"Hey, sweet pea," That familiar gravelly voice cooed behind you, the smell of fire smoke and the cologne used to attempt to mask it stinging your nostrils. "Didn't catch you at breakfast. You hungry?"

Standing behind you is Albert Shaw, or as the other counselors called him: Wild Bill. Something about his hair gave him the nickname, not that he ever particularly enjoyed it. In fact, he hated it.

But you... You, he treasured. Something about how tiny you were compared to him, how reserved from the other kids, how alone you seemed like a straggling runty kitten unable to keep up with the rest of its litter, seemed to catch him in the chest. He's had his way with plenty of boys already, none of them alive to tell the tale, but you had him wrapped around your pretty little finger, and you didn't even know it.

The missing kids have been on everyone's minds lately, and he knew exactly how to use it against everyone else. And you? Oh, it was just a perfect excuse to get his hands on you, to touch your pretty hair, rub your back, smell your skin, hold you close... All under the guise of comforting you. Protecting you. And somewhere in his sick and twisted mind, he genuinely believed that.

You were His. Not your parents', not your friends', not anyone else's. His. He'd kill to keep you to himself, and he'd do it with a smile. Anything to keep you close, to keep you near.

His pretty little birdie.