He shook his head and went inside to make lunch. Buried the memory of his family back deep inside him, alongside his name: Peter Shaughnessy, a name no one living now knew and the last connection he had, aside from an old pocket watch, to his family and the place where he’d been born and raised and cursed.
And the groundskeeper now owns chicken.
One of Samira's drawings still sat on the kitchen table, a monstrosity of pencil, blue and black pen, and various shades of highlighter because that was what Sayid had had in his pencil case for her to draw with. It was, as best he could tell, a drawing of the kitchen. There was the door in the corner. There was the sink, with its window and curtain. There was the table, with a smiling stick-figure Samira and a frowning stick-figure Sayid sitting at it and a stick-figure Peter standing nearby.
A hoarse chuckle escaped him. He swallowed back a sudden lump in his throat.
Then he stuck the picture on the icebox.
He should've realized then how much danger he was in.
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