Clyde Du Pont stood at the foot of the hospital bed, his tall frame casting a shadow over the silver-haired boy lying asleep beneath the sterile white sheets. His pale blue eyes were sharp and unblinking as they studied the boy's delicate features as if trying to mould the same one himself.
The boy's face was ghostly pale, his lips cracked from dehydration, and his silver hair, slightly tousled, spread over the pillow. Clyde's gaze bore into the young man's face, searching for the resemblance.
An IV line was in his right hand. Clyde's gaze lowered to the bandage around the burn on his left hand, which clearly had dictated the placement. Most patients had their IV placed in their non-dominant hand, but not this one.
Clyde's fingers tightened around the wooden prayer beads on his wrist. He tugged them absently, his mind filled with questions and mysteries.
He looked familiar, and at the same time, did not.
