Chapter Text
New York had always had its rougher sides like any major city, separate from all the tourist traps and travel destinations. ‘The City That Never Sleeps’ was an accurate nickname, if for various reasons. There were the boroughs and districts that gave the city its nickname for good reasons and there were those that never slept for reasons that were a little less… casual conversation friendly. The city never quiets down, but that just means Peter knows what to expect no matter the hour of the day. There were the city squares and shopping districts that were nearly always bustling until well into the night before going quiet at closing hour, when the crowds would shift over to the late night streets. Peter had to know the thrum of the crowds, where the masses would be, and when so that he could maximize his routes as Spidey (once he ventured out of Queens). It was rough at first but it was doable, and, eventually, it came like second-nature.
This neighborhood was nothing like what he was used to.
The streets were practically devoid of life aside from the very few dead-to-the-world pedestrians trudging through the early morning mist, none of which seemed sober from one vice or another. Where normally he would hear the sounds of the city — even if distant — the stiff silence surrounding the street deafened the world around it like a stifling blanket. There was a tension in the air that bled into his bones, the entire street holding its breath at all times and forcing him to do the same. Peter could only hope that the direction he was heading in would lead him back to the typical noise of city streets. We never thought he would be itching for cracking roads filled with people going about their lives at the usual breakneck New-Yorker pace.
Instead, time felt like molasses moving around him. Above him the sun was still barely hanging in the sky. As he crossed over to what was slowly shifting to what seemed like another district, he wasn’t sure how to feel when he noticed the sun had barely moved despite Peter's own pained, sedated pace. His earlier urge to run had only fueled him a few quickened pace before the limp came back even more aggressive than before. Peter's ribs still forced him to breathe shallow with every step on the never ending pavement. Meanwhile, his leg would throb if he stepped on it wrong or let his mind drift a little too close to the box in his brain that he had been working to shove all his pain in.
The new district provided a bare minimum level of distraction. It had slightly taller buildings that were in much better repair — which wasn't really saying much considering the other neighborhood was inches from structural collapse on an epidemic level. This neighborhood all seemed less residential than the one before, more gaudy advertisements and window displays reflected off of wet pavement. Thankfully, that meant he could read some of the signs in passing in an effort to get his bearings. Shame he doesn’t recognize a single business since half of them are bars and the other half only have non-descriptive names like Eddy’s or Wade’s .
Where the other district had been lined with silent, crumbling houses and filled with a feeling reminiscent of a ticking time bomb, this one was filled with the echoes of arguments, retching, and the remnant stragglers of the after-hours crowd still stumbling their way home. It was a scene Peter was a bit more used to, unfortunately.
Used cigarettes and ashes line the bottoms of the brick walls the whole way down entire blocks and Peter can see the trampled weeds growing up out of every crevice in the cracked concrete sidewalks. But the worst of it is the empty and broken bottles of liquor covering the streets. Each piece of shattered glass catches the light from whatever few neon signs are still lit despite the rising daylight, turning the street into a glittering technicolored field in a way that belies the danger of the road before him. Every inch of what he sees just inspires him to keep pushing a little further on his heavily protesting feet.
By the time he reaches a place where the scenery around him has finally changed from the gray streets the sun is high in the sky, which Peter just thinks of as a testament to just how slow he must be moving. The buildings and roads he passes meld from shattered remnants of nightlife to greenery and broader city streets. A somewhat mangled looking city clock on a tall, black metal post reads the time as somewhere between noon and one o'clock. The minute and second hands both hang limp within the clock face leaving him to guess anything more specific, but he keeps meandering toward the greenery without caring to look closer.
Peter crosses the road toward what seems to be a park, though there isn’t a sign he can see to say which one and he doesn’t recognize the scenery yet. The wrought iron fence that seemed like it should wrap around the park is instead twisted or knocked down in some sections while completely missing in others further down. He steps over a wrecked section of the fence, careful not to catch his loose pants on the sharp points still affixed to the tops of the poles now bent to the ground.
For being a well enough kept park aside from the fencing, Peter is surprised to see so few people in it. There are a couple families, the occasional runner, and some city workers moving down paths, but the sunshine and relative warmth for being November would typically invite more people into the outdoors than what he sees. He grimaces a bit when he passes one of the workers moving by and they flash him a pitying look. Peter supposes his situation must be obvious enough when comparing how bundled up everyone around him is to how limited he is in terms of winter clothing. His hoodie is certainly warm and oversized in a way that helps fight the cold, but his sweatpants are appallingly worn thin and the boots from his suit were never made to protect him from a chill (let alone how the cracked soles let the frigid feeling of the ground through).
He walks only as deep into the park as he has to in order before he sees a bench that sits in the full sun. It’s only lit by what little sun there is in the relatively cloudy November sky, but the lack of shade is all that matters. The spot is well out from under any sort of tree cover which he hopes means the bench might be a bit warmer than its shaded counterparts. Peter sits down and instantly shivers from the feeling of the frozen wood under him. He bears through it, his legs desperately need a rest and his stomach hasn’t stopped pestering him since he left the bakery this morning. His headache at this point is probably a mix of his hunger and dehydration being lumped on top of whatever bump he’s sure he got from being flung through the hole in the multiverse. Reaching for the bag of food from Abuelita, he decides his injuries can come after food, when his head hopefully clears a little.
The bag looks just like a typical clear plastic treat bag, if a bit larger than he may have seen before. It’s held shut by a vibrant blue twist tie that she seems to have wound around so many times that it takes Peter a good minute to undo because of his current lack of fine motor skills. His hands are shaking from the cold already, and he figures it’s probably being exacerbated by the hunger and low blood sugar that has undoubtedly set in by now. When it finally comes undone, the smell of the baked goods is like a rush despite being a day old. Just like before, it has him ready to devour the whole thing and then some. Instead, he tries to reach in calmly, careful and nearly reverent in his calm. A tiny bread roll is the first thing on top, and while it may just be a single, small roll Peter revels in that first bite. It’s soft despite being ‘stale’ according to Abuelita and just sweet enough without being any kind of overly sweet treat like the other desserts he can smell, which Peter is sure would just make him sick right now. He can’t bring himself to savor it for more than a second and devours it and the identical one that was under it in the bag in just a few seconds flat. They’re quickly followed by a third before he has to force himself to stop and quickly twist the blue tie back into place.
Silently, he thanks Abuelita in his head while simultaneously mourning the loss of food. He still hasn’t figured out where he is, and he doesn’t have any money on him so it isn’t like he can run to the nearest bodega for a bite (not that he’s actually seen any yet, just some closed down bars or a few boarded up pharmacies). Peter hesitantly puts the bag back in the hoodie pocket, resolving to have more when he figures out where he is to save it as fuel to make it back home. He’s adamantly ignoring the fact that home is currently not somewhere he technically lives because he technically doesn’t live anywhere, but he has to get there and get his things before it gets cleared out by… whoever would do that since it won’t legally be him. Peter is also steadfastly not thinking about exactly why he has to wipe his existence from his own apartment.
Forcing himself to shift his focus, Peter moves to check on his injuries just to gauge how far he thinks he can go with the remaining daylight. He’s been healing far too slowly. Even for how beat up he is and underfed Peter knows he technically is on even a good day, it shouldn’t be quite this slow. What is thankful for is that where there had been a gash on his left arm from fighting the Green Goblin is now smooth and the pain from his other shoulder has pretty much vanished. The soles of his feet feel like they’ve probably scarred over already, but his presumably sprained ankle is still sore and tight. Peter hates that he knows his ankle must still be in pain because he can’t just let it rest and that he probably won’t be able to for a while. His breathing isn’t a problem for the slow pace he’s been moving, but that doesn’t mean he can’t recognize that something about it is wrong. The general achiness of his ribs is a couple degrees better — if he can ignore the occasional stabbing pain — but his breaths are still somewhat labored anyway.
Lifting his hoodie and the black t-shirt underneath, the cold air slaps into his torso like an indelicate ice pack as he tries to lean over just enough to check for bruising. And, wow, because that is a lot of bruising. Peter’s entire left side is a canvas of mottled purple, yellow, and green bruising. If he were in a better mood he might just joke that it looked like a bad impressionist painting, but as it was the nausea from the new rush of air against his ribs was spiking his pain levels already made him a bit miserable. Peter decides against any further poking or prodding in consideration of the apparent risk of upending his stomach that has been accompanying his injuries lately.
When he lowers his sweatshirt, sighing at just how screwed his day is, he looks up to see a woman in running gear stopped further down the path staring at him in shock. Peter is confused for a second before he realizes that she must have seen his side and all the accompanying marred skin while he was checking himself. In fact, from where she stands to his left she would have had a prime view of the whole gruesome display and he internally sympathizes.
Peter sees her pull out a phone with shaking hands and opts to dip before she can call the cops or CPS on him, heading back the way he came out of the park as fast as he can hobble. His only plan is to lose line of sight in the more narrow streets just in case she tries to follow as he navigates back down the same narrow, trash filled streets.
So much for making progress.
Halfway across the city, Jason was already sick of his brother. It wasn't a new experience by any means, but sometimes it was easier to ignore than others. Today, however, Dick was dangerously close to pushing Jason straight to his limit.
They had already wasted a fair amount of the morning arguing over how to actually go about this little manhunt of theirs. Jason was in favor of a fair amount of delegation to his own people. It would be a bit hectic but also have a better shot at getting the kid found sooner than just the two of them. Dick, on the other hand, refused to even consider the suggestion of trusting the job to anyone else.
“I just don't get it — you'll trust a few random street kids and some ex-cons but not Barbara , who is the most capable person we know for the job.”
Screw it, Dick was moving to push past his limit and shove it straight into the stratosphere, and Jason was ready to push Dick straight off a cliff in retaliation. Karmic justice — or at least petty justice.
Dick's hands were on his hips like a disappointed mother, face tight in a pout. Jason, meanwhile, so very much did not give a shit. “What part of ‘no means no’ don't you get?” He sports a vicious smirk as he asks, “Do I need to say it in another language? Is a two-letter word too much for you?”
Dick's face turns genuinely sour at that. “I'm trying to be serious about this, Jay!” He throws his arms up in exasperation before pacing back to the living room window. He throws the curtains aside and motions blindly outside. “We both know that this kid could be anywhere out there while we're wasting time in here. I’m sick of sitting here when I know that we could find the answer in no time but you’re being touchy so instead we’re stuck with our thumbs up our asses.” He fixes Jason with another stony look, stating his final argument. “We can do it your way, but if we can't find him in less than 24 hours we have to do something else. You know that we can't just leave that kid out there, not in the state he was in.” Dick finishes with a tight face and hard pull to his jaw that Jason knows mirrors his own.
“Fine.”
“Great.”
“Shut up.”
Dick throws his hands in the air again before stalking over to the kitchen and somehow magically producing another box of cereal even Jason had forgotten about. Dick had finished the last one early on in the morning, munching it dry like a new age caveman. When the argument had gotten particularly heated, he had thrown the empty box across the kitchen in a pathetic attempt to nail Jason with it. It was still lying where it had landed, wedged under the door of the non-functional dishwasher.
(So what if his dishwasher didn’t work, sue him. He barely had time to eat period, let alone cook a decent meal.)
Glaring from his perch on the countertop, Dick asks, “So, who are we starting with?” His mouth is stuffed as he talks and it takes everything in Jason to not recite Alfie’s etiquette lessons.
Instead, Jason pretends to deliberate before he responds to give himself time to count to five. “The kids’ll be the best network to reach out through, if the hardest to actually check in with.” At the tired look Dick shoots him, he adds, “The effort would be worth it. The kids are more honest and more likely to give half a damn. Might be a bunch of brats, but they’ll empathize.”
Dick’s expression turns more sad than anything at that point, all the frustration from earlier melting away. “Do we even think the kid will make it? I know Doc would’ve said something if she thought he’d be dead by morning, but still.”
Jason’s anger flares back up again at Dick’s resignation. “We’re looking anyway,” he growls out, fists tight at his side.
“I’m not saying we give up before we even begin,” Dick placates with his hands up, like Jason is some sort of scared animal. It pisses Jason off more. “I’m just saying we have to consider how that will affect looking for him. How much do we tell these kids? Can we be sure that…” He trails off and there’s all sorts of things that could be implied by that specific silence.
Jason turns his head away as he tries to cool himself off. He knows it’s not what Dick meant, but he’s sick of everyone giving up on or thinking the worst about all of the street kids. They aren’t innocent and they’re not helpless. He knows that most of all, but they’re still just kids and that means they do everything they can no matter what.
Jason sighs, shaking out his head. He’s sick of the fighting and he still hasn’t even had any caffeine so he’s running out of fuel for his fire. “The kids can probably be told more than the others. If we need to, we can ask Harper or Cullen to get the word out, but I know at least a few in the Alley that’ll be good for it.” Dick looks about ready to bitch again at the mention of other Bat-friends that aren’t Oracle but he raises a hand and stops him before he can start his wailing. “You said 24 hours, so we give it 24 before the others get looped in. Those Row kids are good kids, and Bat-brain may have his grubby little hold over Harper but those two are Alley kids by birth.”
His brother crosses his arms with another little petulant pout, like the tantrum throwing little turd he is, but acquiesces to avoid another fight anyway. Dick does, however, take a second to violently shove another loose handful of cereal in his face before hopping back down from the counter. And, with his mouth full again, he asks Jason, “So, seriously, who are we starting with?”
Groaning, Jason just motions to follow him with a wave of his hand as he turns to leave. “Just follow me, you indecent oaf.”
“Hey!”
They each take their bikes and head North until they end up in the southern side of the Bowery, weaving in and around cars or splitting lanes as much as possible to cut the travel time to as short as it can be. Jason will milk this 24 hours for all that he can. Dick follows close behind him on an electric blue… thing that looks like it was pulled out of a wreck and resuscitated a few too many times. Jason waves his brother over to follow him down a side street behind Crime Alley and parks right at the base of the steps to an old, practically abandoned children’s shelter. Jason tugs off his helmet, shaking out the nasty-ass helmet hair, before shoving it right back on. He grabs his phone from his jacket pocket as he steps off the bike and toward the steps. Behind him, Dick goes to lock his bike down, but Jason holds up a hand to stop him before he can get too far. “Don’t bother. We won’t be here long enough to make it worth it.” He scrolls through his contacts before he hits the call button for the one he’d been looking for. “Hey, blondie. You happen to be home about now? Got a favor to ask you might be interested in.”
Over the line, a tinny voice comes through even choppier than usual. “Yeah? You wan- be more- that?”
Jason isn’t even gonna waste the time trying to decipher that. “Yeah, ain’t got a clue what you just said kid. Get your tiny butt down here and then I’ll explain, ‘kay?” The other end hangs up with little fanfare, which Jason guesses is karma for his game of phone-tag with Dick.
Said idiot brother is leaning against Jason’s bike, helmet still on as he taps a finger on his crossed arms. Before he can explain to Dick what the deal is, his tween-sized contact comes bounding down the concrete steps two at a time, red shirt billowing up as he hastily throws on his muddy looking brown zip up hoodie overtop.
“I said gimme some details you mangy, overgrown sack of shit!” The boy glares at him from two steps up, eyes still not quite level with Jason’s own behind the helmet visor.
“Good to see you too, kid,” Jason replies as Dick snorts behind him to cover up his laughs at Jason’s expense. “Got a scavenger hunt for you guys. Top prize for finding a scraggly lookin’ kid who looks like he just about went through a wood chipper.”
He shows the kid a cropped picture of the boy, just his face and fluffy mess of bloodied hair visible, to which the boy just responds, “Gross.” When he looks back up at Jason after examining it he asks, “Can you send it? I’ll show the others and ask around.” When he nods, the kid moves on. “What else should we look for?”
Jason thinks for a second back to what Doc Thompkins had described giving him for clothing, since he couldn’t imagine that the kid could still be wearing a super-suit looking thing without triggering at least a few calls to the police or something. “Abandoned hospital gown could be a sign, but the kid’s decked out in Superman merch, I think.”
The kid huffs and sends a blond wisp of hair flying. “So is half of the east coast, but yeah sure, great help.” Jason just laughs as he sends him the photo and slides his phone back in his pocket.
Jason flashes him a thumbs up as he steps back toward his bike, Dick getting the cue to head back to his own. “Just send a message my way if you hear anything, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The boy gives Jason a thumbs up back before climbing back up the stairs and through the massive wooden doors.
The sun was already in its descent through the sky when Peter finally got deep enough back into the district he had come from that he couldn’t hear the woman on the phone following him anymore. Truthfully, she stopped about a block in but he wasn’t about to risk it. He couldn’t blame her, considering it seemed the neighborhood was slowly rousing. Unlike the other district he had passed through, this one was blatant about the danger it held. No one hides their intentions out on the street or tries to keep their mess inside. It’s barely the afternoon and already there are drunks stumbling down the sidewalks and through the doors of freshly opened… establishments.
Most places are still relatively quiet, but that was only because the sun was still out. There’s definitely those same day drinkers that would probably be back at the same time tomorrow, but there were more folks just going about their day than anything else. Some look over their shoulders as subtly as possible while others walk with a tense sort of confidence that Peter knows comes with just being used to whatever crazy comes your way. He knows he’d be in the first camp right about now if it weren’t for his spider sense, and considering he hasn’t felt it flag yet he’s guessing there’s no real danger in being out and about this time of day.
But, that doesn’t exactly mean Peter wants to be out right now. His legs are exhausted in a way they haven’t been since he got his powers while his headache has just gotten slowly worse as he meandered his way down the streets, across intersections and narrow sidewalks. Peter’s trying to think of somewhere he could find nearby to stop, a cafe or really anywhere that would have seats, when he gets stopped in his tracks by the first bout of real yelling he’s heard since he started walking back.
It’s a deep and tired sounding voice, firm when the man yells, “Keep your fuckin’ nose out of it, old man. Be glad we don’t just take you ‘fer everythin’ you’ve got!”
Adrenaline is the only thing that lets Peter push himself further down the block and around a corner. There, just around the bend is a massive, unlit neon sign hanging off the side of the brick front that reads ‘Bowery Storage Units’. The words are proudly displayed on a giant placard fixed to the brick wall just above the door, but what stops Peter is the Broadway-like bulbs rimming the edges of the display. It seemed a bit over the top to have a marquee for a self storage place, but that’s really probably beside the point.
Another, more feminine voice adds, “We’ve been doing business a while now, Jayne — we’d be real sad to see something so silly make that end.” The woman speaks in a demeaningly sweet tone as Peter creeps closer to peer through the open garage door entryway.
Across from Peter, further inside by some office doors stand a tall, beefy man and a concerningly petite woman. They both leer at an old man behind the counter who seems unfazed by the whole encounter as he leans casually against the countertop. Peter could just barely smell the residue of gunpowder, but when he didn’t see any actual guns he held back from jumping in.
Jayne (which Peter is guessing must be the name of the old man even if that’s not exactly what he expected) just stares at the other two. All he says to them is, “Clear it out.”
The man and woman bristle at his command, and while the woman runs a hand through her auburn hair the man stalks closer to the counter and slams his palm down. Like a rabid dog, he spits right in Jayne’s face. “Try’n make us, ya’ old son of a bitch.”
Finally moving, the older man reacts by grabbing a shotgun out from under the counter with the same deadpan expression he’s been wearing. He slowly shifts to point it at the two, calm in a way Peter’s never seen anyone, and the woman at least has the sense to back up while the man remains frozen. “If it ain’t paid, clear it out. So ‘less one of you two ruttin’ idiots got enough cash hiding up your gorram asses, I suggest you ‘git.”
Seemingly the more sensible, or at least the less scared of the two, the woman grabs the still motionless man by the elbow of his oversized coat and drags him straight out of the building’s wide entrance. Peter stands up straight, ready to move the other direction to try and not look like he’d been watching the whole thing, but the other two make a quick left and dart further down the street away from Peter. He relaxes, sighing before he grimaces as his ribs protest all the motion. Which is a bit concerning considering he’d barely done anything at all.
Looking back inside, Peter sees the man, apparently named Jayne, move to put the shotgun back under the counter. When he stands back up, Peter sees the first actual expression on his face and is somewhat surprised to see a very self-satisfied smirk take the place of the absolute deadpan-nothing that had been there. With a dramatic dusting of his hands on his green utility jacket, Jayne turned around and went through a door behind the counter that led to what looked to be the office for the building.
Content that it was resolved and ready to go back on his search for somewhere to rest now that the immediate situation seemed to deal with itself, Peter shakes his head and readies himself to move on. He goes to turn back to the main street he had been on, but as soon as he takes one step it feels like his ankle is ready to give out underneath him. When he goes to catch himself on the doorframe of the garage entrance his ribs don’t fare much better than his ankle had.
Peter feels beyond frustrated at himself: at the way he isn’t healing fast enough, at the lack of progress in getting home, and even his inability to figure out where in the city he is . He braces himself on the metal frame and tries to think. The old man is still in the back office (Peter thinks he can hear him humming something to himself) so he has time to just pause and breathe. Problem is that he’s not sure it will make a difference — Peter doesn’t think he can make it much further when he doesn’t even have a real destination.
Although, he realizes he might not have to go much further.
The building he’s been using for support is a storage facility filled with units wall to wall. It’s only one floor but it’s filled with aisles and aisles of different units and from where he stands he can peer down one of the aisles. Further down it, he can see at least six units with no locks at the bottom of their doors. If he can make it to one of those, and if they really are empty, he can lay down for just long enough to get his feet back under him.
His mind made up, Peter slides off the wall and further into the building while keeping an ear out for Jayne. He’s down the aisle before the man stops his humming, but the office door hasn’t opened back up yet so he keeps moving. Slow and careful to not make a sound but fast enough to not lose momentum, Peter makes his way to the farthest available unit. It’s smaller than the other ones in the aisle, probably crammed into the left-over space, but it’s plenty big enough for what Peter needs it for. He grabs the handle at the bottom and prays that it won’t make the ungodly metal screech he’s expecting.
Surprisingly (and with a little help from whatever enhanced strength he can muster right now), the door goes up without much sound. Pulling and lifting it, however, sends another stabbing sensation into his ribs that makes his lungs feel like his whole torso is about to convulse as he holds in a groan and a cough. Moving to pull the door back down doesn’t hurt nearly as much but it certainly isn’t painless either. As soon as he’s done, Peter all but collapses to the cold concrete floor and relaxes on his back with an exhaustion that’s been building the whole week.
He’s finally alone, free to sit, and ready to pass the hell out. Not giving a crap about any possible indigestion, he pulls the goody bag from Abuelita back out of his hoodie pocket and immediately shoves a muffin in his face. Peter thinks it might be blueberry, but it could taste like burnt pine cones for all he cares right now, it’s food. His stomach now sated a little, but not nearly enough, he moves to pull the next treat out a little slower.
Peter falters a little when he sees what the next thing from the bag is.
It's a miniature churro, perfectly made in a way that looks like its been coated in cinnamon with a heavy hand. It’s tiny but it pulls at his heart and his memories all the same. Of all things to be what sends him in another spiral, he wasn’t expecting a churro. Peter’s reminded of the grandma he had helped back in Queens, a day that feels like a lifetime ago. He called Happy and left a voicemail to tell him everything, and instantly regretted mentioning the churro. He was begging for a chance to get into the big leagues because he had no idea just what he would be getting into. Peter remembers when Happy brought up the old lady and her gifted churro — Peter nearly launched himself off the Queensboro Bridge out of embarrassment.
Peter would never get to tell Happy about his churros or nice old ladies or leaving notes on bikes ever again. He would never get judged for his weird hobbies by Mr. Stark or see May laugh at Happy’s jokes with a confused little look in her eye. Peter would never get to take bad home videos of Happy on top secret road trips that he had to hide from all his friends because he didn’t even have friends anymore. Happy had no clue who Peter was and he had to keep it that way because that was what was for the best. And now Peter was crying over tiny churros in some poor old man’s storage unit in the middle of who-knows-where, all because he couldn’t annoy someone anymore who never deserved it in the first place.
Using his sleeves to dry his eyes, Peter ignored the tears that kept falling as he sat up. He set the bag down beside him before pulling off the hoodie. It sent another aching wave of the same old pain through his different injuries, but he didn’t even care anymore. He resigned himself to the hurt. Peter set the blue and red fabric in his lap while he yanked off the black t-shirt, his frustration bleeding into his movements. The tee gets balled up on the ground behind him while the hoodie is slipped back on and Peter knows even indoors the cold must be severe considering how desperately he missed the warmth that quickly. He snuggles into the hood, immediately pulling it back up and yanking the sleeves over his hands as fast as possible. Tears still blur his vision as he turns to grab the t-shirt, mixing now a bit with tears he can only assume stem from his absolute exhaustion. Peter balls up the shirt into a very pathetic makeshift pillow, and as he lays down on top of it he can’t even bring himself to care how pathetic it may be.
Instead, he just slowly chews on a churro from where he lay on his side, his head cushioned by a thin sheet of cotton and the cold concrete icing his chest. Peter sits in the dark waiting for the exhaustion to hit hard enough to fall asleep, ignoring the feeling of tears slipping down his cheek.