A/N: I've recently read Scott Cawthon and Kira Breed-Wrisley's Five Nights at Freddy's novel trilogy, and while I thoroughly enjoyed how well the mystery and excitement of the game franchise were translated into a novel format and enjoyed reading through, I felt that the ending was a bit rushed and had too strong a sense of being a cliffhanger for what is supposed to be the end of the series, as far as I'm aware. So I have this idea in mind of how a fourth installment of this series might go.

DISCLAIMER: Copyright of the FNAF universe goes to Scott Cawthon, and this story, like all other fanfics, is the work of a fan and an aspiring writer of some sort. And as always, feedback is always welcome.

UPDATE (8/19/2020): This story was formerly called "Five Nights at Freddy's-A Brother's Bond." Although I kept the name for a while, it was originally intended to only be a placeholder until I came up with a more fitting story title, one that better matches the books. For those of you who've already read this story, nothing else has changed as of now.

She sat at her desk with her eyes glued on the drawing that sat in front of her. She worked as an artist, drawing whatever came to her mind. She always loved the creativity behind sketched artwork. It felt so natural to her. Ever since her first trip to an art gallery as a child, she fell in love with sketches. It was intriguing how something so skeletal in the eyes of some can be so detailed despite its simplicity. All that was needed afterward was just enough color to give it life. After a few years in art school, she became an artist, distributing her work wherever she could, which eventually led to the meeting of her husband. He had been wearing a simple suit, nothing too eloquent, but definitely formal, and he was eying one of her drawings very closely, one of a little girl with twin braids standing near a small stream. She told him that it was based on a childhood of hers, and smiled, telling her he loved it. The rest was history.

Now, many years later, she sat at her desk in her small Chicago apartment which, until the past year, had been home to her son as well. She was working on a new sketch, very similar to the one that had grabbed her husband's attention. She'd done so many other works over the years, from nature to urban life, but it never hurt to go back to the basics. The small girl was standing in front of a small shed carrying a teddy bear and wearing a dress that came down to her knees. She wasn't sure what color to make the dress yet. Maybe yellow, or lime green.

She was just about to put the finishing touches on one of the eyes when the phone came blaring through the silence. Sighing, she picked it up.

"Hello?" she said.

"Good morning. Is this Miss Hannah Anderson?" a calm voice asked from the other end of the line.

"Yes it is," she answered. His voice was calm and he seemed welcoming. Maybe it was another interested customer. "May I ask who's calling?"

He identified himself and his occupation, and her heart dropped, the phone almost going with it had her grip not become vice-like.

"I'm not interested," she said immediately.

"Please hear me out, ma'am," the voice pleaded.

"I'm not married," she retorted, the sensitivity of the topic very evident in her voice.

"Of course," the man said kindly. "I've been up for quite a while trying to find the right number. Forgive me, but…" He broke off and sighed heavily. It sounded like he was holding back tears, which added to her suspicions. "It's your daughter. She's...she's gone missing. She's been missing for a month and we've been trying to find her, but there's just no trace of her. As sad as it is, I'm afraid it looks as if she's gone."

Hannah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth and her eyes clamped shut. She made a few grunts of distress, as if trying to say something but couldn't get the words out properly. She hoped that this reaction went unnoticed to no avail.

"Miss Anderson?" the man asked.

"No, no, I'm fine," she said, her face shaking, her eyes still clenched. "Listen, I'm afraid you have the wrong number. That...that's not my daughter you're speaking of."

"Are you sure? I've really been digging through records for the last two weeks, and it looks like-"

"Yes, I'm sure!" she said quickly. "Listen, you...you don't understand. We-I don't have a daughter."

Silence filled the air, and she could tell that the gears were turning in her confused caller's mind. She knew what he wanted, and she wanted no part of it.

"How long have you lived in Chicago?" he finally asked.

"We've lived here for sixteen years."

"We?" the man asked.

"Yes, me and my son," she answered uncomfortably.

Another small pause, followed by what she was sure was him thinking aloud: "She lives with her son."

"Listen, I'm sorry to disappoint you," she told him, "but I'm afraid I can't help you. I have a lot of work to do."

"Of course," he said. "I apologize for taking up your time. Have a good day."

Before she could respond, the line went dead. She hung up the phone and tried returning to her work, but all that ran through her mind were his words.

"It's your daughter...she's gone missing."

She shuddered, forcing her eyes onto the paper before her, but the usual euphoric feelings that always filled her during her work was now replaced with a sinking sense of dread. The girl on the paper didn't seem the same innocent girl she was only minutes ago. She looked...different. Especially the eyes, temporarily colored only with the lead of the pencil.

Those silver eyes.

That was it. She threw her pencil down and sat back in her chair, her face buried in her hands and tears coming from her eyes.

He'd done it. She'd called him crazy when he had first begun, and tried desperately to make him see reason. When he didn't, but instead kept to his obsessive work, she knew that it was time to go. Their son asked many questions on their way out, being too young to understand, but she only said they were leaving for a while. That, of course, really meant permanently. There was nothing left for either of them. All she could think to do was get away and start somewhere else, somewhere she and her son could both live the rest of their lives in peace, burying themselves in creative things to do, and never go back.

But now, over fifteen years later, that past had finally caught up with her, and from the sound of it, her ex-husband may have done what he meant to do. She shook her head and got up to grab herself a drink from the fridge. Her proposal wasn't due for a few days, so it could wait. She usually wasn't a drinker, but today was definitely a day for a few bottles.

On the other end of the line, the caller put his phone down and sat back in his chair, exhaling loudly. He'd been going out of his way, trying to track her down, for a month, and after all that time and effort, he thought he'd finally be rewarded for his labors. But now, it seemed he hit another wall. It didn't make sense. He had spent more time than he could remember running through her husband's history and, with some help from some of his reliable sources, finally tracked down who had to be her in Chicago, and now all of that work seemed to be for nothing.

He rested his face down in his hands and groaned. He was tired. As much as his adrenaline and determination had kept him going the past month, he felt very drained, especially with everything that had happened the last month. Or really, it was the last year and a half that things had gotten crazy again after a decade of relatively smooth sailing.

There was a knock at the door. "Sir?"

He looked up to see a woman, his dispatch officer, holding a cup of coffee.

"Would you like a cup?"

"Thanks, Norah," he said, taking it from her. She glanced down at his cluttered desk.

"Ok, seriously, are you alright? What's all this about?"

"Probably nothing," he sighed.

"If it's nothing, you wouldn't be working so hard," she retorted.

He said nothing, only stared down at the bubbles that remained along the inner edge of his cup.

"I know what this is about," she said, and he looked up at her, his face looking like it had aged ten years. "This is about her. The girl you've been trying to find. Look, I know with everything that's been happening, you want to do whatever you can to clean up the mess and find everyone who's missing, but there's only so much you can do, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he groaned. "I just wanted to see if I could reach out to other sources." He still wasn't sure about telling anyone else the whole truth yet. They didn't need to know. "Besides, I think I may have hit a dead end."

"It's alright, chief," she told him. "You did your best."

"Thanks, Norah," he said, smiling at her. She returned it and began walking toward the door.

"Oh, by the way," she said on the way out. "Your son called. He wants to know if you can pick up his medication on the way home. He's about out again."

"Thank you, I will," he responded, grabbing his coat and getting out of his chair. As he walked toward the door, he stopped, mind flashing back to a certain detail from his long-distance phone call.

She has a son. Charlie's brother. He smiled. Maybe it wasn't a dead-end yet after all, and maybe he should consider taking some much-needed vacation time.

One Week Later...

Sam Anderson parked his car, a 1986 silver Toyota in decent condition, outside the studio. It wasn't the biggest or the fanciest, but it was more than enough for his purposes. He got out and walked around to the back. In the trunk was the first guitar that his mother had given him for his eighth birthday after he told her he wanted to be a musician. It was a red and white fender, too big during his first attempt to play it but almost too small now.

"Happy birthday, Sam," she told him with a smile as he gazed at it fresh out of the wrapping.

"Wow!" he said, admiring the instrument that lay before him. "Thanks, Mommy!"

"You're welcome, sweetheart," she said, pulling him into a hug and kissing his forehead.

"Can I start playing it right now?" he asked her.

"Not right now," she told him sweetly, "but maybe when you're older. I'll see if we can get you in for some lessons on something smaller first."

"Thanks, Mom!" he said, hugging her again.

"You're welcome," she said again. "Just promise me you'll be very careful with it. It's very expensive, you know."

He picked up the case and headed inside.

As soon as the door opened, an all-too-familiar voice rang from down the hall.

"Is that Sam the man?"

Sam scoffed as he walked down the hall into the room in which the rest of his band were gathered. Before even beginning to look around to see who else was here, the owner of the voice jumped up came over and held out his hand. Sam put down his case and met the gesture.

"How's it going, man?"

"Pretty good. Sorry I'm late. That string took a lot longer to get put on and traffic was kind of bad with the weather and all."

"No sweat. We didn't really come up with anything spectacular yet anyway, aside from Eric showing us hs next big thing of extending eight beats to ten."

Sam laughed and set his case down and began unpacking it as Kyle continued going on about the uneventful proceedings up to that point. Kyle Jackson had been his best friend for almost fifteen years. In 1983, he and his mother moved from their home in New Harmony, Utah after a sudden burst of arguing between his parents. He didn't remember much, only that it had started immediately after Halloween. He wished he could remember more, but that entire time was a blur. After a few months, he and his mother moved to Chicago. It was a big change for them both, particularly for him, since even in his first few years of life, he only knew life in a small town. Living in a big city with buildings touching the sky and people everywhere was overwhelming at first, but he was able to get used to it after a few months as his curiosity and excitement took over. His mother, who wanted nothing more than forget about their past and bury herself in creative works, often took Sam to numerous art galleries and shows around the city. Whatever she could afford on the limited money she had left after leaving. Anything to completely forget about the past. Sam liked the city and knew he would grow to like it as time went on, but he struggled to make friends. He was a very playful child, but something was always missing whenever he tried to make friends. He never knew why, but he always felt that the connection between himself and other kids wasn't strong enough for a deep friendship. As much as he wanted to make friends, he also wanted to find the right friends, people with whom he could connect with at a deeper level to fill the awkward and mysterious void left by his early childhood, but had no luck for a few years.

And then in first grade, he met Kyle Jackson. Given his love for music and singing, he decided he wanted to join his elementary school's choir. The memory of that first day was crystal clear.

He sat silently amongst his chattering classmates talking about which teacher was worse and who had the better toys growing up. He almost wanted to join in on a conversation, but he instead began thinking about the ensemble. He was excited. He loved music, and he loved singing. He sang all the time at home, and it always put a smile on his mother's face as she told him that he would do great things with his voice one day. He was busy imagining himself leading a band when he felt a tap on his shoulder. To his left was a young boy, dark brown hair and a few freckles on his face, looking at him intently, as if studying his face. Sam wasn't sure whether to be annoyed, confused, or a little of both. After a few moments of silence, the boy spoke.

"You think we're gonna see some gray today?"

Sam stared blankly into his serious eyes, wondering what the right response was if there was any.

"Huh?"

The boy didn't move and his face remained unchanged.

"It's how my dad talks. He's a pilot. He says that a lot when he wants to know if the weather's gonna be bad."

"Oh," said Sam, looking out the window. "I don't know. It looks sunny out now."

"Yeah, I know," the boy said, "but I wasn't talking about the weather. My dad says it all the time, even when he's not flying. I meant the choir teacher. I heard she uses a lot of perfume and it smells weird."

"Oh," Sam said again. "I don't know. I haven't heard that."

"Yeah, someone in my class said that she wears this rose perfume, but she puts so much on that it makes you sneeze if you get too close to her. He says she smells more like a skunk cabbage than a rose."

He gave a small laugh, and Sam looked back into his blue eyes as they continued studying him. As silence fell between the two again, the thought of their choir director giving off such a foul fragrance and not being aware of it did have a humorous vibe to it.

"Yeah, I guess," said Sam. "Maybe she should try dressing up like a skunk on Halloween so people know not to get too close."

The boy laughed, a loud, high-pitched noise that turned many heads over to them. It was an interesting laugh, almost like a mix between a hyena's and an overly self-confident comedian's.

"Now that is funny!" he said. "I like you. You're funny. I'm Kyle. Kyle Jackson." He smiled and held out his hand.

Sam returned the smile. There was certainly something different about him. He wasn't like the other kids he knew. His personality was odd, but no one else had ever been so keen to talk to him. He took his hand and shook it just like he saw his mom do when meeting with someone for work.

"Nice to meet you, Kyle. My name's Sam Anderson."

As the school year passed, the two found themselves becoming almost inseparable. They always found time during lunch and recess to talk and play with one another. Kyle took great delight in someone actually laughing at his jokes, and Sam felt an odd sense of satisfaction of having someone his age to talk to, after an incident he couldn't clearly remember left him alone with his hard-working mother. Before long, their parents became introduced to one another. Kyle's parents immediately took a great liking to Sam and his youthful energy and made the compliment to his mother. Hannah found her son's new best friend to be a bit odd as well, but she too felt more at ease that Sam was finally making friends. The two had many playdates at each other's house, and it was there that Sam learned more about his new friend.

Kyle was the only son of two pilots and the wealthy co-owners of Jackson Air Services, a company dedicated to providing tourists with air transportation and scenery tours in and around the Chicago area. Given their dedication to their business, they hadn't planned on having children for a while, but despite protection, their son Kyle was still born. Although he was the unplanned child of a rather wealthy couple, he still grew up to have a relatively normal, if not slightly recluse, childhood. Like Sam, he was willing to talk to people if they were willing to talk back, but he always found himself isolated by the other children teasing him for his unnatural almost-bushy brown hair. Between this and his parents doing what they felt they could to love and support the son they hadn't expected, he shared Sam's poor luck in making friends prior to that fateful day in the choir.

A loud note from the bass brought Sam back to reality with a small jerk.

"A little louder next time, Larry. We're not awake yet," said Adam rubbing his temple.

"Anyway, so we've been thinking," Kyle began, holding up both index fingers in a proposing manner, "that for our next show, we should try something a little different."

"What do you mean by that?" Sam asked, tuning his new string.

"Well, Eric and I have been talking, and we think-"

"You think? Wow, that's a first," Adam teased as he adjusted his soprano sax reed.

"Shut up. We think we should try something a little more hardcore."

Sam looked up at him, staring directly into his eyes, vainly trying once more to understand the intention behind the words.

"What do you mean 'hard'?"

"I mean more rock-type stuff."

"We've done newer rock songs before," Sam reminded him. "Remember last week at open mic night? When we played some Bon Jovi and Van Halen?"

"Yeah, but I wanted to try something a little different than the same-old-same-old."

"Getting tired of classic rock and jazz?" James asked as he lent Sam one of his tuners.

"No, I love them both," Kyle protested, "but think about it: right now we've been playing the same stuff for the same groups of people for almost six months! Don't get me wrong, I like the stuff, but don't you think we should try a different approach sometime? More than just the usual?"

James nodded. "You know what? I agree. I think it'll be fun. Maybe it'll surprise some people and we'll get more gigs."

"Yeah," said Larry. "As long as Kyle doesn't miss too many notes and Eric doesn't lead us astray with another one of his funky beats, I think we it'll be cool."

"I'm still working on it," Eric insisted. "Come on, like Kyle said, it gets boring doing the same thing over and over. It's like a bunch of marchers marching to the same beat, you know?"

He began playing a simple beat on the snare drum, imitating a drumline's timekeeping.

They all laughed as they imagined themselves marching around a stage in uniform. Kyle hopped behind his keyboard and began to add a familiar melody, the march of "Les Toreadors."

As Sam sat keeping time with his foot while moving from side to side, he thought back to middle school when he heard the sixth grade band play this for the first time. He remembered it clearly: the white dress shirts and ties, the short black skirts, the band director moving his baton systematically while dancing.

Wait, he wasn't dancing...was he?

He was certain he was dancing, wearing a yellow suit with a bow tie that shone in the lights while his head moved from side to side, singing into his baton like a microphone. Or maybe it was a microphone.

It didn't add up. He always prided himself on his ability to remember memories in vivid detail. Why was he suddenly struggling with this particular memory? It just didn't make any sense at all. He remembered sitting in the audience with his mother after his portion of the show with the choir had ended. Being music lovers, they always enjoyed staying for the night's later acts. He remembered looking up at his mother's tear-filled eyes. That was weird. She loved 19th-century music.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Her voice was panicked and shrill, but he didn't remember her mouth ever opening for the entire duration of the performance.

"Sammy, darling. Where are you?"

I'm here! He found himself wanting to shout back. I'm right next to you! What's the matter with you, Mom?!

"Sam, come to Mommy! Sam!"

"SAM!"

With another small jerk, Sam turned. Kyle and Eric had both stopped, and five pairs of eyes were fixated on him.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"We were wondering what you thought of Kyle's idea," said Eric.

Silence fell again. This was the guy who always listened to others ramble on about the same types of music, going on for what felt like hours before holding up his hand calmly and giving his own opinion in a very sophisticated-like manner, sometimes as a means of subtly telling them that they were behaving like over-excited children. And he was never short of his own opinions on things. Ever since they formed the band nearly a year ago, he always told them plainly what was on his mind when it came to music. The silence wasn't like him.

After a few more seconds, Sam finally opened his mouth.

"Sure."

Eric and Larry glanced at each other, while James threw up his arms in cluelessness. Kyle looked like he was staring directly into his soul, his eyes searching for an answer to the question he didn't know had been asked.

"Let me get this straight," Adam said, as his and the others' joking attitudes quickly subsided. "You don't have any input? Just...nothing at all to say?"

Sam shrugged. "Not really. I suppose we could try some new stuff. Keep things from getting a little boring."

The other four looked each other and shrugged along with him as if to say "All right, then," but Kyle's face didn't falter. It remained locked on him for a few moments before they finally settled on playing.

Despite some mild arguing here and there, the rest of the night's rehearsal had been routine, save for Sam's quietness, which continued to draw concerned looks from Kyle as the night progressed. Finally, after focusing on five new songs to premiere at their next gig, they called it a night. Sam quickly packed his guitar and left the building without saying a word, giving a brief "See ya" in response to Eric's farewell.

"Is he ok?" Adam asked.

Kyle shook his head.

"I don't know, but I'm gonna try and find out."

Sam waved in apology as the driver whom he unknowingly cut off blared his horn. Despite living in the outskirts of downtown Chicago for most of his life, he was still amazed by how easy it was to not pay attention to traffic sometimes. It had started to rain as the orange glow of the sunset took cover behind a thick layer of dark blue clouds.

April showers, right? he thought as he flicked the switch a few times before successfully getting the windshield wipers to activate.

"Hold old is it?" he had asked his mother when she gave it to him for his eighteenth birthday.

"It doesn't matter, honey. It's how well you take care of it."

Oh, Mom. He knew they never had a lot of money. While his mother wasn't a starving artist, doing well enough to pay the bills and keep herself busy in her work, they were far from rich. Although his car's antics annoyed him from time-to-time, he did try not to complain too much. It was both the money issue and his love for music that led him to decide against going to college. Despite doing fairly well throughout school and being accepted into the few universities he had applied to, something within told him that it wasn't worth it. Who needs to pay for college when you can have fun playing with friends? Indeed it had started off fun, but Kyle's opinion from earlier seemed to nag at him increasingly the more he thought about it. Is there really a future for us like this? Something beyond just playing other people's music at countless gigs for forty years?

He drove up to his and Kyle's apartment complex and exited the car. The rain was coming down heavier now as a roll of thunder echoed from the west. The wind beat against his face as he fought against it to open his car door. He hurriedly opened his trunk and pulled his guitar out before running inside.

"Hey Chester," he said to the man behind the desk, who merely glanced up and nodded at his presence.

He pressed the elevator button and the doors opened almost immediately.

Good, he thought. He didn't know why, but tonight had drained him of his energy. He was used to long days given his daytime job as a laborer. It wasn't great, helping to carry heavy objects and driving truckloads of equipment from place to place, but it paid his portion of the bills for the time being. It also helped that Kyle, who had a piloting license and occasionally accepted small jobs for his parents, often offered to let Sam tag along as his co-pilot. It was there that he got to experience the joys of the air firsthand and learn how small planes worked.

As the elevator doors opened on his floor, he walked through the hall. As he approached his door, something odd struck him.

"That's weird," he said out loud. "Usually Brian's got his music up this late. Wonder what he's up to tonight?"

He reached the door to his apartment and began fumbling for the key.

Sammy!

He stopped and turned around, only to find no one there. He looked down the length of the hallway, both ways, and saw no one.

"What the-?"

It was a child's voice. That didn't make sense. He knew no children in this entire building, not to mention that no one except his mother (and later Kyle, thanks to her) ever called him Sammy.

Sammy!

It came again, only this time both louder and more distant. It became clear to him that it must be in his mind. What was going on?

Sammy, help! the voice cried again, more shrill.

"It's ok," Sam said out loud, and then stopped himself. Who was he even talking to? There was no one here. Who was he trying to help?

And then he noticed it. The janitor's closet a few feet away was cracked open slightly. Again, a bit weird, because old man Humphrey always closed and locked it when he wasn't using it after some teenagers broke in and TP'd the entire hallway, giving him some unwanted overtime.

Sam cautiously took a step toward the open door, whispering to himself that it was only a closet. Why worry?

A closet full of darkness, a voice inside him said.

But you're used to the darkness, another answered.

It's not just the darkness, the first retorted. It's what's in there. Dead things, damp air, furry jackets…

Who cares? Why are you so afraid?

Before he knew it, he had his hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly before inching the door open. It was just how he imagined it, a mop bucket with spray bottles and shelves full of paper towels and cleaning supplies. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Suddenly, a firm hand grasped his shoulder. He screamed and turned around, expecting to see two dead eyes towering over him, only to find old man Humphry himself, glaring at him.

"So you're the little punk who's been messing with my equipment."

"N-no," he stammered, as the man's gray eyes narrowed. "I was just-"

"Snooping around. I can have you arrested for this, you know."

"It's ok," a voice from behind him said. He turned to find Kyle standing there. "He's a good kid. His mom said she'd skin him alive and feed him to the opossums if he ever misbehaved."

The old man's eyes narrowed in confusion, and Sam couldn't blame him. That was a new one, but what was so intimidating about an opossum? Well, that was Kyle and his sense of humor. Always trying to lighten the mood, even if what he said didn't exactly make sense.

Finally, the old man grunted. "Just stay outta this closet, you boys hear?"

They nodded and began walking away as the old man began checking for anything missing.

"Thanks for that," Sam said. Kyle held up his hand in acknowledgment.

"I figured you'd need a knight in shining armor," he said, earning a punch in the shoulder from Sam.

"An awkward knight in shining armor," Sam laughed. "Opossum?"

"First thing that came to mind," Kyle shrugged. "I wanted to say wolf, but there aren't that many in this area. Besides, it's not like your mother wouldn't threaten to do it."

"Yeah, whatever, hero," he said, walking back to their apartment door.

"What were you doing anyway, Sam? Snooping around? I thought you hated closets."

"I do," Sam insisted, trying to think of something believable on the spot. "I just saw the door open, and-"

He trailed off, hoping Kyle would accept his story and drop it, but he kept waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, Kyle took the chance.

"Can we talk?"

"About what?" Sam asked, opening their door and letting them both in.

"You know what," Kyle responded coolly. "What happened back there?"

"We just talked about that," Sam said, closing the door irritatedly.

"No, at rehearsal. What happened?"

"I don't know," said Sam. "I guess I'm a little tired."

Kyle stood watching his friend intently, his eyes never looking away. It was a look that Sam wasn't used to from his friend and was quickly growing un-fond of. Kyle's never been the interrogative type.

"Sam, I've seen you tired before when you move slowly with that drunk look in your eyes. This was different. You looked like you'd seen a ghost, or were trying to remember something but couldn't. You just kept staring at the wall. What was that all about?"

Sam said nothing, pondering his answer.

"And then," Kyle continued, not waiting for an answer, "when you finally say something, you just agree with what I said with no arguments. What happened to all your confident and sarcastic comments? Like when I said we should try wearing bright yellow shirts and invest in some lights to attract more attention to our shows and you told me that we should focus more on the music?"

Sam chuckled. While it wasn't necessarily a bad idea, the way Kyle had originally suggested it was a bit stupid. Going through a momentary panic that they weren't doing well enough with their audience size, he'd said that they needed to be more noticeable from miles away if they were playing at night, to which Sam had told him not to worry and that if they really could be seen from that far away, they could attract 747's in for an emergency landing.

"Yeah, I remember," he said.

"So, what's up, then?" Kyle asked.

Sam sighed. "I dunno, man. I just...feel that…"

He trailed off, setting his guitar down on the floor and plopping down onto the sofa, staring up at the ceiling resting his head on the arm. Kyle set his own keyboard case down and sat down in one of the nearby chairs, debating on whether or not to make a therapy joke before deciding to let it go.

"Kyle," said Sam after a few moments of silence, "do you ever wonder about the future?"

Kyle looked bewildered for a quick second, before cracking a smile. "Yeah. How can I forget? Two awkward young men who've never had any luck with the ladies, growing old together with nothing to do but stare out a window arguing about cloud shapes."

Sam snorted. "I'm serious."

"Yeah, I know. Just trying to lighten the mood," Kyle said. "No, I have actually been thinking about that too. You mean with the band?"

"Yeah, with the band," Sam said. "You remember my mom encouraging me to go to college and make something out of my life, right? Something even better than what she had?"

Kyle nodded. "And my parents still want me to take over the business someday, flying planes for lots of rich people."

"And what did we tell them?" Sam asked.

"That we're musicians," Kyle said, holding up his hands in a visualizing manner. "We live to play and sing. It's our destiny, and we want to follow it no matter what."

"Right. Well...do you ever feel like we maybe...made a mistake?"

Kyle said nothing.

"Not about wanting to play in a band, but about giving up our parents' dreams?" Sam continued. "I mean, we've been doing this for months now and we haven't taken off really yet. Sure, we've got a few of our own songs we've worked on but haven't released yet, but aside from that, it's just playing the same old gigs like we always have, like you were saying. You feel like we're pursuing a dead end?"

Their eyes locked and studied each other in silence. It was a bit of a bold move on Sam's part, but Kyle's earlier suggestion had been nagging at him ever since, along with whatever else was going on inside his mind. Despite their best efforts, it still seemed like there was nothing long-term being done. Kyle, being a jazz and R&B enthusiast, had a few of his own works he'd been putting together. Sam also had a few of his own that he'd worked on, one of which was his first attempt at a love song he wrote for a girl he liked when he was fourteen, but when she showed her desire only for the more popular boys, he practically left it behind and forgot about it. After months of playing popular songs in clubs and restaurants, they still had yet to do anything worthwhile with their music. No matter who they played for or what they played, something was still missing.

"Yeah," Kyle said, finally breaking the silence. "I hear you. To be honest, that's why I brought it up today. I'm starting to wonder that myself. It's kind of like we have no real purpose. We're just trying to have fun, but nothing's really happening."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Don't get me wrong, it's fun, but something's missing. I don't know what, but it feels like-"

A loud knocking at their door interrupted him. They both turned toward the door, and the knocking continued. They glanced at each other, both wondering the same thing.

Who is that?

They never got visitors aside from their parents and occasionally one of their bandmates, all of whom had a distinct-sounding knock, and this didn't match anything they'd heard. Curiously, Sam got off the couch and crossed the room, glancing through the peephole before cracking the door open slightly.

Standing in the doorway was a man, dressed in a black jacket and white undershirt with blue jeans. He was tall with gray hair and a commanding look, but a welcoming face embellished by a large smile.

"Good evening," Sam told him. "May I help you?"

"Good evening," the man responded back. "Forgive me for the lateness of the hour, but I'm looking for Sam Anderson."

"That's me," said Sam, and the man's eyes lit up in excitement. "Can I help you?"

"Oh good!" he said, clapping his hands against his thighs, clearly relieved. "I'm sorry. I spoke to your mother Hannah last week, but she seemed a little flustered and wasn't keen on giving me any help. Unfortunately, what I need to talk about is too important, so I figured it would be better to be present for a face-to-face before I tried again."

"And who am I speaking to, exactly?" Sam asked, growing a little concerned.

"Oh, forgive me! It has been a long couple of weeks. Makes sense you're confused, I guess." He gave a small laugh and pulled a badge out of his pocket. "My name is Clay Burke. I'm the chief of police in Hurricane, Utah."

A/N: What do you think of the story so far? Leave a review to let me know!