Midnight by Dean R. Koontz

But then the boy began to curse Sam in more explicit and colorful terms than he had used previously. Sam only hugged him harder, closer, and now Sam began to tell him that he loved him, desperately loved him, told him not the way that he had told him he loved him on the telephone when he had called him from Moonlight Cove on Monday night, not with any degree of reservation occasioned by his own sense of hopelessness, because he had no sense of hopelessness any more. This time, when he told Scott that he loved him, he spoke in a voice cracking with emotion, told him again and again, demanded that his love be heard.

Scott was crying now, and Sam was not surprised to find that he was crying, too, but he didn’t think they were crying for the same reason yet, because the boy was still struggling to get away, his energy depleted, but still struggling. So Sam held on to him and talked to him: “Listen, kid, you’re going to care about me, one way or the other, sooner or later. Oh, yes. You’re going to know that I care about you, and then you’re going to care about me, and not just me, no, you’re going to care about yourself, too, and it’s not going to stop there, either, hell, no, you’re going to find out you can care about a lot of people, that it feels good to care. You’re going to care about that woman standing there in the doorway, and you’re going to care about that little girl, you’re going to care about her like you’d care about a sister, you’re going to learn, you’re going to get the damn machine out of you and learn to be loved and to love. There’s a guy going to come visit us, a guy who’s got one good hand and no good legs, and he believes life is worth living. Maybe he’s going to stay a while, see how he likes it, see how he feels about it, ’cause maybe he can show you what I was too slow to show you—that it’s good, life’s good. And this guy’s got a dog, what a dog, you’re going to love that dog, probably the dog first.” Sam laughed and held fast to Scott. “You can’t say ‘Get outta my face’ to a dog and expect him to listen or care, he won’t get out of your face, so you’ll have to love him first. But then you’ll get around to loving me, because that’s what I’m going to be—a dog, just a smiling old dog, padding around the place, hanging on, impervious to insult, an old dog.”

Scott had stopped struggling. He was probably just exhausted. Sam was sure that he had not really gotten through the boy’s rage. Hadn’t more than scratched the surface. Sam had let an evil into their lives, the evil of self-indulgent despair, which he transmitted to the boy, and now rooting it out would be a hard job. They had a long way to go, months of struggle, maybe even years, lots of hugging, lots of holding on tight and not letting go.

Looking over Scott’s shoulder, he saw that Tessa and Chrissie had stepped into the room. They were crying too. In their eyes he saw an awareness that matched his, a recognition that the battle for Scott had only begun.

But it had begun. That was the wonderful thing. It had begun.