When they crashed on the Island, Walt found it hard to focus on anything but the Island. There was something about it that rooted him into its presence, pulling his motivations and feelings down in tendrils. To be honest, he'd never thought much about life away from the Island, but alas, he and his father were the first to leave.

Walt would never forget that day. It had been spent primarily in the Others's camp, and the strange black woman had woken him up. "The time is soon," she'd said, looking grave, before leaving him to his thoughts. They're going to kill me, was all he could think, and he remembered the feeling of the wind bursting by his body as he'd sprinted away from the tent.

Before he could make it out of sight into the foliage, a heavy weight crushed his body into the ground, completely immobilizing him. He'd screamed and shouted and clawed for freedom, but when the cool metal of the gun had pressed into his temple, Walt closed his mouth.

He'd been shoved back into the tent and guarded by a tall, bulky man they called Pickett. Walt was fed a few scraps of food but buried them in the dirt in fear of being poisoned. The sky grew dark and blankets of rain fell upon the land, creating a light mist that hovered over the ground. Walt had crawled back into the bundle of blankets, attempting to warm his cold, shivering body.

He slept some time before the uprooting of the tent jerked him awake. The strange woman guided him into the middle of camp, where the bright ball of sun washed away the puddles of water on the rocky ground. The Others began their journey away from the outcrop of land and into the rainforest, eventually stopping at a wooden dock.

Walt couldn't believe his eyes when he noticed the small boat. Was he leaving the island? Is that what the woman had meant before? He hadn't allowed himself much time to think of escape, but now the possibilities seemed so real and so endless.

Picket had roughly gripped Walt's arm and practically dragged him to the boat. "Get inside and stay inside, boy," he'd drawled, pointing to a small crawlspace under the seat. "And don't look until your dad gets on." Walt was frozen in shock and his entire being tingled at the prospect of being reunited with his father. That being said, he grudgingly complied, squishing his body underneath the seat and staying put for at least half an hour.

Eventually, Walt heard voices — familiar voices — and it took everything inside for him not to poke his head up and observe what was happening. He heard the frantic footsteps along the wooden deck and tilted his head to the side, and there his father had been.

Walt had truly never felt so relieved in his entire life. It was like this huge weight had been propped from his shoulders and thrown to the side, because his dad was back. They were reunited, and they would be okay, and—

And the people he'd grown to know on the Island were on their knees in front of the Others's leader, who Walt had recognized as Henry Gale, but that wasn't really his name, was it? To be fair, it didn't matter now, because Michael was leading the boat away from the dock, and Walt saw the terrified and betrayed look in all of the group's eyes as they left.

It was like a blow to the stomach, because they had left. Left their friends to be kidnapped and tortured or possibly even die, just because they wanted to leave the Island. Walt hadn't known what to feel on that day, as the ocean carried salt in the breeze that tinged his tongue. He didn't know what to think when they landed on a populated island, or when they sold the Others's boat, or when they boarded a ship back to New York.

But, most of all, he didn't know how to feel when Michael spilled his secrets.

"I killed them," his father had uttered in the darkness of the ship's cabin, belly-up on the bed as the boat rocked with the choppy waves that splashed up against the sides.

Walt had felt his blood turn to chips of ice, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. "What?"

"I killed them." Michael lifted his torso and sat up in the bed, staring forward toward the closed bedroom door. "I did it for you. You know that, right?"

"K-Killed?" Walt began to shake and pressed himself into the wall, curling his fingers into the hard mattress of the bed. "Dad, what are you talking about? Killed- killed who?"

Michael turned his head toward Walt. "Ana Lucia and Libby. I didn't mean to kill Libby. I didn't. But I had to save you. You understand. It was for you. Everything I did was for you. You have to believe me." The deep-rooted guilt in his voice was unmistakable, but Walt couldn't push the feelings of disgust aside.

He didn't sleep that night.

The morning dapples of light brought New York with them. The sun had been hanging high in the sky before his father awoke, but was promptly covered by a thick sheet of clouds. They waited in the room until the announcements signaled their arrival, and pushed on their jackets for the cold wind over the sea. Walt followed his father outside and off of the ship, to the streets, and into a cab. He was shaking.

"We're going to your grandma's," Michael had said next to Walt in the back of the yellow cab. "Hope that's okay with you for now, little man."

It was. Really, anything to get away from his father was alright. Walt didn't respond, which made Michael lose his temper, but he found he didn't care much for his dad's dramatics. I didn't kill two people. The thought alone made him sick.

They slept in a run-down motel for the night and resumed their state-wide road-tripping across New York. Cooperstown came faster than Walt had anticipated, which was good. He had to tell his grandmother everything — maybe then he'd be safe, away from his father.

"Walt." Michael pursed his lips as he looked out the window. "Look, little man." He quieted his voice and ducked his head back toward his son. "We're gonna have to lie."

"Lie?" Walt had echoed stupidly. But... why?

"Yeah." His father frowned. "You know— new names, probably. I'm sorry, buddy. No one can know where we came from. They can't know what I did on the island, even if it was for you. For us."

Michael set his hand on his son's shoulder. Walt jerked back and pressed himself into the corner of the cab, shaking his head. "Don't touch me," he whispered.

"What?"

Walt met Michael's soft, broken expression with a cold and steely one. "You k-" He looked up at the driver and at the thick window between them, effectively blocking out noise from either side. "You did something bad, Dad. How... I... I don't even want to be around you anymore."

"Walt- look, wait, listen—" Michael scrambled for words. "Come on, it- I told you, it was for you. I'm not a bad person. Don't you know that? Huh?"

"You are a bad person." Walt set his jaw and glared at his father before turning his head away. "I'm telling Grandma everything. You'll go to jail!"

Walt could feel Michael's shock practically radiating off of his body. He screwed his eyes shut and leaned his head against the window, hoping that his father wouldn't say anything else.

Unfortunately, he did. "Walt.." His voice had been low and raspy and almost angry. "I did it for you. Please, man- you can't tell anyone."

"I can, and I will." He pushed his teeth and ground them together, promising himself that he would report Michael. He would report his dad, maybe to Grandma first, then they could move on from there. What else could he do? Let his father get away with his crimes?

The rest of the trip was quiet. They made it to Cooperstown, winding through the bustling streets, before stopping in front of a small and dainty brown-decked house. Walt stirred from his sleep and wiped his eyes, looking at the house.

Michael wasn't looking at him. "I brought you here when you were a baby," he'd whispered.

Walt frowned. There was a sudden compulsion to keep everything a secret - like the Island was telling him something. The trickle of a silent whisper in his ear, the twisting of his stomach....

"Let's go," Walt breathed. He opened the door of the cab and slipped out, stretching as his feet hit the asphalt ground. A pale orange sky spread across the horizon, pink and yellow fingers streaking out toward the clouds. Walt looked on for a moment before Michael hesitantly called out to him after paying the cab driver.

"Look..." Walt tensed when Michael dropped his hand on his shoulder, face a mix between terrified and determined. "If... if you want to tell Grandma, or the police, then I understand." Walt nearly reeled back from shock. "I.. I deserve it. Maybe you should just do it."

Walt didn't have an answer to that. He stared at his father, mind rumbling with thoughts and ideas and grievances – how was he supposed to turn his father in? Maybe.... even if it had been a terrible thing... it had been for a good reason?

He hadn't had have much time to dwell. Michael had led them to the front door of the house, knocked, and waited. Grandma had opened it, words already flying – "I don't want anything you're selling" – then promptly shut her mouth. She'd looked between both of them like a deer caught in headlights then cried out, tightly embracing the two.

Walt had been sent up to the front upstairs bedroom. It was a small room, but could fit his belongings and had a bed, so. He'd flopped on the mattress and stared out at the sky, tuning out the conversation between Michael and Grandma. The comforting blanket of sleep soon overtook him, pulling him down into darkness.

He was awoken by the shaking of his shoulder. Grandma peered down at him and smiled softly, sitting next to him on the bed. "Hi, baby," she whispered, pressing him close into her side. Walt had grudgingly complied to the touch and blinked in confusion. Grandma noticed and hesitated. "Your daddy... he, uh... he said you didn't want him here. He left."

It felt like a spectacular weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Walt puffed out a breath of air and felt his hands begin to shake. Grandma eyed him carefully. "Baby," she murmured, "what... what did he do? Can you tell me?"

Walt didn't respond. He held his head in his hands and slowly inched away from her, but was pulled back by her free hand. He sighed and looked away. Even if he did want to say anything, which he didn't anymore, Walt wasn't sure he could've formulated the words or even gotten them past his teeth.

"Well..." Grandma shuffled awkwardly from the silence. "He said you guys were in some kind of plane crash." Walt stiffened. "Landed on some island in Asia or somethin'... I don't know what happened to you two, but whatever it is, I'm here now."

He closed his eyes and exhaled, curling his knees into his chest. "Thanks, Grandma."

Three weeks later, Walt started school.

It hadn't been so bad at first. Of course, it's not like he wanted to go to school, but he knew he'd be able to adapt nonetheless. Still. Spending all of those days on the island had changed him, and he'd grown quite comfortable with the still silence.

School was the exact opposite.

Maybe it had been the town, or the people, or maybe even the neighborhood, but Walt was growing tired. His first day had consisted of the usual, which was being ignored, but Walt found he didn't mind much. He did his work — at least, everything he had the motivation to do — and listened to the teachers when they told him what to do.

His peers were different. Walt had assumed that 7th grade would be easy and calm but that simply wasn't the case. It might've been the fact that this was the first year of middle school, or maybe because other children his age were idiots.

Nonetheless, Walt found himself drifting further and further away from any sort of social contact. He'd never made any sort of conversation with anyone — hardly even his grandmother — and people avoided him for that.

Walt had his first nightmare approximately one week after 7th grade started. It had about the Island, he remembered. He'd been walking through the jungle, barefoot, rain sleeting down on the rainforest, splashing water on thick and drooping leaves. He heard whispers, the kinds of whispers that he'd always heard while alone on the Island. Unintelligible, but they were there.

He would take a dark path through the forest and see John Locke there, one eye black and one eye white. He'd silently motion for Walt to follow, ducking inside of a low cave and crawling through. Walt would follow, but take a wrong turn and end up in a huge, glowing cavern. When he turned around, a polar bear would leap out for him, blood staining its muzzle.

It would have black and white eyes, too.

Grandma came and comforted him every time he woke up screaming in the night. He'd shiver against her chest and sob into her shoulder, mumbling apologies and explanations for the things he'd seen. Grandma would simply stroke his hair and tell him that everything would be alright. Sometimes, he slept in bed with her because it felt safer.

Then, the nightmares trickled into reality for the first time. He'd been walking through the hallway, on the way to science, when he'd seen Charlie out of the corner of his eye. "Hey," Charlie had said through the sea of people, lifting a hand and raising it. His voice echoed through the corridor, and it was the only thing he could hear.

Walt ran as fast as his legs could take him. He threw himself out of the front doors and found a tree to sit under, clouded sky providing a quiet comfort to him. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed, shoulders sagging, because everything hurt.

Seeing Charlie like that made Walt think he was crazy. Like, maybe he was only brought to the Island because that's the only place he'd ever fit in. Here? Back in the real world? He hated it.

Walt shivered in his bundle of clothes and screamed, kicking the ground and turning to smash his fists into the tree. The rough bark cut away at his skin, tearing open his knuckles as he smashed into it, over and over and over again. He staggered to his feet and kicked the tree with all of his might, memories fleeting behind his eyes as he did so. Vincent, the beach, Locke, the polar bear, the tree he'd hidden inside, the raft, the kidnapping, staying with the Others, going to the dock...

He didn't realize someone had pulled him back until he kicked dead air. Walt cried out and his reflexes acted before his mind could, arms flailing wildly. The Others! They're taking me again! I have to get away! No! Stop! Walt didn't even know he was speaking out loud.

"No one's gonna hurt you," a soft feminine voice said, a hand clutching his shoulder. Walt froze against the touch, tears trickling out of his eyes. He sobbed and sunk to the ground, legs splaying out beneath him. There was clear hesitation before the other person bent down. "Are you okay?"

Walt shook his head.

"Okay." His eyes were closed, but he could hear someone sit down beside him, the ruffling of the grass tickling his ears. "Do you want to talk to me about it?" A pause. "That looks like it hurts."

Walt slowly cracked open his eyes and looked down at his bleeding knuckles, trickles of blood dripping down his palms. Boone, Shannon, Libby, Ana Lucia... He yelped and jumped back, desperately trying to make the memories stop. He didn't want them anymore. He didn't!

"Hey. Hey. It's okay — I'm not gonna hurt you." Walt found small comfort in the voice and felt a deep familiarity in his chest.

He paused, breathing shakily. "I..." Walt rubbed his face, making sure he didn't look at anything but the darkness behind his eyelids. "I'm just remembering stuff I don't want to."

"I understand what that feels like." The woman shifted slightly but stayed in her spot a few feet away from Walt. "Maybe if you tell me about the memories, we can work something out together."

Walt shook his head quickly. "My dad said I can't tell anyone," he mumbled.

"Your dad?"

A slow nod.

"Honey, your dad is just trying to protect you."

Walt's blood ran cold, trickles of ice filtering through his veins. "Wh- what?" He lifted his gaze to the woman and reeled back in shock, breath growing heavier.

It was his mother.

"No!" he screamed, staggering to his feet and stumbling away. "Get away from me!"

"Walt." He began to run, ignoring the voice, and fled from the campus. He could feel his legs growing tired, breath burning in the back of his throat, but he didn't care. Why was he seeing people from the Island? Dead people? His Mom?

He must've run at least a mile before he collapsed in the middle of the sidewalk. Walt puffed out a raspy breath and rolled on his side, the blades of grass crunching under his weight. He curled in on himself and cried again. Why was this happening to him? Why were these people showing up? And what was with the nightmares? He knew it all had to be connected somehow, but.... he couldn't think of the how.

A hand touched his shoulder and Walt cried out, instinctively jerking back. He backed away on his bleeding palms and shielded his face. "Get away!" he screamed. "Go! You're dead! I don't want to talk to you!"

"Son—" A rough, grated male voice halted Walt in his tracks. That didn't sound like anyone he knew. He shivered but gained the courage to open his eyes, peering up with wide eyes at an older man, gray hair flopping over his head. He eyed Walt with worried blue eyes. "You lost or somethin'?"

Lost... Walt almost laughed. He wasn't lost, not anymore. He probably never would be again, as long as he was away from the Island.

"Kid." The man bent down. "You gotta talk to me. I can give you a ride home, if you want."

"Just..." Walt shook his head slowly. "To- to school. Please." He noticed the older man's gaze flick down to Walt's bloody hands. "It's.." He tucked his hands close to his chest. It didn't even matter. His fists hardly hurt.

"Better see a doctor, then," the man sighed, standing up tall and offering a hand. Walt ignored the help and lifted himself to his feet on his own, swaying slightly from dizziness. His whole mouth was dry and it felt like he'd licked a pile of sand. His throat and chest burned with a throbbing ache, and he suddenly realized how thirsty he was.

Ignoring his discomfort, Walt followed the man and slipped into the passenger seat of the small white car, resting his head on the comfortable seat. The man closed his own door and started the engine, frowning. "Where's your school, kid?"

Walt muttered the name without thought. The man's eyes widened slightly. "That's twenty minutes away." Walt froze. Twenty minutes? How long had he been running? What time was it? He didn't even know now. He returned a soft shrug and turned his head to look out the window. Whatever. None of it mattered, anyway.

The man hesitated before pulling the car forward, following the street. Lush, green trees flashed by Walt's vision. He saw a flash of something and then he was back there, tendrils of vines hanging from the jungle leaves, claw marks in the wet dirt from the polar bear, scratched bark that curled awkwardly, and then the endless sand of the beach.

"Kid?"

Walt snapped out of his trance and slowly turned to the man. "Y-yeah?" he was able to stutter out.

The guy looked pretty concerned, eyes flicking from Walt's hands to his eyes to the road then back. "What were you doing so far from school, anyway?"

"Ran," he mumbled.

"You ran? Why?" He slowed the gas, as if something horrible was suddenly about to happen.

Walt shrugged. "Saw my mom."

The man made a face. "Your mom?" He chuckled. "What, do you not like her or something?"

He furrowed his brows and met the older man's gaze. "She's dead."

Nothing but silence echoed in Walt's ears for the rest of the ride. When they made it back to the school, the man hopped out of the car with him. "I'll take you inside," he offered. Walt shrugged, not caring all that much.

The two walked through the front doors and the woman at the desk looked up, smiling. "Hello," she greeted. "What can I do for you today?"

"Oh, um." The man scratched the back of his head. "I found this kid twenty minutes away, he wanted to be brought back here. He's bleeding, uh—" He waved his hand. "Is there a principal or anything I could speak to?"

The woman's eyes widened significantly. "Oh my, of course." She dialed a number into the phone and, before he knew it, Walt was being led out of the office by a nurse. He spotted one of the assistant principals shaking the man's hand, but his view was blocked by the wall as they walked through the hallway.

The nurse sat him down in her empty office and frowned, checking his knuckles. She ran a finger down his hand and he trembled. "Does that hurt?"

Walt nodded.

"Okay, here." The nurse— Mrs. Pinkman, he remembered her name as— slid out of her rolling chair and opened the freezer, wrapping an ice pack in a few paper towels. She returned to Walt's side and pressed them to his knuckles. "It may sting just because it's so cold, but you don't have to worry. That pain will stop in no time."

The pain wasn't terrible. He was pretty sure his heart felt heavier most of the time, anyway. When Walt didn't give a response, the nurse frowned and grudgingly sat back down at her desk. After a few minutes of quiet, the phone rang. Mrs. Pinkman answered it and paused before stepping out of the office, leaving the telephone behind. Walt wondered what was going on.

Eventually, the same assistant principal Walt had seen earlier stepped into the room, looking serious. "Walt, please come with me," he said.

Something was definitely going on. For a moment, Walt wondered if his father had come back, or if something terrible had happened to his grandmother. The thought made him sick. Please, no. He was led through a maze of hallways and stopped at the principal's office. Inside was the counselor and Mrs. Pinkman.

"Come in." The principal sat down at his desk and swept his hand to the open chair to the right of the room. Walt hesitantly sat down, leg shaking up and down. He was uncomfortable and just wanted them to get their point across — what had happened? "You may know me as Mr. Sanders, but if not, then I'm one of the lead assistant principals at Harbor High. This wonderful lady—" He motioned toward the counselor— "Is Mrs. Bell. And you know Mrs. Pinkman, our nurse."

Walt felt like he was folding in on himself and only nodded in response, unsure of what to say.

Mr. Sanders continued. "We aren't angry or upset, but we want to know why you left school in the middle of a passing period. Would you mind telling us?"

It felt like his throat was closing. Tell them? How could he? Besides, his father had specifically said to never tell anyone about the Island, or his experiences, or the weird things that sometimes happened around him.... Still... he'd told that man about his mother, hadn't he? Maybe they could be trusted. Maybe they could help him. "I-" His voice fell flat for a moment. "I saw my mom."

Mrs. Bell nodded, taking the stage. "The man that brought you here told us that, too. However, we looked into your file, and it shows that your mother passed away a few months ago."

Walt hesitated. "Yeah," he mumbled, "sometimes I see people, I guess."

The counselor's brows raised slightly. "See people? Like who?"

"People I knew on—" He stopped speaking and shook his head. "People I knew. I think they're dead now, though." Walt hadn't forgotten Charlie, and wondered if anyone else would be stopping by.

"Why do you think that?" Mr. Sanders asked.

"It's happened a few times. I mean, I saw my mom, and she's dead. I used to see people right before they died, sometimes in my dreams, or in real life." Walt gulped and wrung his hands together. "I was walking to silence and saw Charlie."

"Who's Charlie?"

"He was someone I knew a while ago. I guess that means he's dead now, too."

The three adults exchanged glances. "Okay," Mr. Sanders said, "so you saw Charlie in the hallway, then you saw your mom?"

"Yeah." He looked down at his hands, where he was still pressing the freezing ice pack on his knuckles. "I started punching the tree outside. Someone pulled me back and said it was gonna be okay. That no one would hurt me. When I looked up it was my mom so I ran."

Mrs. Pinkman sighed. "You may have seen that in a movie or a show, but wounding your hands is not a good idea, especially at such a young age. You could permanently injure yourself."

Yeah. Whatever. Walt crossed his arms and looked away.

Mrs. Bell leaned forward. "We've already contacted your grandmother — she'll be down here to pick you up soon."

Walt looked at the counselor in surprise. "I'm going home?"

"Yes. We can't risk you running away again, and we think it's best if you rest for a while."

"Oh." He felt something like dread crawl in his chest. "Am I suspended?"

"No." Mrs. Bell quickly shook her head. "Nothing like that. See it as a short medical leave. We want your hands to heal, and we want you to feel better when you return. Your grandmother will explain more, I imagine."

"Okay..." He sunk into his chair and the adults began having a conversation about something he didn't really care about.

The telephone eventually rung and Mr. Sanders answered it, standing up soon after. "Your grandmother is here. Let's go." Walt followed him into the office, where she was waiting for him with a worried look on her face. She signed him out and they walked out of the school and hopped into the car.

They said nothing to each other for a while. Grandma finally cleared her throat and looked over slowly. "Hey, baby," she said. "Want to talk to me about what happened?"

Walt shook his head.

"All right." She frowned and returned to gazing down the road. "Tomorrow you won't be going to school. You have a..." Grandma paused, trying to form her words. "You have a doctor's appointment of sorts. You'll do a test, but it's easy. Just yes or no answers."

Walt said nothing, but thought, Okay.

Everything changed from there.