But it was Ethan who was watching him, patiently, with too much knowledge in his serious eyes. Seth’s stomach twisted not only at what had been, but that Ethan should now know.

Because he couldn’t think of words or excuses, Seth simply closed his eyes.

It was that which tilted the scales for Ethan. The surrender to helplessness, the slide into shame. He’d left this wound alone, but now it seemed he would need to treat it after all.

‘‘You don’t have to be afraid of what was.’’

‘‘I’m not afraid of anything.’’ Seth’s eyes snapped open. The anger in them was adult and bitter, but his voice jerked like the child he was. ‘‘I’m not afraid of some stupid dream.’’

‘‘You don’t have to be ashamed of it, either.’’

Because he was, hideously, Seth sprang to his feet. His fists were bunched again, ready. ‘‘I’m not ashamed of anything. And you don’t know a damn thing about it.’’

‘‘I know every damn thing about it.’’ Because he did, he hated to speak of it. But despite the defiant stance, the boy was trembling, and Ethan knew just how alone he felt. Speaking of it was the only thing left for him to do. The right thing to do.

‘‘I know what dreams did to me, how I had them for a long time after that part of things was over for me.’’ And still had them now and again, he thought, but there was no need to tell the boy he might have to face a lifetime of flashing back and overcoming. ‘‘I know what it does to your guts.’’

‘‘Bullshit.’’ The tears were burning the backs of Seth’s eyes, humiliating him all the more. ‘‘Nothing’s wrong with me. I got the hell out, didn’t I? I got away from her, didn’t I? I’m not going back either, no matter what.’’

‘‘No, you’re not going back,’’ Ethan agreed. No matter what.

‘‘I don’t care what you or anybody thinks about what went on back then. And you’re not tricking me into saying things about it by pretending you know.’’

‘‘You don’t have to say anything about it,’’ Ethan told him. ‘‘And I don’t have to pretend.’’ He picked up the cap Seth’s blow had knocked off his head, ran it absently through his hands before putting it back on. But the casual gesture did nothing to ease the tight, slick ball of tension in his gut.

‘‘My mother was a whore—my biological mother. And she was a junkie with a taste for heroin.’’ He kept his gaze on Seth’s and his voice matter-of-fact. ‘‘I was younger than you when she sold me the first time, to a man who liked young boys.’’