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.
At the stairs Painter paused and looked back down the hall, wrestling with himself. It felt wrong somehow. But why should it? He wasn’t their prisoner, no matter how much they treated him like one. He wasn’t one of those weak citizens, either. They didn’t know what he was truly capable of, none of them did. If they had any idea, they would fear him. Maybe they should fear.
“Trouble sleeping?” The voice came from behind him, startling Painter, and he felt himself jump. He turned and found Swoop standing there, leaning against the wall, staring back at him without expression. And Painter came back to himself, and all his dark thoughts dissipated.
“Y-y-yeah,” he said. Listen to yourself! You can’t even speak! What had he been thinking? He felt almost as if he’d been sleepwalking. “Weird dreams.”
Swoop didn’t react in any noticeable way. He didn’t even blink. Just stared steadily right into Painter’s eyes.
“Just needed to mmm-mmm, to move a little,” Painter said. “But I’m OK now… I’m gonna, I’m gonna go b-back to buh-bed.”
Swoop dipped his head in a hint of a nod. Then after a heavy pause, he added, “Night.”
Painter turned and walked back down the hall to his bunk, feeling Swoop’s gaze on him the entire way. He stole a sidelong glance once he reached the stall, and caught a glimpse of Swoop out of the corner of his eye. Still standing there watching him.
It was unsettling. Painter climbed back up onto the bunk and, as he tried to get comfortable again, he wondered if maybe he’d been wrong to think he wasn’t a prisoner.
Swoop gave it another minute or so, after the kid had gone back to his bunk. Just to be sure. And when he was sure, and only then, he holstered the sidearm he’d been holding behind his back.
The sounds of people moving around drifted into Wren’s consciousness well before he opened his eyes. For a time he lay there listening, half-pretending to be asleep — just to see how long he could get away with it. The bunk hadn’t been particularly comfortable and he’d gotten cold in the middle of the night, but, knowing another long day of walking was ahead, it felt good to just lie there. Wren wished he could store up that feeling, so he could draw on it later after he’d been on his feet for hours, and still had more to go.
It would be hard work. Even if his legs hadn’t still been tired and sore from the day before, it would’ve been tough. But he was excited about getting to see Chapel and Lil and all their people again. To finally show Mama the compound, and to eat real food, and to live in a community without walls, even if it was just for a few days. That excitement, though, was mixed with nervousness.
Wren had always meant to go back before now. But after Mister Carter had died… well, it hadn’t seemed right somehow, for Wren to go back when that great man could never return. He didn’t know how everyone would react. There was no doubt they would welcome him, and everyone with him. It was Chapel’s way to be welcoming. But Wren wondered how different their relationship would be.
And Mama. He hadn’t thought about that until now. How would he explain Painter and Mama to Chapel? Most likely, he’d have to go ahead of them and prepare everyone. He’d have to mention that to Gamble and Wick, to make sure they didn’t get too close before they had a chance to announce themselves.
Wren opened his eyes and lay still. The overhead light was still off, though lights were on elsewhere in the wayhouse, enough for him to see. His mama was crouched down, quietly rummaging through her pack. He couldn’t tell if she was putting things in or taking them out, but she was taking care not to wake him.
“Hi, Mama,” he said. She glanced up at him and smiled.
“Hi, sweetheart. Did I wake you?” she asked.
Wren shook his head. “What time is it?”
“Early still.”
“Is everyone else up?”