Taken.
There was a rare moment in the mind of the middle LaVelle as he allowed his fingers to play over the sleek metal at the bus stop. Taking the bus was something Francis did often; he enjoyed the fact that it saved energy and time, and he wasn't the poorest fellow in the world. Slung over one shoulder was a backpack, tucked away with beaten notebooks, journals and binders filled with stories of all sorts. In another pocket was housed pens and pencils of all sorts, of all different shapes, sizes and widths. Some were never touched, others were on their final days; all of which were housed in little bags so the ink wouldn't spill, should anything happen. He stood, slightly leaned against one of the poles that kept the cooler air of the falling day out of the waiting area, his phone clicking away through his to do schedule. He had a rather productive meeting earlier with the publisher who knew that he truly was "Anton Small," a name that Francis held with dignity. He was barely aware of the people coming and going. He still had a while -- maybe thirty or so minutes -- until the one he wanted came through to get on. He was on the opposite end of Achenar, instead of the little suburb that held his home. The house was cosy, and he had fond memories of Quentin helping him get it, and he wanted to make it a safe haven when he first bought it. That was a long time ago, before Junior went crazy and the three LaVelle brothers had separated. He had kept in contact with Quentin, although quite recently the letters had stopped coming, and Francis had realized that he probably didn't mean anything to them. He was always the one who felt secluded; it was no amazement that this changed it. The middle LaVelle sighed as he finally tucked away the phone from his hands and into a pocket of his jacket, set on vibrate for a call he never received. He gave a sigh. There were so many messages on Quin's phone, and none of them ever returned. Life was looking a bit grim as each day went on, but then again, who was Francis kidding? He gave a sigh, shuffling his feet a little as a few more people slipped into the waiting area for the bus, and Francis' mind wandered into his next story. The next novel was going to be about the youngest boy in his series, who grows up finding out a secret and being able to talk to spirits through the older brothers. He scratched his neck, feeling a little weird about the idea, and shook his head. No reason to have that, he figured. He allowed his eyes to dance over a figure that he felt he knew, one who had just entered, allowing plenty of cool air to slip through the doorway and brush past fabric of everyone's clothes. It was such a weird feeling, he told himself, and shook his head. How could he really know anybody here? Suddenly, a half hour felt like a much longer time.