Roger
It was a cry that made Marianne lift her head from her book. 

She was not unaccustomed to odd sounds, living out in the forest, especially as spring got into full swing and the animals came out in droves, as though spurred on by the sun overhead and the days that grew longer as each one passed by. The birds in the treetops would sing and squawk at all hours, the foxes would bark and screech, the wind would whistle through the trees making all manner of strange noises that, for the most part, passed by without her even noticing. 

But it was not the cry of an animal that reached her through the open window, carried in by a gentle late afternoon breeze scented with honeysuckle and woodsmoke. No - there was no mistaking it.
Marianne Wilburn may not have been a mother, but she knew a child's wail when she heard one.
In less than the time it took for her heart to begin to race, she was up, paperback cast aside and skirt hiked up to her knees so she could run. The source of the sound was close, clear enough for her to make out every waver, each pause as the child gasped in another breath only to come back with a sob louder than the one before, and she forwent footwear entirely in favour of finding that babe before any more harm could come to them. 

Much to her relief, she didn't have to look far. 

She saw him the moment she ran down the porch steps. No more than three or four years old, there he stood between the rosebushes, little hand outstretched, and she cursed under her breath. Her garden was not designed with tiny, curious souls in mind - the roses were allowed to ramble, to an extent, and their thorns were not trimmed back for safety. She was the only one who came to touch them, and she was certainly old enough to understand that the stems were sharp, and could cut if one were not careful enough in their handling of the blooms.

A child would not know that until he was left to discover it. And discover it, it seemed, this mystery child had.

She rushed to him, no hesitation in the way she swept him up before he could cry out again. She sat him on her hip, so he could see her face and know that he was safe, and she hugged him *Fiercely*, for what was a child doing this deep into the woods all alone? He was far from old enough to explore without a guardian present, as evidenced by his failed attempt at touching the roses, and she doubted he could have walked all the way alone. Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the property, as though she expected a frazzled mother or shouting father to emerge from the trees calling this mysterious boy's name.
None came. And so, she turned her attention to the child himself, hushing his cries, gentle fingers brushing tears from flushed, rounded cheeks. "Darling," She whispered, and then, "Sweetheart, just where might you have come from? And how are we to get you home?"
Still the toddler cried, and Marianne brought him to her chest. The forest was no place for a babe. No doubt, if the adult responsible for him was nearby, they would hear his wailing and find their way to him, but she could not stand to hear it. The mother inside her chest that she could not be wrapped insistent fingers around her heart and said *Protect him*, and protect this child she would. 

And that was how she found herself, in the kitchen with the front door wide open so that any frantic parent might know where to find their child in an instant should they stumble upon the garden. The little boy sat before her on the countertop, having been at least temporarily silenced with a piece of one of her homemade chocolate-chip cookies clutched in his fat fist and being methodically smeared over his sweet face.

The scratch from the thorns was just that - a scratch. No mark would be left, and she dried his tears with her handkerchief so no track would linger on rosy cheeks. Who could have managed to lose him out in the woods?

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Armando
It felt as though his chest would split apart.

Hazel and her wife, Estella, had asked the rest of the family to watch their children so the pair could have some quiet time. It was a common enough occurrence, and Owen and his sisters would happily rotate who watched whose children regularly. Little Luis had tottled right up to Owen this time, announcing with as much enthusiasm as a three-year-old could, that he was staying with his 'Uncle Ohwie'.

He should have been more mindful of bringing his nephew out into the woods, should have made sure to keep a closer eye, and should not have turned to scare off what he thought was a territorial buck, only to discover a small fox. By the time Owen turned back around, Luis had disappeared into the brush, and his damn heart leaped into his throat.

Luis, even at his tender age, was *Fast* For a toddler- he'd taken to walking like an otter to the water and running was his absolute *Favorite* Activity. It ended in his fair share of torn-up knees and tears, but he never let it get him down for long. The toddler had only gone out about five minutes or so when he spotted Marianne's garden, and his curiosity and urge to run amongst the pretty flowers won over what little sense was in the child's head.

Tears marred Owen's already narrowed vision as he ran, chest heaving with emotion. The slight familiarity of Marianne Wilburn's house halted some of the panic in his chest, and his heart jolts at the sight of the open front door. He can just barely see Luis' little overalls, alongside the skirt he *Assumes* Marianne is wearing.

"*Luis,*" He breathed, crossing Marianne's threshold. "My god, I thought-"

Luis' head popped up, and he grinned widely at his approaching uncle.

"Uncle Ohwie!"
Roger
Though it could only have been a few minutes between Marianne's finding of the boy and the sound of footsteps behind her, it seemed to drag out into an hour. Once the tears had stopped, the child seemed happy enough, and she found that she minded none when he reached for her, and even less so about the little chocolatey fingers that curled into the fabric of her blouse. The stain would come out, or could be embroidered over. What mattered was that he no longer cried, and he was small, warm and real as he nestled himself against her chest.

That was, until he caught sight of the newcomer at the door, and brightened considerably, calling out a name just as Marianne thought she recognised the voice of her second guest. 
She turned, and found herself looking up at not a stranger, but a man she couldn't help but call a friend.

"Mister Barnes."
She smiled, and nodded to the toddler in her arms.
"I suppose I have something of yours. Not to worry, he's quite safe. I found him among the flowers - or rather, heard him there first. It seems he had a little run-in with the thorns on the roses... But he isn't hurt beyond a scratch. I promise." 
She couldn't miss the terror written across Owen's face, twinned with two tear-tracks carving each cheek in blotched halves. And who could blame him? The mere thought of losing a child to the trees... It didn't bear entertaining. Boys much older than *Luis* (for she assumed that was the name of the babe she held) had been stolen from their families by the shadows that lurked beyond the branches. 
She had seen the hauntings of two of them with her own eyes, back in January, with Alma Cooper at her side. The Clark boys had never made it home. 
Sweet Luis had not managed to become lost, and thank the fates for that stroke of luck. 

Marianne took a step forward, towards Owen Barnes, thankful that his legs had brought him here in good time. "No need for another moment's panic. He cried only a little. You'd do well to dry your own eyes."
Armando
He laughed softly in reply, wiping at the tears that managed to slip from his eyes with the back of his hand. Marianne was right, he knew, but the residual panic remained like a heavy weight in his chest.

"I don't know how to thank you, Miss Wilburn. If anything had happened to him..." Owen shook his head. "If there's anything I can do-"

He paused, finally looking Luis over, and lingered on his chocolate-smeared face. Luis, in turn, held out the remnants of Marianne's cookie in his sticky hand to his uncle, his grin wide. A small part of Owen balked at the sight of the sugary sweet- Hazel was always strict on the amount of sweets her young children could have, doubly so considering Rue baked like a fiend. Sweets weren't considered *Bad* By any of the Barnes family, but depending on the amount Luis had, this evening could go *Very* Poorly.

Still, Owen smiled at his nephew. "I see you've got a cookie there, bud- did Miss Wilburn give you one?"

"Mhm!" Luis wiggled his arm at Owen, offering the cookie again. Owen chuckled and walked over, standing next to Marianne. He turned to her for a moment, his good eye shining with mirth, then turned back to his nephew.

"I'm guessing you like it?"

The toddler shook his head vigorously. "It's better than Auntie Wue's!"

Owen only chuckled again, reaching over and ruffling Luis' hair. "Don't let Aunt Rue hear you say that, buddy, or she'll cut back on your cookies."

Luis expression turned serious (as serious as a toddler's could), and he nodded. In the same breath, he looked down to his cookie piece and went right back to gobbling it as messily as he could.

"I should have expected him to go to a place with flowers, really- he loves them." He turned to face Marianne again. "He's not been too much trouble for you, I hope?"
Roger
She understood why he cried, and yet, much like the child in her arms, she wished she wouldn't. It was always such a bitter thing to witness another's tears, to be able to do nothing to soothe them. Had her hands not been preoccupied with holding Luis, perhaps she would have drawn Owen Barnes into a hug, a brief reassuring thing, and told him to *Breathe*, for all was well, and would be still. 

As she could not, she simply smiled, and shook her head in response to Owen's words. "There's nothing you need to thank me for. I've only had him for a matter of minutes, and he's been a darling. I'd happily keep him for hours longer if I weren't so sure he had a mama at home missing him already. And by the looks of things he'd be more than happy to stay with me, too." Marianne had held many babies in her life, but none quite so content at Luis's age to simply stay in her arms. Perhaps the cookie held more bargaining power than she'd intended it to, for all he seemed insistent on sharing some with Owen. 

The compliment, even from a child, was enough to turn her cheeks pink. She knew Rue rather well, and had traded many a recipe with her in the past. "Definitely don't tell your auntie," She agreed, but kissed the little boy on the top of his head even so. 

Looking back up at Owen - and she truly did have to look *Up*, had he always been so tall? - she shook her head. "Really no trouble at all. He's more than welcome to come and see the garden whenever he likes... Although perhaps with supervision, so we don't find ourselves in tears again, hmm?" She meant both of them - Luis from the scratches of the thorns, and Owen's from his panic, still evident in the glistening marks upon his cheeks. "You bring him by whenever you want to. I can't promise I'll always have cookies to rival Rue's, but the door's open whenever I'm home, and I don't get so many visitors. It'd be a pleasure to see you... Both of you."

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