An Accidental Hero
Copyright© 2026 by A Kiwi Guy
Chapter 2
For a long time after the rescue, life went on in the way it always had. Corey kept walking the town in the evenings. He still slept at his grandmother’s place more often than not, though some nights he didn’t come home until morning. Notices faded from shop windows. The story slipped off the front page and into the small-town archive of things people remembered vaguely but no longer talked about.
Corey was grateful for that. He didn’t want to be found. Not because he was frightened, exactly, but because being known felt like being pinned in place. He preferred to stay slightly out of reach.
Months passed. Summer gave way to autumn, and then winter. It was Petra who remembered first.
She was walking with her father through town one Saturday morning, carrying a bag of books from the library. The street was busy enough to make her drift a little behind him. She glanced across the road — and stopped. The boy coming towards them had his head down, hands in his pockets, jacket zipped up against the cold. There was nothing remarkable about him. But as he passed, something flickered. Water. Sand. Arms around her chest. A voice close to her ear. Petra turned sharply.
“That’s him,” she said, suddenly certain. “Dad. That’s him.”
Aaron Somers looked where she was pointing, then back at his daughter. “Who?”
“The boy. The one who pulled me out.”
Corey had already gone past. Aaron hesitated only a moment before calling out. “Son?”
Corey stopped. He turned slowly, already uneasy. When he saw Petra, recognition passed between them — hers sharp and startled, his muted but immediate.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s you.”
The conversation that followed was awkward. Aaron kept thanking him. Petra kept looking at him as if trying to match memory to reality. Corey answered questions briefly, careful not to offer anything more than he had to. It might have ended there, with a handshake and more thanks, but Aaron asked one simple question that changed everything.
“Where are you living?”
Corey hesitated.
“With my gran,” he said finally. It was true enough.
Aaron looked at him for a long moment. “And school?”
Corey shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Aaron didn’t say anything else then. But he asked Corey to come by the house later that week. Just to talk. Corey didn’t want to go. He went anyway.
The Somers’ house was warm and orderly in a way that felt unfamiliar. There were photos on the walls — holidays, birthdays, Petra growing taller year by year. Rosemary Somers met him at the door. She was smaller than Aaron, with a quiet steadiness about her, and she smiled as if she’d been expecting him.
“You must be Corey,” she said. “Come in. You’ll want a cuppa.”
If Aaron tended to stand squarely in the world, Rosemary moved through it at a slight angle. Aaron did what was right because it was right; Rosemary did the same thing, but usually found a gentler way to get there. Corey noticed it without quite knowing how.
They talked. Corey found himself saying more than he meant to. Not because Aaron pushed, but because Rosemary listened — properly listened — and because Aaron didn’t interrupt her when she did. When Corey mentioned his grandmother, Rosemary nodded and asked how she was managing. When he spoke about school, Aaron asked practical questions and Rosemary softened the edges of them.
At the end of it, Aaron said, “You can stay here, if you want. No pressure. Just an offer.”
Corey felt the old instinct rise up — the need to refuse, to keep moving. “What would I owe you?” he asked.
Aaron frowned. “Nothing,” he said. “You don’t owe us anything.”
Rosemary added, gently, “We’d just like you to have somewhere you don’t have to keep watching the door.”
Aaron nodded, but later that evening Corey heard their voices low in the kitchen. Not angry — just firm.
“He needs structure,” Aaron said.
“He needs kindness first,” Rosemary replied. “The rest can come after.”
There was a pause, then the clink of cups being put away. When Aaron spoke again, his voice had softened.
“We’ll do both.”
Corey wasn’t sure he believed either of them. Still, he moved in. Not all at once. At first it was a few nights a week. Then more. Rosemary made space for him quietly — fresh towels, a lamp by the bed, his name written in neat handwriting on a hook in the laundry. She never made a fuss when he stayed out late, only asked if he’d eaten.
Aaron laid down rules. Fair ones, Corey thought. Times, expectations, school. Petra pushed against them in the way she always had. She had a stubborn streak that irritated her father and amused her mother in equal measure. It was the same streak that had taken her into the water alone that evening, and it hadn’t vanished just because she’d nearly drowned.
School followed. It wasn’t easy. Corey was behind, and he knew it. But having someone expect him to turn up made a difference. Teachers noticed him again. Some helped. Some didn’t. Corey learned to take what was offered and leave the rest.
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