Lazar lingers in the doorway. Shoulders lift, brow lowers. A flare of —
Something. Something old, dead and buried. A skinny kid with his fists balled behind the wagon, teeth grit around the certainty that no one gives a damn. No one will take it serious.
He's not a kid any more. And he shouldn't give a damn.
Clarisse stirs. Abby stumbles. And at last, he pushes the threat from his face, and hauls arms under Barrow's shoulders to lift. Sure, they'll find the bed. And then he'll wait on the end of it, for want of a chair. He'll wait, until it's done, or they find someone big enough to drag him out.
(Maybe later, he'll spare a thought for Clarisse. Thoughtful's never been his bag.)
sorry to clabby he will check in later xoxo
Something. Something old, dead and buried. A skinny kid with his fists balled behind the wagon, teeth grit around the certainty that no one gives a damn. No one will take it serious.
He's not a kid any more. And he shouldn't give a damn.
Clarisse stirs. Abby stumbles. And at last, he pushes the threat from his face, and hauls arms under Barrow's shoulders to lift. Sure, they'll find the bed. And then he'll wait on the end of it, for want of a chair. He'll wait, until it's done, or they find someone big enough to drag him out.
(Maybe later, he'll spare a thought for Clarisse. Thoughtful's never been his bag.)