He remains in place until his tears have dried, scrubbing furiously at his face with bandaged hands. An old metal can of some sort protrudes from the heaps of trash at his feet; digging it out with the toe of his battered sneaker, he frees the object and bends to pick it up. Wipes dirt and whatever refuse off it before using it to inspect his reflection. It's distorted, hideous, and faint. With a sigh, he chucks the thing at the brick wall closest to him and forces himself to stand up.

On his way through he passes the same alley he'd almost died in, and is pleased to see his hoodie is still lying there. One of the sleeves is torn and it's covered in blood, but overall it seems okay.

If his jaw weren't swollen and broken, he'd be grinning right now. He'll live to die another day, though he probably wouldn't have complained about leaving this miserable earth forever.

There's just one thing, though: why the hell would a Wit step up to help someone like him?

Rain begins falling as he pulls the hoodie over his head. Shoving his hands into the hoodie's pockets, he continues the slow walk back to the brown apartments where the family lives. He stands a few feet from the building, his mind a jumble of thoughts and questions.

Staring up as the rain falls harder, he shakes his head.

"That fool. Thinks he's a hero, does he? Shoulda just left me to die," he mutters grimly, spitting on the ground and tramping up the rickety steps to the apartment.

The door is locked, and he scowls. He'd been hoping to sneak back in. Rain is falling harder with each passing second, and in his current condition he really doesn't wish to spend the night out here again. He'll even let the mother have her way if he can just lie down with some pillows and blankets for once.

His mind and will are in a fierce battle with his body, everything moving in slow motion and shaking like the legs of a newborn deer. He knocks on the door, and though it seems loud to him it's really only a light rap that no one inside could possibly pick up, even with as thin as the walls are.

Clothes that were once dry are now drenched, sticking to the boy's body. Instantly he's hit with convulsions, driving him to knock with more urgency and force; the action causes his cracked knuckles to ooze blood, and he winces as the filthy rain falls effortlessly into his cuts.

Louder and louder, each frantic knock echoes into the night, until he can hear all the deadbolts and latches being undone on the other side. The door is pulled open a scant crack, revealing a woman's face. Bearing an expression of annoyance, she growls, "What do you want?"

The boy considers the possibility that she may not recognize him, especially with his face being as swollen as it is. He clears his throat, wanting to run away as each word leaves his mouth, "May I come in?"

Silence. The woman inhales deeply through her nostrils, keeping a tight grip on the door handle. "What's your business here, cretin?"

"Mama–it's Emory." The boy's voice breaks, consumed with the fear of being turned out again. Of course he can't expect Joan to welcome him, since she did kick him out, but...it's raining...and he's cold and hurt enough to be desperate.

Desperate enough to call this woman Mama, a term that got him slapped as a child.

"Emory. Do I know an Emory?"

It takes all the boy's strength to keep from whimpering. The rain is only coming harder and a sharp wind has picked up as well, biting its way through the boy's drenched, baggy clothing.

And then suddenly he's grabbed by the arm, pulled inside and pushed to the living room floor. Instinctively he scrambles to get up but his body is done, it cannot keep going. All he can do is curl his knees up to protect his stomach, and pull his arms up to cover his head.

Whatever he's anticipating, it won't come until each and every deadbolt, latch, and padlock has been secured. He listens to each one in dread, tremors threatening to consume his body until his vision begins to blur from the excessive shaking.

"Where did you get those clothes?" The Mother's sharp tone cuts into his sensitive ears. It is so overwhelming to his senses that he cannot respond in time, and she speaks for him. As usual. "Stole em, probably. Your kind never changes."

A deep inhale, the boy prepares to defend himself. Once again, she will not let him.

"Ugh. You disgust me. Make yourself scarce," the woman barks, planting her foot into the lower portion of his spine and shoving him across the floor.

Fear seems to compensate for his lack of strength, as it spurs him into the laundry room which has been his dwelling for the past seventeen years of his existence. He crawls into the heap of worn blankets that have served as his bed, wrapping himself in them to keep warm. Closing his eyes, he transports himself back to that girl's house, where those two Wits were generous enough to let him bathe. What he wouldn't give to be there right now, though he knows he can't expect to ever go back. It was a one-off situation, after all. He cannot anticipate kindness from Wits ever again.

Hopes crushing with each passing second, the boy is forced to lie awake the entire night. If he dares sleep, what nightmares will prey upon him? Suppose the mother decides she does not wish only for him to be scarce, but to be beaten?