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“How many fingers am I holding up?”
Tim stared at Cassie’s hand for a solid ten seconds. “…Six.”
“What – no. That’s not even possible with one hand,” Cassie said. She turned away from Tim. “Kon! He’s got a concussion!”
“No I haven’t,” Tim protested, ignoring how everything spun around him. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Cassie said. She pushed him back down. “Stay. If you get hurt any worse mum and mom will probably ground me.”
“Skill issue,” Tim said.
“Brat,” Cassie replied.
The battle – whichever one they’d been in this time – continued around them, but it was undoubtedly slowing down. Bart zipped past, which really didn’t help Tim’s already spinning mind. He groaned, throwing an arm across his face. Cassie, taking some pity on him, patted his knee.
“Hey, on the bright side, at least it’s not another sprained ankle,” Cassie said.
“That’s not a bright side, that’s a slightly less shadowed side,” Tim grumbled. “When was the last time you even got concussed, anyways?”
“Not that long ago,” Cassie said, but she didn’t commit to any numbers, so Tim huffed and dropped it. “We’ll be out of here soon. You’ll be cosy at home before you know it.”
Tim hummed. The fatigue was beginning to press in again, but falling asleep would be bad, so Tim moved his arm back to his side and stared dizzily at the sky. “I hope mum makes a stir fry tonight.”
“We had stir fry last night.”
“I love stir fry.”
“It’s Friday,” Cassie said. “We’ll probably get Indian.”
Tim blinked slowly. “I like Indian,” he said finally. Cassie laughed.
“Yeah, you do. You’re so gone,” she said. “Do us a favour and just go to sleep, T. I’ll wake you soon. Promise.”
Tim could do that. His eyes slid closed once more, and stayed closed as he fell asleep.