Six unfathomable weeks. That's how much time elapsed since Dusty had bought me an Egg McMuffin at McDonalds. I was over my infatuation with him, or so I thought I had outgrown that pipe dream. There had been no word from him at all. No phone calls. Not even one simple letter telling me to go fly a kite or anything else. Sometimes, silence is not golden no matter what people may wish to claim.

Did I really expect my fantasy to come true? Why would it? Nothing I had ever desired before happened. I will admit, for a while I clung to the feeble possibility of such an event occurring, but nothing panned out. Another dead end. That's all my chance encounter with Dusty West developed into.

As they say in the game of Monopoly, "Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars."

I kicked a soccer ball around with some other boys in the Hermitage Hall play yard to pass the time. There wasn't much else to do that morning. I wore a dark shaded Navy-blue jersey with the Number 13, my favorite number, imprinted on the back in white lettering. I further adorned myself in blue and white-striped athletic shorts. These were my newest additions from the rejects Goodwill donated to us boys. You might even say these were typically our Sunday Best attirement. On my feet, I wore thigh-high white socks and sneakers.

Over by the near fence that enclosed the playground area, I retrieved the ball Tommy Johansson kicked up there. I do not recall much about the buck-toothed Tommy except we all referred to him as Keratin because his lips resembled a chicken's beak, or at least we thought. Young kids can be so cruel, can't they? I seemed to remember Tommy as a curly-haired, sawed-off runt.

I bent over to pick up the ball. After straightening back up again, I noticed a sight to behold parked in the gravel Visitors Parking area. I did an immediate double-take to make sure my eyes did not deceive me.

Holding the soccer ball under my right arm, I convinced myself, "No way! Not possible!" Surely, I was mistaken what I thought I observed sitting there.

Tommy noticed my actions and asked, "What 'cha gawking at, Brett?"

"Nothing," I told him.

I placed the ball back on the ground, ready to kick the sphere to Rodney Cromwell who had joined us.

A loud page blared over the PA system that said, "Brett Matthew, report to Superintendent McClellon's office immediately!"

"Boy, Brett. King Tubbo sure does love you a whole lot," Rodney teasingly remarked trying to roust my goat.

"Yes, he loves to constantly yell at me for no good reason," I countered and headed where I'd too often been.

Upon my arrival, I noticed Big Bertha was conspicuously absent from where King Tubbo always kept the formidable strap hanging on the wall. Undoubtedly, he'd stuffed the castigator into one of the drawers of his desk so the weapon remained out of sight, and out of mind, while there were visitors in his office. A well-known fact was he had always done so before.

I recollected on two separate occasions King Tubbo told me in no uncertain terms, "My office report will state the bruises you incurred were obtained by your horseplaying on the top of the stairs and falling down the flight."

The lying bast___!

The unfortunate truth was nobody would even question the validity of his statement. Thus was the plight of us boys woeful enough to reside at Hermitage Hall.

Brenda Smith became the first to acknowledge my presence in the room. She was my recently appointed case manager. I had only conversed with her a time or two.

King Tubbo scowled at me, "You know Mr. Dusty West. He has informed me about a lunch he previously purchased you at a certain McDonalds during one of your unauthorized escapades."

Dusty and I exchanged glances. I wasn't sure I agreed he should have enlightened King Tubbo to that privileged information. However, I left well enough alone and kept my otherwise big mouth closed tight. The whole zipped lips routine. That was also one strapping from King Tubbo I hoped to avoid, and one I was certain to receive had we not been in mixed company.

"Mr. West has graciously requested through the proper channels to foster you until suitable permanent arrangements can be located for a home for you," Brenda Smith explained the purpose of our little get together. "Understand, Brett, there are a lot of legal matters that will have to be encountered before that event would happen."

A brief silence enveloped the room. I supposed they awaited my response to the news I'd just been provided. I said nothing.

Brenda Smith told me, "I had to wait to receive the court approved home study, Mr. West's fingerprints from the police, his final background check, and the judge's approval before I informed you of the situation, Brett. I did not want to build your hopes up too high, run into a snag along the way, and see them crash down."

I thought to myself, 'Things like this are not supposed to happen to Rumpelstiltskins like me.'

I fought to contain the excitement compounded deep inside me. Still, I wanted, no, I needed, to hear what Dusty had to say to me.

He began, "Brett, I know I am not going to be perfect at this fostering stuff. I've never done anything like this before. I never thought I would. That is, until I met you. I'm going to have to learn my way around what I'm doing, and I know I'm going to make some mistakes along the way." He paused a moment to observe my response before he said, "Ultimately, the decision is yours alone to make. But, I'm willing to try if you are. The question is, are you...son?"

That was the first time Dusty West called me his "son" I told him, "I'm going to go pack my stuff!"

Before any of them could speak, or worse, change their minds, I sprinted out of King Tubbo's office, passed the receptionist seated at her mahogany desk, and crossed the foyer. Taking them two at a time, I flew up the stairs, and into my room. Stated blunt, I hauled ass! Less than five minutes later I returned to the room with my small bag in hand.

Dusty and I walked through the sliding glass doors that exited Hermitage Hall. We made our ways to the Visitors Parking area. The boys I'd been kicking the soccer ball around with stood wide-eyed, their noses stuck through the chain link fence surrounding the playground. Their hair unkempt and matted with perspiration.

"Where you going, Brett?" Rodney Cromwell wondered, as we all did on those extremely rare instances one of us boys was removed from Hermitage Hall.

Dusty unlocked his truck and I emphatically replied to Rodney's question, "As far away from this place as I can get and I'm never looking back!"

I climbed inside the cab, settled myself, and eyeballed Dusty. Off on the horizon, I heard the rumbling sounds of distant drums. As I listened close, they began to crescendo louder and louder and louder.

The Unwanted Dog was going home.