letting them want for a home

[crusaded]

The lack of care that I've put into covering my tracks in Rapture might be inspiring. Time has won this battle; I grasp after every spare second with my hands, feet quiet as I race down the path, but not silent. I feel the sticky warmth of blood sliding down the length of my neck, the metallic tang clear against the line of my teeth, but I feel not the way that my lungs scream for air, or for the ache of bruises coming to the surface. Adrenaline has left no room for that. Somewhere in these depths, Jason is waiting, hiding, and there's a part of me willing to bet that he'd close himself down here entirely, given a source of food and water. But living by the skin of one's teeth has always been what I sought to help the boys avoid. Never letting them want for a home, for room and board, for a guiding hand.

And no matter how much I've failed with each and every one of them, there is always a greater depth to fall into.

I refuse to leave without laying a line.

Nearly an hour passes before I pick up the proper signal from the cowl. A young man of the right size, less than a block away. It might take me six minutes to get there. Five, if I press.

And every second counts.