As the silent distress ebbs and the echoes of a furtive search amongst the discarded softens, he becomes painfully aware of the quiet surrounding them. A prick of panic; does he know?

Reluctantly, for the fear of judgment, he lowers his hand to his side and begins to turn, weight adjusting as if this is not an overthought action. (It is.)

“Sorry. It happened a—“

The excuse (which is also the truth) tumbles into candid concern upon finding him (and he still doesn’t know his name) crumpled on the ground. Instinctively, he lurches forward, dropping to a crouch and reaching out to grasp his upper arm. “Hey. Hey,” he hisses, the worried urgency blatant, the decision to avoid eye contact instantly tossed, “you still with me?”