Darcy stood in the hospital restroom, hands placed on either side of the porcelain sink. His reflection stared back at him, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Earlier, he had felt like the world was closing in on him.
Before he called Micah, he had been completely lost. Not the kind that just made your chest tight, but the kind that made you feel hollow and raw all over.
He didn't want to be someone who needed saving. He hated the thought of being someone people had to worry about, or someone they pitied. And worse, he didn't want anyone to feel confined to helping him, like they were trapped in his mess.
And even if he had wanted to ask for help, there was no one. No close relatives, no real friends, not even neighbours.
Even that old man from their block, the one with the crooked nose and the permanent scowl, was out of the question. He used to be some kind of thug, always bragging about his past. That man's idea of helping would have been to beat Silas to a pulp.
