They do not wholly understand him, fragile little quailing thing that he is. They can read into the taut worry in his stance, poised to bolt should they demonstrate any hostility. They understand his trepidation and his anxiety and his fear.

They can feel him itching at them, desperate to be let free. But he gave himself to them, and they will hold him to it. He surrenders wearily. His intent is powerful, and it lingers.

Home home home home

The fervent litany is confusing. They have never had a home. Neither of them have. They have always been in bitter agreement at that.

They twitch into motion, peer out from the dark seclusion of the alley. There is nothing about them. They look back.

He is still waiting.

They incline their head. Out. Out.