Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say it's the heat that'll drive you mad down on the coastline. That land of a hundred miles, and a couple hundred miles after that. Where stretches of mangroves meet hurricane gutted beaches and the sun gets twice as hot just across the state line. They say there's nothing but thickets of seagrapes and sea oats down by the pockmarked tar of the old highway, snaking its way down the coast. Any local will tell you that just isn't the case, what with twenty new condominiums creeping up the beach each week it seems. It's a view to die for, he hears, and he knows that some do.

Now others, they'll say it's the humidity that really makes you snap. He's keen to believe that himself. Even at half past eight moisture is collecting thick on the salt stained diner windows, leaving streaks and growing fingers of mold along the seal. He can still taste it even inside, every time the door swings and the bell chimes and someone shouts from the back of the kitchen.

It's clinging to his hair, making the longer strands stick to the back of his neck where he's got a baseball cap turned the wrong way round. Sticker still shining on the brim. Fresh off the rack of an old tourist trap, shitty sunglasses with the name of the sorry little town they'd passed through printed on the arms to match.

Douchebag, Tommy had called him.

He's just glad he fits the part. Better to be some douchebag than the guy still walking around in jumpsuit jail orange and threadbare white. Just some numbers on the pocket and not a name. He's practically a whole new man out here. Hell, he'd even dyed his hair darker, chopped it shorter, all a slapdash job done in the backwoods of a preserve they'd passed through just a day ago. Empty dye bottle left on the floor of the campground showers along with a pile of stolen pool towels. A trail, a shedding, thin like a snake's skin and maybe if he drops enough evidence it'll keep the hounds barking up the wrong tree.

He hopes so. If not just for himself, then for Tommy's sake.

They're both holding out for that, a whole new start, at least if they can get where they're headed. Maybe then, he tells himself, maybe then.

Dream traces a thumb along the fraying edges of the menu and glances up. Tommy is hunched like a shrimp in the booth across from him, arms folded on the table, eyes scanning one of the paper kids' menus as if it's the bible handed over by god themself. He can hear the heel of Tommy's sneakers squeaking on the ground, grating and constant. That tap-tap-tapping of chipped nails on stained mica. Always that same wordless grumble followed by a sigh under Tommy's breath.

"Aren't you a little old for that?"

"Well, I haven't been twelve for quite some time, can tell you that much." Tommy scrubs the back of a wrist under his chin, before gesturing at the menu. "Not like you've got the cash to pay for two meals as it is. Guess I'm gonna have to get the apple slices or something equally dumb."

Dream crinkles his nose, looking down at the cheery image of an apple pie right next to his thumb. He's not hungry, not enough for a dollar to go right down the drain. Folding the menu shut, he fishes out a one and some coins he's got down at the bottom of his pockets. A quarter clacks loudly when he throws the meager pickings on the table.

"Just get whatever you want."

Tommy arches a brow. "Wh- you're just not gonna eat then?"

Crossing his arms, Dream keeps his eyes on the gravel parking lot, those patches of blue waves and dirty sand lying just beyond.

"Look, man, I know you've got like this- this--" Tommy waves a hand, grasping for the right phrase. "Thing- this fuckin' complex but it's been, like it's been a good two days, Dream. You have to eat."

His chin dips at the name. For a moment, he's back to staring at the floor, fingernails scratching at skin. It's like a bullet being shot from the barrel of a gun every damn time. A number, a nickname, prisoner; now that's what he was used to hearing. Then Tommy came along, insistent on getting an actual name out of him, insistent on using it as well. What Tommy never got was that it was easy being a number. It was easy to listen to your keepers, fall in line, and not stir up too much trouble.

You've got to remember you're a person when a name gets dropped. He never liked that much, not when he'd stand at the barbed wire fence and stare out at the rolling hills he couldn't touch. That stalwart treeline flitting with tiny birds and the occasional deer. It just didn't seem right.

"I'll eat whatever you don't, alright?" His tongue's too dry to get the words out properly, but he gets them out anyway.

Luckily, Tommy's used to the occasional garbled whisper. And the deal must be agreeable enough because the next second Tommy's flagging the waitress down with a wave, practically standing from his seat, all toothy grin. He's ordering something before Dream can even catch up to the present enough to understand the words.

The waitress is looking at him then, expectant. He's just about to raise a hand and shake his head, maybe throw a polite refusal into the mix when Tommy jumps in.

"Uh, my brother'll just have a plate so we can share. We, well, we don't really have much between us at the moment." Tommy flashes an awkward grin. Practiced thing that it is, it's all crinkles at the corner of Tommy's eyes, fingers fidgeting nervously on the table. There's always that slight downward tilt of his chin that makes the whole gimmick a bit too sincere. It's not as if the whole thing's a lie, but it's a bit childish, preying on others' pity like that. Hoping they'll throw a bone and not rip a throat out first.

And the pity, it arrives just in time in the form of a small smile. The waitress looks from Tommy to him, her eyes set in that way people get when they look at puppy dogs through pet shop windows. All watery and distant.

And maybe it's the purple ring around his eye, peeking out from beneath those sunglasses frames. Or maybe it's the scars dotting his face and wrapped around his neck, he never knows quite for sure, but the smile's been the same at almost every place they've stopped off at. She picks up the laminated menus, fishes a couple of crayons out from an apron pocket and sets them down at the edge of the table before shooting Dream a knowing look. The kind folks give when they're accustomed to dragging their younger siblings out of the house and driving to the local diner after a fight turns ugly.

She doesn't know the story, but it doesn't matter, she's made one up for herself and she'll go on telling it for the rest of her days.

"That's alright," she says, voice softer. "I'll bring a little something extra on the house."

She gives Dream a friendly pat on the shoulder as she leaves.

It burns there not even two minutes later, when Tommy's talking up a storm and scribbling away at some color in the lines cartoon. Like he isn't someone sitting on the cliff's edge of his teen years who knows exactly how to lay a grown man flatout on his ass given half the chance.

Dream picks up the green crayon and leans forward. Tommy shifts his arm out of the way on instinct and pushes the paper towards the center of the table more.

"You can draw where the T-Rex is, that dinosaur's for pussies." Tommy draws a line down the center of the page, snaking and red.

Dream rolls his eyes, taking his sunglasses off so he can see the lines better as he puts crayon to paper and draws whatever pops into his head. It's a person, he thinks, or maybe just the parts that make up a face; hair, nose, eyes, and lips, but never all in the right place. He crosses it out and opts for just coloring the T-Rex instead.

Tommy is caught up in drawing a mess of figures and what looks an awful lot like a person getting stomped on by the long neck dinosaur smiling on the page. Dream scribbles some dialogue bubbles around them, filled with crude and colorful language that makes Tommy give a wheezing laugh and add to the mayhem with worse. They both barely sip at their waters, the glasses sweat twin puddles onto the table while the ice cubes are nothing but flat chips.

The waitress is back when Dream's about halfway through adding some triangle designs on the T-Rex's tail.

"Sorry about that--" she apologizes, setting down a stack of pancakes, a colorful platter of fruit and eggs, a pot of coffee, and most importantly an extra plate before she tucks the tray up under her arm. "I should've brought a pot by when y'all first sat down."

Without hesitation, Tommy stuffs his face with a muffled thank you and a thumbs up.

The waitress shakes her head with a friendly huff before she turns her attention towards Dream. It's hard looking her in the eye without the sunglasses as a buffer, it's harder seeing that pity only seem to magnify. Fortunately she doesn't linger long, the door chiming its announcement of the next hungry customer.

"Just let me know if you need anything else." She sets down the check, already getting out a paper pad and a pen as she moves back towards the bar.

"Thank you… really," Dream says as she passes by. They're the first words he's said to her, but he's at least got an obligation to be polite. The warden taught him that much.

She stops in her tracks, clicking the pen in her hand as she half-turns. "Oh, it's no problem. You two get where you're going safe now, y'hear?"

He nods and then she's on her way. That's how it works, the whole world just a mad series of lines that only seem to intersect at exactly one point. This is just another one, and there'll be ten thousand more after that.

When he looks back towards Tommy, all he sees is a hand grabbing for the coffee pot. Dream pulls it out of Tommy's reach.

"Oh my god, you are not having that."

"Well, why the fuck not?"

"I'm not-- Tommy, I'm not just giving you coffee. Are you out of your mind? You made me pullover so you could piss like every ten minutes last time."

Tommy opens his mouth, shuts it, and then steeples his fingers. "Okay, for the record, it was like every hour and that was mountain dew from the 7-11."

"What, why does that-- that has nothing to do with it, it's literally still caffeine!"

"Okay, and? You act like you're not the one stopping every time you see a deer on the road just so you can be all weird and stare at it. Besides, it could be decaf. Lighten the fuck up, man." Tommy raises one of the porcelain mugs sitting by the napkin holder. He wags it in the air, an expectant brow raised as he angles his head to nod at the coffee pot of contention. As-fucking-if.

"No. No, what the hell, I'm not--" Dream twists in his seat, reaching to set it on the table just behind them. "I am not giving you coffee so you can be extra annoying for the next seven hours and piss me off the rest of the tr..."

Dream trails off. The coffee pot drops right out of his hand, falling the last inch to thump loudly against the tabletop.

Instinct has him facing forward in the booth again. Hands slamming the sunglasses right back onto his face before he's hunching low in the seat. All in an instant. He knows damn well it's not fast enough, but hope is a pervasive sort of delusion.

Sitting there, not moving a muscle, his stomach is dropping through the floor and his heart's skipping faster than a rabbit's. But it's the impression of a familiar silhouette stuck fast to the back of his eyeballs that's the worst of it.

Tommy finally spots the problem. Letting out a shaky breath he keeps his head low and brings a palm up to shield his face in the most conspicuous way possible. "Fuck, what the fuck-- I thought we lost that dickhead back in St. Augustine. Fuck."

Dream makes a cutting motion, tiny hiss fleeing between his teeth. An apparently not spoken in not so many words.

"The fuck are we going to do?" Tommy hisses back, frantic, practically shaking out of his skin. But it isn't fear. No, it's fury and hellfire, the animalistic sort that dogs get when they're yanking at the end of their ropes waiting for the line to snap.

Raising a silent palm, fingers together, Dream slowly tilts his hand down until it's parallel with the table. Protest brews in Tommy's eyes, some viscous jumping thing in his temples, flaring at his nostrils, but he knows not to make a move. The signal for wait, hold on a second, is well understood as a sacred thing.

Gaze chasing a line to the window, Dream spots the police cruiser tucked into the far corner of the parking lot. The back end of it is barely peeking out from behind a beaten up sedan. He remembers it well. That faded vinyl, chipped paint, mud all up around the fenders, the cruiser's about as bad off as the pickup truck they've been limping along down the coast.

But he knows that cop car better than he knows the slick grey insides of block prison showers. It's been in their rearview mirror, lights flashing and sirens wailing, more times than he can count. Not that they ever pull over, he knows too well the warden's never gonna pull a gun and he sure as shit isn't gonna call for backup. No, this one? It's personal, he and the warden can both agree on that.

And somehow every time he thinks they're ten steps ahead, the warden's still right on their heels. He never seems to fall for the bait.

Shifting slightly in the booth, one hand shimmying his backpack up onto his arm the other gripping at the back of the seat, Dream angles his head just enough to see the whole scene unfolding behind him.

The warden's leaning against the bar, mouth moving, teeth flashing; a smile here, a tilt of the head there. That familiar labyrinth tattoo is peeking out from beneath the dark greens of the warden's clean-cut uniform sleeve. He's all proper around the edges. That charming and handsome type; rosy cheeked sort of youth clinging right to him. It's no wonder he's got half the diner hanging on his every word already.

But it doesn't take a lip-reader to know what the warden's asking next.

Dream sees it in the waitress's eyes, the way her smile falls and her shoulders hike up a bit. And she's looking right past the warden's shoulder before she can catch herself. She locks eyes with Dream and it's all over.

The warden turns to look right at them and Tommy's the first to scramble out of his seat, knee slamming into the table's edge, cursing and tripping and nearly smacking the ground. Dream's leaping out of his seat and yanking him back up in an instant.

"Hey! Don't you run now--"

They've really only got one place to go, the exit is blocked off, and if there's one in the kitchen it's too risky.

Settling for the only route, Dream grabs one of the sugar shakers on the bar and chucks it right at the warden's head, hard as he can. It hits home, but there's no time to stick around and gloat.

Tommy's on the same page, tearing towards the sign for the single restroom at the far back of the diner. The moment they're both in, Dream slams the door shut, throws the bolt and just in time because the warden slams right into the door.

"Dream!" The warden shouts, the handle rattles some more and there's a sound like he's kicking at the door. Once. Twice. "Goddamnit."

Dream backs away from it, gaze sweeping the room it settles on the frosted window hanging right over the toilet. Just low enough for someone to crawl out through if they were to stand up on the back of the tank. It'll be a bit of a tumble, but they've climbed out of worse recently.

He looks towards Tommy and they share a silent nod.

"No, no everything's fine--" the warden's voice drifts through the door. "It's fine, everything's fine. They're not armed, far as I know." There's a brief silence, some muffled talking and then,

"You've got a key for this thing, right?" There's no spoken answer, at least not one that can be made out, but the warden's sigh speaks volumes. "Well, that's just great."

That's when the bargaining starts.

Now he hadn't heard the warden's voice in some while, at least not outside the reruns that love playing in his head. It's always some sort of dichotomy, some fancy dissonance that clogs up his mind after hearing it.

On one hand the warden had been his friend, his confidant on the inside the day he turned sixteen. He just showed up, visiting on a regular basis always dressed in hunter greens that stuck out among a sea of guards in light blues. Badge engraved with a different town than the rest, letters that when put together made something adjacent to that entity he barely remembered. Home.

It's the whole reason Sam got the honorary title. The warden was his keeper, a wishful glimpse into a person shaped mirror that instead of remaining empty it appeared to reflect back.

The warden always acted like he understood what it meant when Dream would say he was just a stranger in a body suddenly awake. At least that's how he'd talk about it, the murder, that's what he'd tell the warden when he'd waste time trying to play prison shrink, when he'd ask too many questions. That's about the only way he knew how to explain it.

Tommy and the warden are still throwing words back and forth in the present, and Dream's aware, he's tuned into the drop of every word, but he's not listening for the content. He's listening for the delivery. Waiting for a subtle signal. A cue. And his mind's taking him on a tailspin the more the warden says.

He's working on unlatching the bathroom window and swinging the rusty thing out. But he's not seeing his own hands shoving at the glass, wrenching at the lock latch that's rusted shut. He's not seeing anything but red and blue lights flashing through the mist of some old summer night.

He's standing there, balancing on the back of a toilet and he's also sitting there in the backseat of a cop car just shy of ten years ago. He's staring right through the wire mesh of the car cage, looking right at a kid some odd years older than himself. Tears welling up in that kid's eyes and for what, he still doesn't understand. But he knows it's the warden, it was always the warden. Sam was there, sitting shotgun, tagging along on a midnight call with his sheriff father no doubt. All crumpled face and devastated. Mouth moving, but Dream never catches the words, he never gets over the way blood goes from sticky to slick when they're stripping him down and washing it off his hands.

It's one failed insanity plea thrown on him by a couple of parasitic lawyers who take the money and run later, that he finally sees that kid again. Only the warden's not a kid anymore.

And the warden's his friend, sure, that doesn't change, but he's still the son of a bitch who left him to rot. Down there in the bowels of Pandora, just another kid growing up with wire mesh and bars across every view, rat shit mixed with whatever passed for food when the winters got cold and the cafeteria stopped putting down poison to slip the last bit of the budget back into someone's pockets. And before he knows it, he's up for a reduction to house arrest, still seeing those red and blue lights, still feeling that blood on his hands. And Sam makes it all sorts of a success, vouching for him in that fancy uniform with his fancy words.

But the warden doesn't understand the cost. He thinks too good of the world, all the folks in it. And then Sam gets self-righteously pissed when he doesn't act right on house arrest, when he beats the shit out of the probation officer assigned to him and then dials Sam himself. Sitting under a payphone, claiming he's going to run and it doesn't matter where, just that he's saying it. He remembers Sam asking why. Hell, the warden had asked how, and he sure as shit never figured out how to put it into words.

That bubbling kind of terror stuck in a house with dusty photographs he couldn't recognize. Stuck with the way that probation officer had looked at him like he was a piece of meat, grinning like the big bad wolf.

No, the warden didn't understand, the world was hand-tailored for badge-wearing bastards like him.

The window finally gives and swings out, letting in a blast of humid air; freedom. Broken lock latch still in his hand, Dream hops back down to the tile floor and slinks back over towards the door. He sets the rusted metal of the latch in the sink, palm coated orange. Tommy shoots him a look and then glances back at the window, face lighting up with relief.

Now all they've got to do is make being trapped seem authentic. So long as the warden doesn't hear glass break, he shouldn't think anything of it.

"Listen, you're both convicts who've crossed state lines. The FBI or any of them hounds catch you, you're gonna be doing several lifetimes in a supermax. No movement, no freedom, you'll be separated by a thousand miles at the least. I don't think they're gonna repeat the same mistake letting you two be in the same block."

It's a bluff. They're never gonna waste resources on some escapees.

It's another fancy lie meant to make him do what someone wants. He knows this routine. The one that's left him with bloody gums, teeth knocked loose and head spinning before. Just something for others to take what they want so they can shove his head down again the second he gives them a scrap of trust. Beat him into a good damn dog, tell him he's never going to be right. The warden's no different, he can't be.

He's put together enough of the pieces now to know the warden cut some kind of deal, making him and Tommy cellmates on purpose. That they both come from the same hometown and they were doing time in a prison five states away? That isn't coincidence. It's the sort of thing that put a sour tang in his mouth, tasting pure lead the last time the warden sat across the glass during visitation. He decided right then and there that he and Tommy were getting the hell out.

So he's not going to fall for the warden's lies as much as his hand twitches at his side and he stares at the silver of the door handle. No, he's got to look out for Tommy now. He can't let him down.

Tommy kicks at the door then, a punch thrown next, loud and booming and he's baring his teeth like the warden's right in front of his face, not safe behind a couple inches of aluminum.

"Fuck you, Sam. You're the fuckin' cunt who--" Tommy cuts off with a growl, spitting and rabid, airing out all the dirty laundry while he's got the chance. "You told me, you promised I'd get transferred sooner. I was almost in there four goddamn months before you had 'em send me to Pandora and if it wasn't for Dream I--" he sucks in a breath, "you knew, you knew I was there and you fuckin' left me!"

"Tommy--"

"Go to hell, Sam."

"Tommy! What was I supposed to do? I put my career on the line sticking up for you as it was. You went and made trouble, you're lucky I was the one that pulled you out of the fire--"

That one pisses Tommy right off.

"'Cause you wouldn't help me! Schlatt's a fuckin'-- he's the reason Wil's-- he's the reason everything's so fucked. I told you, and you didn't-- you didn't listen, you just stood there. You stand there and you don't say anything," Tommy's voice cracks and he's got his forehead resting on the door now. "You don't do anything and everyone thinks I'm-- that I'm crazy 'cause of it, that I'm the fuckin' wrong 'un. You promised, Sam. You promised you'd help me."

The warden's quiet for a good few heartbeats. "If I could've… if I could change things I would, Tommy. But Dream, look, he's not your friend in this. He's not the guy you think he is. He's only going to drag you down with him. Any sentence I can get reduced, any deals I could try and spin, they don't work if you stick with this stupid plan. He needs to be in a cell, he-- he brought that on himself. You're a good kid, Tommy, you do your time and you'll be alright. You don't have to keep screwing things up for yourself."

Dream worries his nails into his palms, molars grinding, words trapped behind his teeth. It'd be stupid to say them and God does he want to say them. But it's what the warden wants. A fight. A distraction. Bait.

Tommy glances at him with a sour look, one that Dream's shaking off with a toss of his head. Chin dipped fast, two fingers brought up, Dream gives him the count down. Two beats, nothing more, nothing less.

Tommy nods, brushing unruly hair out of his face as he eyes the door. He's gathering some sort of words as his shoulders jump with a deep breath and then fall with a close-lipped sigh, and then he's shouting all over again. Making some real noise. Hopefully riling up the warden on the other side so he'll stay standing there like a dog still barking at a squirrel who's long gone.

Dream takes it as a cue to head for the window again. Only this time he's moving fast, swift and practiced, chucking his backpack through the window first before crawling through it the next. It's a bit of a clumsy fall, gravel biting right into his knees and his palms, but he hardly feels it.

Brushing dirt off his sleeves, he tries to shake the warden's words out of his head. Nothing quite like honey and shit to a fly, or that's how the saying goes.

And the warden, well he's still shouting through the door even after Tommy comes crawling out. Except it's Tommy, and nothing ever goes easy with him, so that tail he's got sewn on the back of his jacket snags right on the window. He's flailing about for half a second, jacket nearly pulled right over his head, looking like a drunk ghost fighting with itself.

"Dream--"

Dream rolls his eyes and reaches up, getting Tommy unsnagged in half a second. Tommy stumbles with the momentum, tugging his jacket back down, hands smoothing out the sleeves like he didn't just experience the most embarrassing few seconds of his life. It's a constant sort of theme, Murphy's Law practically.

"Aw… fuck, look at this," Tommy pouts, inspecting the end of the fabric tail where it's all sorts of chewed up now. "I used up all my good thread on this one too, man. Christ, now why'd you have to go and manhandle it--"

And Tommy, still lamenting about that patchwork nightmare of a jacket, is costing them time. Time they can't afford to lose and as much as Dream wants even an ounce of rest, he knows he isn't getting any. He starts to beeline for the beaten up truck in the distance, steps mechanical and fine tuned, gravel crunching like hungry dogs under boot.

Dream tosses a look over his shoulder, something that's all stern without the acid. "I told you-- I told you that thing was gonna get you killed."

"Shut the hell up," Tommy mutters, scrubbing a hand across his nose as he jogs to catch up. "Shouldn't you be at the truck?"

"Yeah, and who was gonna save your ass then?"

Tommy scoffs. "'S not my fault some dickhead invented stucco ledges. I had it perfectly under control--"

"You were literally flailing for like five whole seconds!"

"It was con-trolled struggling, Dream, learn the difference before you offend someone."

"Oh my god--"

They're passing by the police cruiser then. The sight of it alone has Dream smelling blood, that cloying tang thick and sweet as molasses building up on his tongue.

"Hey, uh, how long do you think it'll take him to realize we're, y'know, gone?" Dream makes a motion over his shoulder, smile lopsided with the words. But Tommy's not right behind him anymore, he's veering off into the narrow gravel alley between the sedan and the police cruiser instead.

"Dunno." Tommy shrugs, picking something up off the ground. "Long enough to do this, prolly."

Glass shatters. Loud and spectacular, the sort of way it does when it's tempered and a few pounds of pressure from a sharp rock will do the trick.

Tommy's standing there almost with pride. Rock still gripped tight in his palm, jacket sleeve wrapped up around his fingers.

"Are you-- what, you're breaking into his fucking car?!" Hands on his head, Dream stares in disbelief. It's like the world's crumbling in, Tommy the termite at the center. "Oh my god-- you're-- what is wrong with you? That's like-- it's a fucking felony! It's-- it's stupid--"

"Calm down, holy shit." Tommy knocks the rest of the glass out with the heel of his boot and then he's leaning in through the opening and rummaging around. "Y'know for a guy who's supposed to be a big bad felon you're a right pussy."

"Because he's gonna blame me!"

Tommy stops rummaging for a moment, voice still half muffled. "Sounds a bit like a personal problem, honestly."

"It's not," Dream drawls, fingers coming up to flip the hat he's got on forward, adjusting it by the bill in a nervous tic as he paces at the cruiser's bumper. "He thinks I've got you all, y'know, like a puppet or something. Like I made you steal that truck or break that window--"

"Sam's an idiot."

Idiot? Maybe. Or maybe he's just smart enough to use everything to his advantage. That's the real concern after all. Dream crosses and uncrosses his arms, and Tommy's still rifling through Sam's cruiser like some animal hanging over the edge of a dumpster.

"Let's go! Tommy, he's-- he's going to come running out any minute."

"Just gimme a sec." Tommy stuffs something in his jacket pockets, some plastic evidence bag clenched between his teeth as he leans right on back through the car window. There's the sound of paper tearing, a marker being uncapped, and then loud scribbling.

The warden's badge flashes in the diner windows.

Dream grabs at the back of Tommy's jacket.

"Tommy!"

"Done! I'm done--" Tommy shoves that evidence bag into Dream's chest and then he's off, shoes eating up the gravel like a bat out of hell.

Dream sprints after him, not looking back as he clutches that bag tight and he trusts that Tommy knows what in the hell he's doing cutting it this close.

Hopping in the driver seat, Dream throws what Tommy handed him down on the floorboards and he jams the key into the ignition, cranking it hard as he looks back over the seat. The only trouble is, the engine won't turn.

His vision shakes, hands right along with it, the key bends under the force with which he cranks it again.

The engine sputters and then gives up with a pathetic cough.

"Move, move--" Tommy shouts, grabbing at the steering wheel. "Move the fuck over!"

Tommy crawls over him, heel catching Dream twice in the ribs, long limbs flailing as he climbs into the driver's seat just as Dream manages to slide out of it. Being about the same height makes it a messy goddamn affair and half of whatever happens to be in Tommy's pockets spills all over the truck's cab. Tommy kicks it all out from around the pedals, cursing fast and colorful.

Turning the key, Tommy bangs the side of his heel against the door, eyes shut as if in prayer, lips moving like he's gone from insulting the shitty pick-up truck to blessing it with holy hymnals and then,
The engine roars to life.

Sam is in the rearview mirror.

The engine gives a throaty whine, revs, and Tommy throws the truck into reverse. There's a cruel sort of satisfaction watching the warden leap out of the way.

Drunk on adrenaline, or just dumb luck, Dream leans out the window, middle finger thrown up with a salute. The green shape of the warden quickly shrinks, fading behind a cloud of dust, sabal palms and live oaks. The warden doesn't even go for his car.

But Dream's not thinking about that, no, he's laughing. Stomach empty, heart still sitting somewhere up under his chin, it's something and then he realizes there isn't the horrible crunching of the clutch that typically accompanies the truck picking up speed on the A1A.

"Wait, you lied," Dream shoots Tommy a look, gesturing pointedly. "You could drive stick this whole fucking time?"

"I was tired, man-- fuck!" Tommy slams on the horn and then swerves across the double yellow lines. "Does it really fuckin' matter right now?"

"Yes, I mean, who the hell taught you? Like--"

"Ph-" Tommy bites the name off, shaking his head. "Some guy, alright? It's not my fault you suck ass at literally everything, Dream."

"I've been in prison--"

"Should've learned more before you got nicked. Get good and shit. Least I don't have to listen to you abusin' the clutch, like jesus christ, man, she's delicate. She deserves better." Tommy rubs a hand on the dash of the truck before giving it a gentle pat.

Dream shakes his head with a light-hearted scoff. Sunk low in his seat, curled finger resting under his nose with an elbow up on the door, he stares at the side view mirror and pulls the bill of his hat lower. His sunglasses are long gone now, lost somewhere in the process of fleeing. The morning sun couldn't care less though as it casts a nasty glare.

A couple of mile markers pass.

Everything lulls back into quiet, always that dull humming thing, the sound of wheels, the whip of wind against rolled up windows. Headed somewhere. And there's no sign of the warden behind them.

"Y'know, I'm curious, what did you write?" Dream asks, glancing over at Tommy.

"In what?"

"The note. The one you left."

"Oh, right, right…" Tommy nods, staring dead ahead. "Cock."

The word is over enunciated, over exaggerated, some measure of pride laced in. It sounds like he just won best of show at the science fair.

"You…" Dream trails off. "You wasted time writing the word cock?"

"Well, I drew one, but who's asking really, I mean it's y'know-- it's just-" Tommy laughs to himself, devolving into jumbled nothing.

"You're actually an idiot." Dream kicks at the stuff on the floorboard. "And what the hell's all this stuff? Why'd you-- like why even grab it?"

"Oh, I've actually got one last thing in my pocket, hold on." Tommy rummages around and drops something in Dream's lap. "There."

"A walkman?"

"For one," Tommy plucks it out of Dream's hands, swerving, "it's my walkman." Tommy holds it up, proudly showing off the name carved crudely in the side, finger tapping it. There's a whole hell of a lot of scratches painting it and the plastic shell looks more than a little heat warped too. "And two, her name's Linda."

"Why would the war--" Dream scrubs the title off his tongue. "Why would Sam have that?"

"'Cause it's where he put it the day he arrested me. Guess it never left."

Tommy's answer is understandably clipped. Dream's eyes wander around the interior of the truck, searching for anything but to linger on the obvious, the elephant in the room. The way Tommy's face has dropped into something flat and distant, disturbingly inanimate. Disturbingly quiet.

That's the thing, talking about any of it, the past, it only gets everybody in trouble. There's a careful respect in acknowledging lingering silences and moving on from them without comment.

"Do you actually have any tapes for it?"

Tommy blinks, and then dips his chin towards the floor. "Discs. Check the floor."

"They're called tapes, idiot."

"Discs. And there should be two of 'em, Cat and--"

"Mellohi..." Dream finishes the sentence for Tommy, turning the cassette tapes over in his hand. One name written in green, the other in bright purple.

They're nothing special, in fact the tapes mean less than that to him. A lot of things felt like that, passingly insignificant to the point they never made it past short term memory. Thin, borosilicate glass walls of separation, all warped around the edges, some crude fish eye lense smudged with smoke.

These tapes aren't any different. They're not his and never were, but for a moment he feels like those aren't even his hands holding them because the chaos of it all is just shy of too ordered. It's sure enough to tip off one's awareness to the unreality of it all. But he knows he's not asleep, the time's reading right, and the world's too proper, the aches in his bones are too deep. Still, there's that constant web of lines connecting himself, the warden, and Tommy, and not just because of that prison and some happenstance. He hands the tapes back to Tommy, glad to be rid of them.

Tommy tucks the walkman and the tapes safely back into the pocket of his jacket once more. The earbud strings are still dangling out, but it's all back where it belongs. That's all that matters.

Dream turns his attention back towards the items still littering the floorboard.

It's two evidence bags, some other extraneous items. He'd seen those before. Those overstated ziploc bags with their little sticker seals, where they'd stuff everything that belonged to you in it, and you sure as shit never got it back.

Except there's no year, name, or date on them. Well, that's almost a lie, one of them has a key and a cassette tape in it, funnily enough. The name Fundy's scrawled in blocky smeared letters on the front.

There's a vein of logic he learned on the inside, that if there's a key, there's something it unlocked. That if you had the chance, take it. So he rips open the bag with his teeth, fishes the key out and puts it around his neck. It flashes in the sun, nothing special at all, just an old brass plated thing with no lettering, no clues as to where it goes.

And the cassette tape is nothing new except for the fact it sports an ominous Do Not Play, so he sets it up on the dash. Tommy eyes it, but doesn't touch it.

"You got the key, right?"

"Yeah." Dream holds it up, proving he's got it safe around his neck.

Tommy nods, but doesn't elaborate, and Dream doesn't expect him to, even if he's dying to know why the hell they had to risk their asses for a bunch of junk. No, it's easier to just move on to the next thing.

The second evidence bag is a lot heavier, some folded water stained map is crammed into it, and everything else seems to be tucked inside that. It's the same routine as he rips it open with his teeth and dumps the contents out.

The map is… odd. When he unfolds it, it's definitely sporting the greens, blues, and interstate lines he would expect to see on something picked up off the brochure racks of a welcome center, but it's got marker too. Scribbles. Things written in chicken scratch so frantic he can't hope to read it.

His eyes move along one of the lines and the most recognizable part is L'Manb--

He folds it shut. Or more accurately crumples it, scowl knitting his brows as he tosses it next to him. He goes back to sifting through something that isn't going to make him feel like he's ten hundred pieces short of solving the bigger picture.

There's a thick letter envelope next, crisp white and surprisingly unblemished. Some hefty thing that when he'd unfolded the map it had quite literally tumbled out and slapped the leather seat.

He doesn't think much of it when he rips it open until he's staring down at more cash than he's ever held in his entire life.

"Tommy, um…" He angles the money so Tommy can see it.

"Holy shit, man--" Tommy laughs, snatching the envelope out of Dream's hands. The truck slows when Tommy looks down, fingers rifling through the bills as he mutters to himself and then he reaches the last twenty and there's something there. Lined notebook paper, a folded note. A bit of writing Dream can't make out.

Tommy's expression turns sour and Dream's entirely out of the loop all over again. He wants to ask, it's sitting right there on the tip of his tongue, but it's not his place. That's not how it works.

Whatever's on that letter has Tommy wadding it up though. He folds the whole envelope right in half too, cash and all. Then, Tommy disregards the road entirely as he leans down and grabs a mud crusted backpack up from where it'd been crammed under the seat the last day and a half.

Tommy shoves the letter and the envelope in it, the walkman following with the cassette tapes. And then he's zipping it shut, both hands off the steering wheel. Dream grabs the wheel to steady the truck on instinct. Tommy throws him a quiet thanks, one hand finding the wheel again before he's setting the backpack down right by his hip. Like Tommy can't let it get more than an inch from him when before he didn't make a habit of carrying jackshit in the duck patterned thing.

That was Dream's job, carrying it all, making a show of being responsible even if Tommy consistently knew a whole lot more about the way the world worked, only half acting like it.

And he wants to ask, but he doesn't. Because asking was the sort of thing that only ended with more questions.

There's two last things that fell out of the map after all, some bracelet and a polaroid picking up dust by his feet. When he picks them up, he's holding the photo in his left hand, the bracelet in his right, and it's shaking. His right hand.

It's just a knotted, ragged, little cord and plastic beads in the center of his palm. Green beads, red beads, black and white thread. Old and weathered, the ends of it have clearly been twisted between someone's fingers many, many times. He curls it up in his palm and the beads clack. He forgets the photo for a second and he slips the bracelet over his hand, it's a tight fit, but there it sits on his wrist.

"What's the photo?" Tommy asks, craning his neck to try and see it.

Dream turns his attention back to the polaroid and he feels the words bubbling up before he can think on them for half a second. "I think it's me."

"Wha-- c'mon, man, you're fucking joking, you're bluffing, that's just--" Tommy shakes his head.

"No, I'm not, I'm-" Dream holds up the photo. "Look."

There's a beat of silence.

"You were friends with that prick before prison?"

"No! No, I mean, I-- like, how am I supposed to-- I wasn't, okay? I'm not, not anymore obviously." Dream shrugs, brushing off the accusation, but Tommy only remains upset.

"What the fuck..." Tommy trails off and passes the polaroid back. "What the actual fuck? When I went through Wil's shit I didn't-- it didn't seem like anything-- I-- what the fuck?"

Tommy leans forward, forehead pressed to the top of the steering wheel for half a second. Knuckles going bone white.

It's a bit of an overreaction in Dream's opinion. At the end of the photo only proves everything he already knows, but to Tommy, it's like he's getting ripped apart, some revelation eating him alive. It's the same sort of frantic Tommy would get when he'd see a spark or an open flame.

"Did you know Wilbur?"

Frustration at the random questioning bubbles up fast. Dream grabs at the bill of his hat, nails scratching it as he gives a clipped and honest, "no."

"Dream, I will pull over and I swear to God I will--" Tommy takes a deep breath. "I will crack your skull open and scrape the information out if I have to, alright, I have never been more deadly serious. Dig around for half a second and tell me do you-- did you know a man named Wilbur Soot?"

"No. And I'm not gonna remember some asshole I've never met."

Dream tosses the photo on the floorboard, bristling, eyes chasing sharp, jerky lines across the horizon.

It's just a stupid Halloween photo. Some Wilbur Soot isn't even in it, he knows that much. And he can't get it out from the back of his eyelids no matter how many times he blinks. They're all young as hell; Sam in a shitty cop costume, himself dressed like a demon with some missing tooth smile and that damn bracelet on his wrist, some fox on his left in a cartoony fish costume donning an equally cheesy grin. There's even a short blurry figure playing ghost up in the foreground, black and white sheet thrown over their head.

And Tommy at least has the decency to look a bit guilty when Dream glances back over. Fingers jumping a rhythm on the steering wheel, face pinched.

"Sorry, I just thought, I…" Tommy trails off and Dream wishes he'd never apologized at all. That's just not how it works. As if by some miracle, Tommy seems to backtrack, clearing his throat as he asks, "the fuck do you think's on that other disc-tape-thingy then?"

Dream gestures vaguely towards where the cassette is still sitting up on the dash. Disc-tape-thingy is at least a step up from calling them discs.

Tommy takes it, looks at it for half a second, and then very deliberately ignores the maker's original warning of Do Not Play. Not that Dream planned on doing much different, but surely it's the principle that matters.

"You sure you should be playing it?"

Tommy ignores the question. Ejecting whatever tape was still in the cassette player, Tommy tosses it with a clatter and shoves the new one in. The tape deck shuts with a click and then whirs with the sound of it rewinding. Tommy only holds the button for a few heartbeats before he's letting go and hitting play.

The tape opens with a sparkle of noise and then some smooth, swinging notes. That old phonogram grain comes right through like it's been ripped onto different recorders over a few generations.

"Huh." Tommy seems pleasantly surprised. "That's kinda funny actually. It's a nice song at least, funny that it's got your name in it though, like what are the odds, yeah?"

Dream sinks lower in the seat, fingers fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist.

He'd never say it outloud, but he knows the song. It lives in the alphabet soup of his memories, floating somewhere near the phantom feeling of hot sand on bare feet, the scratchy itch of a towel and the shape of cat eye sunglasses floating above a soft smile. Everything else is greyed out and black, but she is the sun, so much larger and warmer than everything. "Dream," she'd say, and he'd stare up at her, tiny head in her lap as she'd brush the hair of his face, gentle fingers tracing the shape of his nose and his brow as she'd hum the notes to the song and he'd drift off to sleep...

The tape starts skipping, devolving into an awful, jagged tune. It starts to list off names, rapid things all whispered backwards and forwards without much clarity or direction.

"The fuck-" Tommy twists the volume nob, static swells and the sound grows in noise despite him cranking it the other way.

And then suddenly the sound is unbearable. It's some horrid fucking screeching and Tommy goes to eject it, slamming and then punching the button before he's having to clap a hand over his ear. Shouting, screaming, hunched over the steering wheel, Tommy's got blood spilling from his nose and his ears, and the truck's swerving violently and Dream lurches forward ripping into the tape deck and gutting it like it's flesh not plastic--

"Dream!"

Something's caught around his wrist.

He blinks and realizes it's Tommy's hand, knuckles bone white. Dream blinks again and he realizes they're not crashing, Tommy's not bleeding, and the tape deck is only spilling out silence.

Silence because the door that holds the cassettes is cracked and the knobs are all ripped off. The whole thing looks like it's been punched and clawed by a rabid animal.

"I saved the tape before you went fuckin' nuts."

Tommy lets him go, pupils shaky, all a bit pale around the edges.

Dream tucks his arm into his stomach, pressing closer to the door. He mumbles something like an apology and scrubs at where his knuckles and his fingers sting, blood smeared like ghosts of red. It feels like something is supposed to be following them. It feels like they're supposed to be dead.

He can still hear the screeching, that screaming. He's breathing harsh and his skin's cold. It's just memories, a clang of them all cramming down the same schema highway at top speed, that's what the shrink said. It's just names and some stupid tape.

"Dream, you good, man? You wanna explain what the hell that was maybe?" Tommy looks over, eyeing him up and down.

"I'm fine--" Dream waves off the concern, "I'm fine."

"You went all funny the second it started saying the names."

"I'm fine. Just drop it, Tommy."

"Define fine, man. 'Cause your nose is literally bleeding."

"Shit, really?" Dream's wrist flies up and sure enough there's blood.

"Here--" Tommy hands him a few crumpled napkins. "Figured if I couldn't take the food, could at least take these, y'know. Greasy pancakes was at least better than some shitty colgate lasagna and crystal pepsi, ey?"

"Colgate lasagna, what the fuck even is that?" Dream laughs, fight or flight all but faded into background noise.

"--that or fuckin' mad dog beer, god, I bet you'd've liked that shit if you weren't too busy drinking pruno with your mates," Tommy continues, being crass and nonsensical like it's a full time job.

"What is wrong with you?"

"I'm lightening up the mood considering you just broke our disc player, I got to eat about only half a decent meal, Sam's up both our asses and now we've gotta deal with all of this." Tommy gestures to everything.

"Well," Dream starts to say, searching for a positive. "I mean, we've got plenty of cash now. If you speed we could, I dunno, we could probably stop somewhere down in Vero."

"Nah, it ain't worth it." Tommy sniffs quietly before looking over. "How's the uh, the bleeding going?"

Dream pulls the napkin away from his nose. "It's pretty much gone."

"Finally, some good news, christ. Can you believe that?" Tommy exaggerates annoyance, but his smile belies that it's indeed something pretty decent for once. Hell, they could use an upturn in their luck, one hell of a divine intervention perhaps.

It's why when Dream really looks at where they're headed he can only sit there struck silent. The coast is at their backs now, not on their left, not where it's supposed to be. Signs are flying right on by for the last chance to take an easy off-ramp for the southbound instead. Tommy's going the wrong way.

Leaning forward, hands on the dash, there's a heavy silence. Tense. Brewing. Grey and black and blue like the rain clouds rolling in from the west they're heading right into.

"You made a wrong turn."

"I didn't." Tommy stares forward, flicking the blinker. It click-click-clicks throughout the whole cabin. "We're going to L'Manberg."

"No, we're not." Dream says sternly. "It's-- look, L'Manberg is on the warden's map, the name on his car is for Badlands county. I know that you know that. We're not going back- that's actually suicide- it's idiotic-- it's-- it's not happening--"

There's a spell of panic somewhere in there. A brief thing that feels like the world's crumbling in and he reaches over to turn the wheel. Pull the emergency brake, hell, for a split second he thinks he'll do anything to get Tommy to see reason.

But Tommy just pushes the pedal down further. And Dream's not stupid enough to actually swerve a car barreling down the road at eighty.

So he's gesturing instead, pointing towards the side of the highway. "You're going to get caught. You're a complete dumbass, pull over and we'll figure something out, alright?"

Instead of seeing reason, Tommy doubles down.

"You lost your collective shit from that screwy ass song. It said your name, man, for chrissake--" Tommy throws a hand up, exasperated, and suddenly he sounds years older than he actually is. "Look, every five years there's another big murder, or-or a fuckin' suicide, just someone who totally snaps and nobody cares. Nobody cares that people just keep losing it, man-- 'oh, well that's just how it is in L'Manberg, it's the fishkills and the boat fumes.' Nobody cares about us. And I'm pretty sure every name--" Tommy jabs a finger against the steering wheel. "Every goddamn name was read out on that disc. And that map? That was mine, half that shit I had it on me six months ago. I just- I have to go back, Dream. We have to go back. I have to do something or else more people are gonna die."

Tommy sounds insane, the sort of talk that'd get you the turtle suit and isolation. The kind of thing that would eat at you and eat at you, chew you up and spit you out, rumination to the brink of obsession, to the brink of never coming back. It's familiar. And he realizes going back to L'Manberg was Tommy's plan the whole time.

"Tommy, if I go back there, they're gonna kill me-- they'll--"

"They won't."

Tommy's reassurance is empty.

Dream sees the scenario flash through his head, he thumbs at the bracelet on his wrist. He thinks about the picture, the map, the list, the tape, all of it.

"Sam lied, whatever he's planted in your head-- he was trying to scare you into never going back, he's a liar. Half the town thinks you got the electric chair. The other half's convinced you turned into a fuckin' lagoon monster and that you eat children or some shit. You're not exactly real, Dream. Not in the way that…"

Dream dips his chin, brows knit deep.

"I guess, what I'm--" Tommy sighs, gathering his words back up. "What I'm trying to say is that I only know you as you. You're Dream, you're a dumbass. You can't figure out how to work a vending machine without kicking it. You don't wear hats properly; you've got a heart of gold and you're strong like a-- a cow. You're very convicted, did you know that?"

"Wait, a cow--" Dream shakes his head with a confused chuckle, "why a cow?"

"Shut up, alright, listen." Tommy hunches a bit. "I already owe you my life and I'm prolly down about six lives in debt across the board. It's not my place to ask for anything else, from anyone, it's just not. But it's ten days. It's ten days to the festival and if we can't figure it out then you can keep heading to the Keys. I won't stop you. I'll let you take the truck, you can take all the money, I don't fuckin' care, man. I'll even keep the cops distracted. I just--" the next part Tommy mumbles. "I need your help."

He'd never heard Tommy say that. Not in the prison, not when he'd seen Tommy get knocked the hell down in the yard during a fight with a guy who was two sizes bigger, fists the size of a human head. Even escaping Pandora had been something mutually beneficial. That's what makes it terrifying, daunting like he's watching someone he only a quarter knows teter too close to a cliff's edge and yet he knows he'd throw himself over the ledge in their place. He looks at Tommy and for a split second he's seeing the mismatched eyes of a little brother he's long forgotten the rest of.

"Okay, but…" Dream agrees, hesitation still flitting on his tongue. "But just ten days. And you have to find a way to deal with the warden."

It's as if all the world's been lifted off Tommy's shoulders in one momentous heave. Some burden as daunting as Atlas's crumbles into nothing under the touch of a few simple words, a simple agreement, and for all Tommy knows he could be bullshitting. Bluffing.

But there's a brightness leeching it's way back into the blue of Tommy's eyes that suggests it doesn't matter, that it's not even crossing his mind.

"Warden, schmorden. That's home turf, Dream." Tommy waves a lazy hand, overly smug. "If there was ever a place to really lose that prick, oh it's gonna be there. Nobody knows that fuckin' island like me and Sam's a goddamn Badlander as it is. He doesn't know dick or shit about L'Manberg."

"As long as you're sure."

"Oh, I'm sure." Tommy nods to himself, but then his mouth twists. He parts his teeth and shuts them with a click before finally asking, "you've got that map, right? I don't really-- I haven't really left town before so I'm a little bit out of my depth."

"Oh my god, just stay on the highway--" Dream reaches for where the map's wadded up on the seat, he keeps two fingers and a thumb pointing out towards the road. "Head straight."

"Wow, you're so very insightful."

"Just read the map." Dream lays it across the console and the dash, the straight shot of the interstate dumping out into the highway and then the rural roads at the other side of the state is on clear display. At least that's what he hopes.

"Now you're encouraging unsafe driving practices. You're endangering the occupants of a motor vehicle."

"Tommy."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm just fucking with you, big man." Tommy leans over, scanning the map a moment before he's sitting up straight again. Miraculously the truck doesn't swerve this time. And then the root of the problem comes bubbling right up with a quick sigh followed by a click of Tommy's tongue. "Y'know, it's gonna be weird going home."

And Tommy doesn't only mean himself in that conclusion.

In some small way, Dream is inextricably drawn back to that tiny town as well. Certainly not for the same reasons, but he is a comet swinging unwittingly into the gravity field of a different solar system. He'd seen the shape of L'Manberg jutting out from the barrier island of the Badlands as he unfolded that map and he'd felt that tug on his heart instantly. Some jute cord string wrapped about it that he forgot he even needed to untie.

In some significant way, he knows no one, he knows the barest blocks and shapes and hazy tree lines.

In some way, he doesn't have one.

A home.

"I can still pull off here if you've got your doubts." Tommy points to the sign for the rest stop ahead.

"No, no, I'm going with you, but the second things go south I'm out. And-- and you have to be upfront with me." Dream looks over, catching Tommy's microscopic wince, guilt and whatever else all thrown in. "I can't help you if you're just running off doing stupid shit and expecting me to somehow bail you out."

"No, yeah, that's fair--" Tommy agrees, sitting up a bit straighter in the seat. "Uh, that's fair. I promise the next part of the plan doesn't involve smashin' any car windows. At least, not a lot." Tommy grins and then it falters. "I guess I should start at the beginning though, shouldn't I?"

"We've got three hours before we hit the Badlands, you've got time."

"Yeah." Tommy seems nervous, like he's about to get a root canal not spill whatever conspiracy he's cracked wide open-- or at least convinced himself that he's cracked open. "Listen, alright, I'll tell you what I know, and then you'll tell me. So we're both on the same page for real this time. Deal?"

Dream can't help but laugh at that. "What, really? You're not-- it's not like you gain anything from that."

"Deal, Dream?" And Tommy's dead serious now. Grave and stone faced.

Smile fading, Dream crosses his heart and holds out his hand. Tommy reaches over and shakes on it, palm cold and sweaty. It's a quiet deal, a trade of perhaps mundane information that will still feel like bandaids getting ripped off and it will only ever be something sealed in the humid cab of an old Chevy truck with too much duct tape holding it together.

"Alright," Tommy drums his fingers in a nervous pattern on the wheel as he shakes himself a bit like a dog. It's like the words are crawling and writhing under his skin. "I guess, uh, well, I guess-- sorry, it's…it's weird, man, 'cause I just- I realized I haven't really talked about it. Y'know, like everyone knows, but that- it doesn't mean anything. And time, god it just flew by and suddenly I was cracking open a whole fuckin' conspiracy-"

Tommy laughs to himself, but it's dark and hoarse. All flight of emotions, that sort of thing that chases a lump into people's throats when the hawk shaped shadow hanging over head finally swoops in closer. When it becomes tangible and real for longer than a moment. When it's finally acknowledged.

It's a lot like crossing the threshold into a house that no longer remembers you, some stranger in a strange land. Now stuck in some place that wants so desperately for you to learn to call it home again. It is the terror of being known.

Tommy stares out the windshield, out to where the edges of the highway are being eaten up by an approaching wall of rain. "I guess it… you could say it all started after my brother killed himself—"