AN: Just a warning, some themes in this chapter might trigger some people.
Lance crossed the cramped space, crouching beside an old footlocker wedged under a utility pipe. He popped it open with a quiet click, rummaging past a folded tarp and a rusted mess kit until his hand found a small leather satchel.
He tossed it to me. "You'll want to read those before you get too cozy with Kedge."
I caught it and unbuckled the strap. Inside were weathered envelopes and crumpled papers — some handwritten, others typed on yellowed NCR forms. A few were crisp and clearly forged, the ink smelling faintly of the solvent Lance must've used. Others… they were real. And ugly.
NCR incident reports. Caravan manifests with cargo numbers that didn't add up. Two witness statements placing Kedge at meetings with Mojave raider bands — one even claiming they saw him trading crates marked with Skinner's seal for caps and weapons. Another bundle of papers detailed stolen chem shipments, with quantities "misplaced" from Skinner's stash and reappearing in the hands of rival convict gangs.
A hand-scribbled note on scrap parchment caught my eye: "Kedge moved two cases last week without telling Skinner. NCR boys turned a blind eye… same as always. If Skinner finds out, I'm not stepping in this time — R."
"Some of those are real," Lance said, leaning against the wall. "Others… well, if you squint and don't ask too many questions, they look real enough. The trick is to let Skinner draw his own conclusion. The more he thinks he figured it out himself, the more he'll cling to the lie."
I flipped through the pile, my mind already piecing together how to slip this into the right ears. "And how do you suggest I do that?"
Lance smirked faintly. "Kedge runs his mouth when he drinks. Get him talking in the wrong place to the wrong people… then just let the papers 'surface.' Skinner's paranoia will do the rest."
I tucked the satchel into my coat. "Alright. I'll make sure this falls into the right hands."
I set the papers down gently, letting the weight of them settle in my mind. Without a word, I lifted my left arm and tapped a sequence on my Pip-Boy's worn brass keys. The device emitted a faint chirp, and a pale green shimmer rippled in the air between us. In the space of a heartbeat, the shimmer condensed into sealed tins and vacuum-packed meals — salvaged from the ghoul-infested basement of the Bison Steve, now fully re-atomized and ready to eat.
Lance's eyes locked onto the device, his expression tightening — not in fear, but in something sharper, almost calculating. Marla, on the other hand, simply stared, mouth slightly open, her gaze flicking between the supplies and the Pip-Boy like she'd just watched a magician pull food from thin air.
"Here," I said, placing the supplies on the workbench beside her. "Won't spoil, and it's cleaner than what you'd find in most of the Mojave. Might even taste like food if you close your eyes."
Marla blinked herself back to reality, giving a quiet, grateful nod. Lance hesitated before picking one up, turning it over as though testing its weight, his eyes still flicking back toward my arm.
"You've already done more than I expected," he said.
"You've got a family to think about," I replied. "That's worth keeping alive."
I stepped back toward the hatch, glancing once more at the cramped little corner they called home. The faint smell of oil, the low hum of the old generators, the soft breathing of the child — all of it felt a world away from the chaos above.
"Take care of her… both of them," I said finally.
Lance gave a silent nod. Marla smiled faintly, almost sadly.
I closed the hatch behind me and let the shadows of the Bison Steve swallow me up again.
The Bison Steve's cafeteria reeked of stale booze and desperation. Light slanted in through broken blinds, catching on dust motes that drifted like lazy flies. I let my eyes roam over the scattered tables, looking for a face that fit the description Lance's papers had painted — opportunist's smirk, trouble in the eyes, and the sort of carelessness that comes when a man thinks he's untouchable.
Near the back, half in shadow, a figure slouched deep in his chair, a bottle of something brown dangling from loose fingers. He swayed slightly even while sitting, head drooping forward and then jerking back up as if refusing to fall asleep in front of an audience. The others gave him a wide berth, like he was a bad smell that had paid its rent.
I watched him lift the bottle and slosh a mouthful down without swallowing right away, rolling it in his cheeks before gulping. The papers had said Kedge liked to drink himself stupid between jobs. This man was already halfway there.
I stepped closer, boots tapping on tile. His eyes lifted — bloodshot, watery — and tried to focus on me.
"You Kedge?" I asked evenly.
His mouth twisted into something between a grin and a sneer. "Depends who's askin'," he slurred. "You a tax collector? Nah… too pretty for that. You a bounty hunter? Too stupid-lookin' for that."
I said nothing, watching him raise the bottle again.
He laughed under his breath, eyes crawling over me. "Talk to me, huh? What's your name, pretty boy? Casey? You look like a Casey. All clean 'n polished like you been livin' in a vault. Can't wait to see the Mojave chew you up 'n spit you out, Casey."
The drunks nearby chuckled in that tight, uncertain way that said they'd laugh harder if he told them to.
I didn't move, letting him keep talking. The more he spoke, the more he gave away.
I kept my hands loose at my sides, letting the silence stretch.
Kedge took it as an opening. His bleary eyes narrowed, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile. "So you're the new runt Skinner dragged in," he slurred, giving me a slow up-and-down. "Figures. Pretty face, clean coat… don't look like you've had to eat dirt or bleed for a bed in your life."
I didn't respond, just watched him over the rim of my gaze.
"Skinner's gettin' soft," Kedge went on, leaning forward until I could smell the liquor clinging to him. "Used to be he'd only bring in men who could gut you for a crust of bread. Now he's lettin' in runts like you. Guess he needs someone to shine his boots."
The chuckles from nearby tables pricked at the back of my neck.
He jabbed a finger toward my chest. "You won't last a week. First good job we pull, I'll bet caps you freeze, piss yourself, or both. And when that happens…" His smile widened, showing stained teeth. "…I'll be there to take whatever you drop."
He leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "So what's it gonna be, runt? You here to prove you're worth the trouble, or just to make Skinner's crew look weaker than it already is?"
Inside, I'd heard enough. Lance's documents had been right — Kedge was loud, careless, and dangerous in all the wrong ways.
I let his words hang in the air a moment before answering, keeping my tone flat. "Funny. For a man who talks so much about 'gutting' people, you smell more like rotgut than blood."
Kedge's smirk faltered. A couple of the men at nearby tables snorted under their breath.
I leaned in just slightly, my voice low enough for him to feel the weight of it. "Maybe that's why Skinner keeps you around — not for the muscle, but because you're too drunk to remember where you stash what you steal from him."
His eyes sharpened at that, the liquor haze parting just enough for anger to spark. "Careful, runt," he said, voice hitching into a growl. "You don't know who you're talking to. I've been in this game longer than you've been breathing. I've run chems past NCR patrols, sold 'em to convicts Skinner wouldn't even spit on, and still had enough left to line my own pockets. Nobody catches me."
That last bit hung in the air a little too long, a little too loud. A few heads turned his way.
I smiled faintly, just enough to make it clear I'd heard what I needed. "Sure, Kedge. Whatever you say."
didn't press further. Just let the silence sit between us, let him stew in his own liquor fumes. Then, without another word, I reached into my pocket and placed a single cap on the table in front of him.
"For the next drink," I said, tone light, almost casual. "You'll need it."
Kedge frowned at the gesture, suspicious, but the greed in his eyes won over. He snatched the cap up, muttering something under his breath as I turned to leave.
By the time I stepped back into the hallway, I'd already filed away every word he'd just spilled — and the sloppiness that might make him the perfect scapegoat.
No point in waiting. Hayes and his boys were already winding up their march, and the caravan bait was almost in place. Every second I let Kedge breathe was another second Skinner's plans — and mine — risked unraveling.
I took the stairs up and found Slice planted outside the door to Skinner's so-called "penthouse."
"Can't go in," Slice said without moving. "Boss is… entertaining. And he made it real clear — no one interrupts."
"Entertaining, huh?" I let the word hang there, then smirked. "Guess the penthouse comes with amenities."
Slice's eyes hardened. "Not the kind you walk in on unless you're looking to get your throat opened."
From behind the door came the faint, rhythmic sounds of Skinner's "business," confirming Slice wasn't exaggerating.
I'd already done the legwork. Kedge's neck was as good as broken — all it needed was Skinner's nod. But barging in now, in the middle of his "business," wasn't going to get me anywhere except maybe gutted. Morning would do just fine.
Back in my room, I pulled a chipped glass plate from the corner shelf and looped some scavenged wire through a crack near the rim. The other end I tied to the door latch, taut enough that any careless hand opening it would send the plate clattering to the floor. Not perfect, but in a place like this, even the sound of breaking glass was enough to wake the dead — or at least me.
With my little alarm in place, I sat on the bed's edge for a moment. Without thinking, my hand rose and brushed across my chest, shoulder to shoulder, tracing that same gesture I'd made every night for as long as I could remember. I still don't know why I do it, even less what it means. Just… felt right.
Then I lay back, the springs groaning under me, and let the darkness pull me under.
The glass plate was still intact when I woke — good sign. Sunlight leaked through the boarded-up window in pale slits, cutting the dust in the air into shimmering lines. The air outside was louder than last night: boots on wood, shouts across the hall, the creak and slam of doors. Primm was already moving.
I unhooked the wire from the latch, set the plate back in its corner, and splashed some tepid water on my face from the cracked basin. The Pip-Boy's clock told me it was early, but in this town, that just meant the smart ones were already working and the dumb ones were still drunk.
By the time I reached Skinner's "penthouse," Slice was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, like he'd been planted there all night. This time, no half-smirk or warning — just a sharp jerk of his head toward the inside.
"Boss is ready for you now."
I stepped past him, into the dim, stale air of the suite. The smell of last night's "business" was still clinging to the place, cheap perfume mixing with cigarette smoke. Skinner was sitting behind his desk, shirt half-buttoned, eyes sharp despite the lazy posture.
"Well, Casey," he said, lips curling. "You look like a man with something to say."
"I had a run-in with Kedge early this morning," I said, standing across from Skinner. "Bison cafeteria. He was drunk before the sun was up, mouthing off in front of half a dozen people. Didn't care who heard it."
Skinner's brow twitched, the lazy smirk on his face starting to fade.
"And I've got more than just his mouth to go on." I reached into my jacket and placed a small, weathered stack of papers on his desk. "Some are real, some forged—but every one of them points the same way: Kedge has been fraying at the rope for a while now."
Skinner flipped through them, his eyes narrowing. Without looking at me, he passed the stack to Slice.
"Go get him," he ordered.
As Slice left, Skinner leaned back in his chair, the smirk returning just enough to show teeth.
"Not bad, Casey. You've got a nose for the rot, I'll give you that. But a record's only as good as the next job you pull. Slip up, and you'll end up in the same ditch Kedge is about to fill."
I met his gaze without blinking. "I don't plan on slipping."
Skinner chuckled low, tapping the armrest with his fingers. "Nobody plans on slipping, Casey. Thing is, the ones who think they can't are the ones who tumble the fastest. I've seen it—overconfidence, greed, getting too friendly with the wrong people."
I tilted my head slightly. "You saying I look friendly?"
"I'm saying," Skinner leaned forward, elbows on the desk, "that loyalty isn't a feeling, it's a habit. You keep feeding me results like this, and you'll eat well. Start feeding me excuses…" He let the sentence die, but his eyes did the rest of the talking.
"Point taken," I said.
"Good," he replied, leaning back again. "Because once Slice drags Kedge in here, there's not gonna be any ceremony. I want you to see firsthand what happens to a leak in my crew. Consider it… an education."
I smirked and leaned back in the chair. "Guess I'll get a front-row seat to employee termination, Skinner-style."
Skinner's grin was thin but approving. "That's one way to put it."
The door swung open before I could say more. Slice shoved Kedge inside, the drunk's wrists bound with a strip of frayed cord. Kedge stumbled, nearly kissing the floor before righting himself, glaring at both of us through bloodshot eyes.
"Well, well," Skinner drawled, rising from his seat. "Looks like our morning just got interesting."
Skinner circled Kedge like a brahmin sizing up the butcher's knife.
"You know, Kedge… I don't like it when my boys drink on the job." His voice was calm—too calm. "But what I really don't like…" He stopped in front of him, eyes narrowing. "…is when my boys talk to the wrong people."
Kedge's lip curled. "You're listening to the runt now? He's just tryin' to—"
Skinner's hand shot out, gripping Kedge's jaw so hard it made his teeth clack. "Shut. Up." The room went quiet except for Kedge's ragged breathing.
"You were in the cafeteria early," Skinner said, tilting his head toward me. "Casey here says you were runnin' your mouth. Eyewitnesses back him up. And then there's these—" He waved the papers I'd handed him, letting them flutter onto the table. "Not exactly what I'd call loyalty documents."
Kedge's eyes darted between the two of us, desperation creeping in. "That ain't mine—"
"Don't insult me." Skinner's voice dropped into a low growl. "You've been sloppy, and in my crew… sloppy gets you buried."
He looked over his shoulder at Slice. "Take him outside."
Kedge stiffened. "Wait, boss, I can expl—"
"Outside." Skinner didn't raise his voice, but the finality in that word made Kedge go pale. Slice yanked him toward the door, and the sound of boots dragging across the floor followed them out.
Slice dragged Kedge out onto the balcony, the morning glare hitting hard enough to sting the eyes. From up here, you could see the whole stretch of broken street below, early risers moving about their business, unaware—or maybe uncaring—about what was about to happen.
Skinner stepped out after them, motioning for me to follow.
"C'mon, Casey," he said with that grin of his—pleasant in shape, deadly in meaning. "You did the digging—now you get to see it pay off."
Kedge was already on his knees, hands bound behind him, trembling against the railing. His voice cracked as he threw out excuses, each one weaker than the last.
Skinner pulled a pistol from his coat, turned it in his hand, and offered it to me. "You brought me the truth. Let's see if you've got the spine to close the book."
Kedge's eyes locked on mine, pleading. "Casey… don't. You know I didn't—"
"Shut him up," Skinner said, his tone almost casual.
The weight of the gun in my hand was steady, but the moment felt heavier. Skinner leaned in close, his voice low and almost instructional. "Behind the ear. Quick and clean. Don't give the folks below a show."
From here, I could see the street clearly—two convicts arguing over a cart, a dog nosing through trash. The Mojave moving on, not giving a damn to the man in front of me who was about to die.
I stepped forward, raised the gun, and—
The shot snapped through the morning air, sharp and final. Kedge slumped forward against the railing before crumpling to the floor, the thud swallowed by the city's noise below.
Skinner clapped me on the back. "Welcome to the family, Casey."
I was halfway to the door when Skinner's voice hooked me back.
"Casey, hold up."
I turned, expecting more orders. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing like he was sizing me up for something bigger.
"You've been doing good work," he said, voice low but carrying weight. "Better than most of the trash I've had to deal with lately. And I think it's time you knew… I've got a few girls stashed in the holding room. Special ones. Kept 'em off the main floor—no one touches 'em unless I say so."
He let that hang for a moment, then smirked. "I'm giving one to you. All yours. No one else gets her. Not even me."
I didn't miss the shift in the atmosphere. Slice, who'd been leaning against the wall like always, suddenly straightened, his jaw slack for just a second before he caught himself. The look in his eyes wasn't just surprise—it was disbelief. Like Skinner had just crossed a line he thought was permanent.
Skinner noticed too, and his grin only widened. "You've earned it, Casey. She'll be brought to your place. Do what you want with her—she's yours now." His tone hardened, his stare cutting through me. "But remember—keep this streak going, or I take it all back. And I will take it back."
I was halfway to the door when Skinner's voice hooked me back.
"Casey, hold up."
I turned, expecting more orders. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing like he was sizing me up for something bigger.
"You've been doing good work," he said, voice low but carrying weight. "Better than most of the trash I've had to deal with lately. And I think it's time you knew… I've got a few girls stashed in the holding room. Special ones. Kept 'em off the main floor—no one touches 'em unless I say so."
He let that hang for a moment, then smirked. "I'm giving one to you. All yours. No one else gets her. Not even me."
I didn't miss the shift in the room. Slice, who'd been leaning against the wall like always, suddenly straightened, his jaw slack for just a second before he caught himself. The look in his eyes wasn't just surprise—it was disbelief. Like Skinner had just crossed a line he thought was permanent.
Skinner noticed too, and his grin only widened. "You've earned it, Casey. She'll be brought to your place. Do what you want with her—she's yours now." His tone hardened, his stare cutting through me. "But remember—keep this streak going, or I take it all back. And I will take it back."
Skinner didn't wait for an answer—he just stood, straightened his coat, and strolled out like the matter was settled. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, leaving the room thick with something I couldn't quite name.
Slice stayed where he was, still looking at me like I'd just been handed the keys to the Strip. I didn't say anything. Neither did he. The seconds dragged, the only sound the faint hum of the building's old wiring.
A minute must've passed before he finally spoke.
"Do you know how big of a reward that is?"
I looked at him, eyebrow raised. "I'm guessing pretty big, if it's got you staring like you just saw a ghost."
He shook his head, almost laughing—but there was no humor in it. "Pretty big? Casey… that's the kind of thing Skinner doesn't give to anyone. I've seen people bleed for years in this crew and not get half that. Hell, I've never seen him give it to anyone."
Slice let the weight of his words hang for a second longer, then jerked his head toward the door.
"Come on. You'd better follow me."
I stood, adjusting my coat. "Where to?"
He gave me a sidelong glance. "Holding Room. You get first pick. Four women in there—Skinner says one's yours, and when he says yours, it means yours. No sharing, no touching, no nothing from anyone else."
The way he said it, I could still hear the disbelief grinding in his voice. He wasn't masking it well.
We made our way down the dim corridor, past the thrum of conversation and laughter from the common rooms. The air got heavier the closer we came—muffled sounds behind closed doors, a faint trace of perfume or maybe just whatever the hell passed for it in a place like this.
Slice stopped in front of a reinforced steel door, pulled out a key from somewhere under his jacket, and glanced at me.
"Get ready. Once you step in, it's all eyes on you."
Slice's key scraped in the lock, the heavy mechanism giving way with a clunk.
I kept my face straight, hiding the fact I'd already been in here once before.
The door swung open, and the air rolled out—stale, heavy with sweat, fear, and the faint chemical tang that clung to the walls. Five pairs of eyes turned toward us. Four women, dressed in what scraps they'd been left with, huddled along the far wall. The fifth was a man in a torn NCR field jacket, hands still stained from hours in Skinner's makeshift lab—his chemist.
It hit me almost instantly—how much worse they looked. When I'd slipped in here that night, they'd still had some color in their faces, some stubborn edge in their eyes. Now? That edge had been filed down to dullness. One girl's hair was matted into ropes, another's wrists were rubbed raw from restraints. The youngest stared at the floor, lips trembling, as though afraid to even glance at us. The chemist had lost weight, his cheekbones sharp under sickly skin, and the faint smell of solvents clung to him like a second skin.
Slice stepped inside, then glanced back at me with a crooked smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Funny thing, Casey… I remember telling you to stay the hell away from this place. Now I'm the one bringing you in. Skinner says you pick one of the girls. She's yours—no one else touches her. Not even him."
He gave a low whistle, shaking his head like he still couldn't believe it. "You know how rare that is? Hell, I've never seen it happen. You don't get a gift like this unless you've proven yourself more than valuable. Don't screw it up."
The chemist kept his head down, but the women stared, some curious, others guarded. I let my gaze drift across them, pretending to size them up for the first time, though my mind kept replaying the difference—what they'd been then, and what they were now.
Slice gave one last look around the room, then stepped back.
"I'll be right outside," he said, voice low but pointed. "Take your time. Skinner's already decided—whoever you pick is yours. You just… make it official."
The door shut with a heavy thunk, the lock clicking into place from the other side.
For a moment, the only sound was the shallow breathing of the captives. My eyes scanned over them, lingering when I noticed her—different from the rest. While the other women wore tattered rags or mismatched scraps of clothing, she sat apart, draped in something far more deliberate: a black slip with red lace at the hem, stockings that hadn't been torn to shreds. The fabric was cleaner, newer, like it hadn't been scavenged but rather selected.
She didn't meet my gaze. Her head tilted just slightly down, hair falling in a curtain that half-hid her face, but there was no mistaking the reason for the difference. This was the girl Skinner had been busy with last night. The smell of cheap perfume lingered faintly in the stale air around her—a cruel reminder of his claim on her time.
The others looked at me with varying shades of hope, distrust, or numb acceptance. The chemist didn't look at me at all—just stared at the ground as if he could disappear into it.
I stood there, pretending to weigh my choice like I hadn't already been in this room, hadn't already seen them in better shape, hadn't already burned their faces into my memory.
I stepped forward slowly, letting my eyes move from face to face. No sudden movements, no pity in my expression—just the detached curiosity of someone who was supposed to be "choosing."
"You've all been here a while," I said, voice casual, almost bored, like I was talking about the weather. "Must feel like the days… drag on forever."
One of the women, the youngest, lifted her head just slightly. The chemist's eyes flicked toward me for the first time.
I crouched down, resting my forearm casually over my knee, speaking low but not so low that it would draw suspicion from someone eavesdropping.
"Thing about time," I continued, "is that it doesn't stop moving. No matter how slow it feels, it's always moving forward. And sometimes… it's only a day until the whole picture changes."
The woman in the black slip shifted, almost imperceptibly, her fingers curling against her thigh. The chemist gave the slightest nod, quick and hidden, like a reflex he didn't want noticed.
I stood again, walking past them as though inspecting livestock for the auction block.
"Of course," I added with a faint smirk, "some days are worth more than others. Sometimes… the next day is worth everything."
They didn't say anything back—didn't need to. Their eyes told me they'd heard exactly what I meant, and they knew I couldn't say more.
I let my gaze sweep over them one last time. All four women watched me in different ways—fear, resignation, faint hope—but the youngest… she couldn't have been more than nineteen. She kept her eyes low, knees drawn slightly inward, trembling but trying to hide it.
I stopped in front of her, crouching so we were at the same level.
"You," I said simply, voice flat for anyone listening. Then, softer, just for her, "You'll be safer this way."
Her eyes darted up, confusion flickering there before she quickly looked down again.
I straightened and turned to the others. "I'm sorry," I murmured, barely audible, my tone carrying more weight than the words themselves. The chemist's jaw tightened; the woman in the black slip held my gaze for a second longer than she should have.
Decision made, I walked toward the door and knocked twice to signal Slice.
The door creaked open and Slice stepped back in, his eyes immediately locking on the girl I'd chosen.
He froze mid-step, brow furrowing. "...Her?" There was disbelief in his voice, like I'd just picked a half-empty bottle over a fresh one.
I didn't say anything—just nodded once.
Slice looked from me to her, then back again. "You really are somethin', Casey," he muttered, shaking his head. "Could've had any of 'em… hell, I thought you'd go for—" He jerked his chin toward the one in the black slip, but cut himself off.
He shrugged, forcing a grin that didn't hide the surprise. "Alright then. Boss says she's yours, she's yours." He glanced at the girl and added with mock cheer, "Congratulations, sweetheart. You just got picked."
Her flinch made him chuckle, but I caught the way his gaze lingered on her just a moment too long before he waved me toward the door.
I led her through the hallways, ignoring the stares from a few of Skinner's men. She moved like every step was a question—hesitant, waiting for someone to yank her back. When we reached my room, I shut the door behind us and locked it.
She stood in the corner, eyes darting between me and the floor, hands clenched at her sides.
"It's alright," I said quietly, keeping my tone calm, low. "You're safe here."
I pulled the small stash of food from under my bed—crackers, a can of pork and beans, and a dented bottle of water I'd been saving. I handed them to her and stepped back, letting her decide.
It took a few seconds before she moved. She ate in small, nervous bites, drinking like she didn't believe there'd be more later.
Once she finished, I found an old washcloth and the Vault 13 canteen the Doc gave me when I first woke, kneeling in front of her to dab at a split lip and a nasty scrape on her temple. She tensed every time I touched her, but didn't pull away. Her wrists had faint rope burns; I wrapped them loosely with strips torn from a shirt.
"You'll be alright," I murmured, more to reassure her than myself. "Just one day. Then you're out of here."
She stared at me, like she wasn't sure if I meant it—or if I was just another liar in this place.
As I washed the girl's hands, I couldn't stop thinking about the look on the others' faces when I made my choice.
When I glanced back before leaving the holding room, they hadn't cried out, hadn't begged—just stared.
Their eyes told the story for them. Hollow, resigned, the kind of hopelessness that comes when you've run out of prayers and tears. The one in the finer clothes—the one Skinner had been with last night—sat slumped against the wall, her gaze fixed on nothing.
Another had bruises in the shape of hands along her arms, fading to sickly yellows and purples. The third, barely able to sit up, looked like she hadn't eaten in days.
And the chemist…
He wasn't much more than bones under skin now, slouched in the corner like a discarded rag. His eyes flicked up at me, dull and glassy, before closing again. I wasn't sure he'd open them tomorrow.
Back in my room, I looked at the girl in front of me, still clutching the water bottle like it was her lifeline.
"They break my heart," I said, and for the first time, I felt it crack.