“Thanks,” Cass said.
Swoop passed by, on his way further down the hall. “I’m gonna rack out for a few.”
“Good,” Gamble said, and then a moment later called after him. “Make sure you eat something too.”
“You’re startin’ to sound like Mouse,” Swoop called back.
The remainder of the day was unremarkable for Wren. He and his mother ate some of their rations together in the dining area, on a wobbly steel table with mismatched chairs. Afterwards, he was so tired he just wanted to sleep. Cass helped him get ready for bed, which pretty much amounted to taking off his shoes and spreading his coat out on top of the mattress. Cass said she didn’t want Wren lying directly on that old thing. She kissed him on the forehead and then went and removed some things from her pack, so she wouldn’t wake him later. As Wren watched Cass, he saw her partially withdraw something and look at it for a moment.
She didn’t pull it all the way out of the pack, but he recognized the grip of Three’s pistol. She’d brought it along, even though he knew she didn’t have any ammunition for it. Maybe for her it was like his knife was to him. He didn’t really expect to use it, but he was glad to have it.
Cass glanced up and caught Wren looking at her. She smiled a little sadly and pushed the pistol back down into her pack, and finished whatever it was she had been doing. Then she came over and kissed his cheek again, and then switched off the light in their stall.
Wren wondered briefly if all the other lights and activity would make it hard for him to fall asleep, and that was his last thought before drifting off.
Painter awoke with the distinct feeling that someone had just called his name. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his forehead was covered with a light sweat. He lay still with his eyes open, listening for whoever it was to speak again. The lights were all out. He could hear Mouse on the lower bunk below him, breathing deeply. All else was quiet, still.
But the feeling remained. As if someone had been there, whispering his name right in his ear to wake him. And it almost felt like someone was standing there. When Painter looked around the room he saw nothing unusual. But there was a sense of presence, of someone else, close. It filled him with a creeping dread.
His sleep had been troubled by dark and twisted dreams, though he couldn’t remember any of the details when he tried. Maybe it was just a lingering sensation from those. His subconscious trying to process the unbelievable chaos and pain of the past few days. Painter tried to remind himself that he was safe here, that no matter what was going on outside, he was secure in here. He was with good people, people who were capable of protecting him, and who had even shown their willingness to do so. Even so, the darkness remained, clinging to his mind like an oily shadow.
There was a sudden flutter through Painter’s mind, a black tide of rippling thought. Foreign, incoherent, forced into his brain. He instinctively clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Pressure grew, as if a band had been stretched around his skull and was being gradually drawn tighter, tighter, tighter until it was almost unbearable. Painter gritted his teeth and wanted to scream, but found he couldn’t even draw a breath.
And then just as suddenly as it had come, Painter felt an almost physical pop inside his head, and the pressure evaporated. And in its place was a tiny, quiet thought.
They should fear.
Painter opened his eyes and took his hands from his ears. He found he could breathe again. Everything was the same as it had been just moments before. Even Mouse’s breathing seemed completely undisturbed. And the feeling of a presence in the room was gone. Everything was fine. Except for Painter.
He sat up slowly in the bed, which turned out to be a good thing because his forehead touched the ceiling before he remembered how low it was. The room seemed smaller than it should have. A growing claustrophobia pressed in around Painter, almost to the point of overwhelming him. He slid off the bunk and crept out into the hall, trying to steady his breathing. There just didn’t seem to be enough air.
It would be an easy thing, to sneak out. He could be quiet when he wanted. But he shouldn’t. It might be dangerous. It might draw attention. And who knew how the others would react if they woke and found Painter gone.
Would they care?
Another stray thought that felt like it came from outside himself. But the question lingered in his mind. Would they? Protecting him wasn’t their job. He was just a tag-along. An accidental burden. Maybe it’d be easier for everyone if he just slipped away.
He crept further down the hall towards the staircase with careful footsteps. Past Wren and Cass, past Wick and Finn, past Sky and Gamble. Painter wouldn’t leave them. Not like this. But he needed to get out, out into the night air, where he could breathe and think – and get his mind back clear and under control. The night was drawing him, whether he wanted it to or not.