He woke up and wasn’t sure how long he’d been watching the TV, staring at it in a sort of mindless haze.

He hoped they didn’t try to come find him. He hoped they thought he was really dead. He knew he was supposed to be. Dead. He couldn’t remember how he got home, but he opened his eyes and Justin was in front of him, holding onto his arm even in his sleep, and his knuckles were kind of white and JC had a bruise but that only reminded him that he was home.

He hurt, but he couldn’t describe where it started, where it ended, what hurt the most. If he sat still enough, cleared his mind enough, it was better, or worse, because then he could only concentrate on the hurt. He wasn’t quite sure what to do yet.

Justin’s commercial was on again. He remembered seeing it before, so they must be on a loop and he must have been watching it for hours. He didn’t think they expected people to watch it during the day, so they probably didn’t care much what they aired.

Justin had given him his ration of coffee that morning. He didn’t have food anymore. No work meant no food. He knew how it went.

He fell asleep again, dozed, whichever, staring at his arm and the TV in turn.

He didn’t wake up again. Or, didn’t think he woke up. He heard voices so he must have been dreaming.

Go to the door, it said. JC obeyed.

Open it. JC had his hand on the doorknob before he stopped. He couldn’t go outside. They’d find him. He’d be dead all over again if they found him.

Open the door! The voice was louder, more insistent, and his hand on the knob tightened, the veins standing out against his pale skin.

No! He jerked his hand away, even though he didn’t think he was really awake, didn’t think he was really at the door, about to step outside.

He didn’t believe until the pain started, in harsh, shocking waves, rolling from the top of his head to his feet, through his feet, almost. He heard a loud, harsh moan, like that of a wounded animal, and didn’t realize until he cowered to the floor, hands over his head, that it was his moan, his cry.

He backed into the corner, hiding from himself, the voice, them. His hands over his head, he did the best he could to wish himself invisible, but the pain kept coming, in relentless waves that he couldn’t escape.

He bit his lip. He wouldn’t let them hear him whimper.

He felt hands on his arms, pulling him up. He fought at first, but he was weak, too weak from fighting his own body to do more than pull ineffectually at their grasp. They must have him now.

But the hands were gentle, soothing and JC fell gratefully into them, felt them lift him and carry him away from the corner and he didn’t really care where they took him, so long as it was away.