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He sighs, squeezes his eyes shut, and, grimacing, slides his hand down the collar of his shirt. He retrieves a small bag of something and flicks it hastily onto the ground. He covers his eyes with his hands.
"Oh," you say delicately. "Josey Hatchcock often did that, erm, in the <span class="mu-i">later</span> books. Though usually she hid larger, um... switchblades and things. Shall I retrieve the..."
Gil doesn't react. You unroll the cuff of your sleeve and slide the fabric over your hand— the one Richard didn't bite. (Though it is hurting less, now.) Thus protected, you pick up the baggie. It contains half a dozen oblong pills.
"Oh!" you say. "Stimmies!"
"I-I guess? I don't..." Gil lowers his hands. "I-I-I don't know. I ran, and hid, and they got me eventually, and then... I-I guess you know the rest of it."
Yeah, you guess you— "No, wait. What did Casey tell you? At the very end?"
"He... he said he knew who I was, and what I was trying to do, and he, um, sympathized, but i-it wasn't going to succeed. That I-I-I was in way over my... 'pretty little head.' There were higher things at work. And, um, he'd let me go this time, but next time could be ugly... I-I don't know if he knew about <span class="mu-i">me,</span> or if he was talking to her, or... we're not going back in, right?"
You tilt your head. "Uh..."
"Lottie, we just— I-I-I just pissed off— they probably have our faces on <span class="mu-i">record,</span> now, they could just— I-I don't even know, but the guards are no fucking joke, and—"
"Okay, then we'll get you a different face." You wave your hand. "Maybe we can get me a different face. Who knows? I don't think it'll be <span class="mu-i">soon,</span> anyhow, I just feel like it needs to be set on fire <span class="mu-i">some</span>day, so—"
"...You're joking? You're..."
Why would you be joking? "...No?"
He looks at the ground.
He's still shaking, you realize. Maybe a little less. But he's shaking, and his breathing is still kind of funny, and— has <span class="mu-i">nothing</span> changed? All that, and he's still hysterical? <span class="mu-i">Still?</span> Has yours ever lasted this long? How obnoxious, to drag it out past all point of reason— how selfish— how needy! You don't hate Gil. Of course not. But you are perhaps, in this moment of time, acutely disappointed in him, which is why you— "Um, Gil?" you say. "Do you, uh, need a... hug? At this present moment?"
"What?" he says.
What? you think. You decided against this. Firmly. "Well, um, I— I don't— uh— a hug."
You've seen Gil startled many times before, of course. (It's easy to do.) You can't say you've seen this particular <span class="mu-i">shade</span> of startle, though: he looks like he's been launched clean out of his body. "A hug," he says very very slowly.
Why are you elaborating? Why are you not shutting this down immediately? It was a slip of the tongue, not a real— "A, um, normal hug! A non-weird hug. A retainer— a retainerly— nothing <span class="mu-i">untoward,</span> I wouldn't ever— um— it's okay, because you're technically a woman in— in my age range, so—"
"<span class="mu-i">Why?</span>"
(3/4)
