footsteps and watching as he analyzes each and every costume. There are all sorts of costumes. Much more than either of them would have guessed. There are cartoon characters Warren doesn't recognize, some he does, lots of prisoner costumes for some reason—that seems like a stupid costume, in Warren's opinion—a plethora of scary masks, and flower costumes in every color for little babies. There are so many options that it's sort of overwhelming.
How does Warren choose the right one? Should he even get one at all? It's not like he's going to go trick-or-treating or anything. That's far too dangerous. But, then again, he could get some candy. Maybe Papa will let him go to at least one house.
"Papa?" Warren suddenly stops in his tracks, and James almost walks right into him.
"Hmm?" he hums.
"Can I get candy from the doors, too?"
Oh, jeez. Now, James is starting to regret mentioning that part. He could have just told Warren that kids put on costumes and wear them for fun. He could have just told him it was a boring store and nothing interesting was inside. But, then again, this is something actually fun for Warren to do. To pick a costume and pretend to be something else for the day. But he can't go trick-or-treating. What if someone recognizes him from the news or something? What if they recognize James, too? What if they question why he's not out with his friends? What if they ask him what school he goes to or what his favorite candy is? He doesn't go to school, and he doesn't know the names of many candies. That's weird. That's questionable. People will find him suspicious. They'll take Warren away from James.
"No," James says firmly, his eyes distant. Warren frowns, but James doesn't notice it. He runs his hand through his hair. "It's too dangerous. Just pick a costume if you want. You can wear it whenever. Forget Halloween."
"Don't be mean," Warren grumbles.
James swallows. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he huffs out. His eyes wander around the store. Anywhere but at Warren, who is looking up at him with furrowed eyebrows. "You can't go trick-or-treating, buddy. I'm sorry. We can pick up some candy from a gas station or something. Okay? Why don't you pick out a costume, now."
Warren nods and uncrosses his arms. As he continues down the aisle, he runs his fingers over each and every costume bag. He stares at every costume, trying to decide which one he wants to be his own. But he's a bad decision-maker. James worries he'll never choose. They walk through the same aisles over and over and over again. Warren doesn't get bored. There is a doctor costume, but Warren doesn't like doctors. There is a costume of an angry, red man, but Warren thinks it's weird. There's a costume of a TV show character that Warren doesn't recognize. There's a costume of all sorts of things. In his head, Warren narrows it down to three options. A comic book character that looks brave, a skeleton, and a wolf.
He hums. "What do you think, Papa?"
"About what?" James asks, raising his eyebrows. Warren hasn't told him any of the options.
It takes a minute for Warren to answer. He disappears down an aisle and returns with a costume bag, handing it to his papa. The process repeats until James' hands are busy carrying three different costume bags. It's the TV character, the skeleton, and the wolf. "Which one is best?" Warren asks him.
James shrugs. "Whichever you think is best, Renny. It's your costume," he says.
Warren groans. "I need help to choose!" he complains, his eyes darting from bag to bag. He likes all of them. They're all cool. They're all good costumes. Way more fun than the Normal People Costumes he had to choose with Natasha. These costumes are much weirder and much more interesting.
"What do you like best about each one?" James asks him.
Gnawing on his lip, Warren thinks through his answers before giving them. "That guy looks cool. And the skeleton is scary, like the statues. The wolf—umm—I think he's brave and strong. Like you, Papa. Right?"
"I, uh- I don't know," James murmurs. Brave and strong. Maybe. Whatever. Adjectives are fluid. You can be strong one day and weak the next. It doesn't matter.
"You are," Warren says. He stares at the costumes for thirty-seven more seconds before taking one of the bags from his papa's hands. He's smiling. A small smile, but a smile nevertheless. James hangs the two other bags on the nearest wrack. Warren runs his fingers over the letters on the plastic packaging. W-O-L-F. Wolf. Like dogs, but wilder. More free. Warren likes free. He'd like to be a wolf. He'd be a lot braver, then, and probably stronger, too. That's what costumes are good for. They let you pretend. "I like this one," Warren whispers.
"I like it, too," James tells him.
✮
The costume is soft like a new pair of pajamas. Warren feels brave, strong, and warm when he wears it. So he wears it for the rest of the day. And then at night, too. It is more comfortable than anything else he owns, and it makes sleeping in the car a little more bearable. James doesn't mind. With the costume on, Warren seems to get fewer nightmares. It really does make him brave, apparently. He stays asleep for a long time. James doesn't have to coax him back to sleep after he thrashes awake with tears in his eyes.
That means writing. Writing uninterrupted, prying memories out of his brain and putting them down on paper so he never forgets them again. Warren doesn't see him write. He doesn't hear him write. He doesn't know about the journal. He won't wake up and see it, either. If he did, it would be a mess. But he won't. He won't, he won't, he won't. Not with that costume.
James drives to a gas station while Wolf Warren sleeps in the passenger seat. He leaves the car with an empty gun and a thumping heart. He returns with a bag full of candy and three hundred bucks.
It's time to leave, James decides. They can't wait for the weather to get any harsher. Tomorrow, James and Warren leave America, and maybe a month from now, they'll have a home.