F R E N Z I E D

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

The seconds crawled by as she remained pressed against him, her lips curled greedily around the wound he had crafted within his skin. She hadn’t known what to expect the moment she pressed her tongue to his flesh, but it hadn’t been the shock of need that coursed through her veins. It wasn’t need for his body or for him, but for the warm copper that pulsed from his veins. The power she tasted within the thick sustenance ignited a fuse within in, and she found herself practically crawling into him for more. You’re such a goddamned whore. You’re nothing! With each insult that ricocheted in her mind, she bit harder, her blunt teeth threatening to open the injury wider, as if convinced his blood alone would be enough to vanquish the demons that taunted her within her own mind.

She was unaware of how long she remained there, his blood dripping down her throat and flooding her system, but she knew the moment was coming to an end. Over the sound of her own ragged breathing, she managed to pick up the faint sounds of the sirens, and her chaotic gaze flew open. Impossible. There was a touch of manic rage in her eyes as her fingers remained curled around his arm, her blunt nails digging deep into the roughened flesh. She wasn’t ready. She needed more, didn’t she? He didn’t give her the choice, however, as his gruff voice broke through the demons inside of her mind. With strength she wished to possess, he hauled her to her feet, and her lips finally parted on a scream.

The pain was still there. How was that still possible? She had done what she was supposed to, hadn’t she? Blinded as she was by the agony that tore through her, she didn’t see the spirit behind him, his smile wide and taunting as she staggered into the beast’s chest. Her fingers found his jersey, and she pulled at the thick material for balance as her bloodied feet threatened to fall from beneath her. Once she was certain she could stand on her own – at least, while using him for purchase, she relaxed. “Now they give a ****,” she hissed, her fingers slowly relinquishing their hold on his clothing. She wasn’t about to **** this up – or let him get caught for something she had done. If it hadn’t been for her weakness, he wouldn’t be here now, with her lovers blood on his hands.

Taking a step towards the car, she let loose a quiet groan as her legs trembled. Within seconds, she found herself pitching forward, her knees slapping into the blood that steadily pooled beneath Cristof’s prone form. “I don’t think… I can…” Her words were low, broken growl as she tried to lift back to her feet. If there was one thing that she wasn’t – it was a ******* quitter. Even as her vision swam, and the darkness tried to consume her once more, she fought to lift back to her feet, to make it to the car.

He. Could. Not. Win.

[Jesse Fforde]

As proud as it made the vampire to watch the woman try to make her own way—Reagan, the brute had called her—they didn’t have time. He’d already started making his way around to the driver’s side when she crumpled and fell to her knees, uttering something about being unable.

”You can,” Jesse barked, voice weighted with the blood he had consumed, thick, gluttonous. Still, he didn’t wait for her to get back up again, to find the passenger door handle and bundle herself up inside. Quick, steady steps carried him to her side, one hand winding around her waist and the other holding her arm over his shoulders. It gave the impression that she was walking herself, that she was carrying herself, but Jesse was there to do all the work if he was needed. He let go of her hand to open the passenger door, letting go of his charge to allow her to climb in.

Once she was safely enclosed, the door was slammed shut and he jogged around the hood and slipped into the driver’s seat. By this time, a smattering of neighbourhood onlookers had meandered from their windows and out their front doors, onto their driveways, tentatively peering at the commotion on the street. What was it with human nature, and the way they were drawn toward car crashes or their equivalent? Jesse kept his head down until he was obscured by the car, door closed and window up. Two seconds were spared to acquaint himself with the gears and the car itself; when he took off, the wheels dug into the asphalt, leaving behind black smears and smoke, the dead and maimed body left in their wake.

”I can’t drive the car home. They’ll be able to track it. We have to ditch it first,” he said. Though, he had a better idea. Reaching into his pocket he retrieved his phone, which he had stashed before ripping the heart out of the interloper. There were a couple of people he had on speed dial, and Laya was one of them—his thrall, who had no choice but to do as she was told.

”Laya, I’m on my way to Serpentine. Meet me out the front. Make sure you have your tome,” he said. There was colourful language on the other end of the phone; Laya didn’t like having to go the long way back to the lair, and she didn’t have a place of her own. She squatted in one of the unowned apartments at Third Circle, and whenever she was forced to hand over her tome she had to wait for Jesse to make her another one.

”Just do it. I’ll make you a new one as soon as I can,” he said, before hanging up. He knew he wouldn’t have to tell her twice. As soon as they were out of sight of the crime scene, he slowed down; a speeding car would only be suspicious, and they wanted to avoid attention. It would take the cops longer than ten minutes to figure out who the car belonged to, and what car they were looking for. They had time.

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

There was a war raging inside of her head, one that threatened to tear her in two. Her fingers curled within the warmth of the blood that coated the ground, the crimson a sharp contrast to the white of her skin. It caught her attention, even as her mind started to crack beneath the pressure. She was torn between who she wanted to be – and who he had turned her into. If she managed to pull to herself to her feet, she would have officially shattered the chains that he had encased her in. Yet, as she pulled her leg up, bent it at the knee until her foot replaced her handprint, she couldn’t bring herself to stand.

With shaking arms, she bowed her head as her lips parted, a strained sound escaping her throat. It was a choked cry, one filled with frustration and fear. The stress was written across her features, and even as her bruises healed beneath the warmth of the moon, she still appeared broken. It wasn’t the abundance of injuries that littered her frangible form that created the air of weakness that circulated her, but the horrors she had endured at his heavy hand reflected in her eyes. Her head bowed, she glared at his broken corpse, the hatred she felt boiling within her heating with sweep of her gaze across his face. How many nights had she remained in this same position as he kicked her like a whipped dog?

She counted the mornings she had woken in such indescribable agony that even parting her lips caused her to lose consciousness. She recalled the women he brought home and fucked in front of her, she replayed the myriad of insults he had whispered into her ear when he embraced her. As she watched his skin cool, she counted the seconds until she could breathe again, her heart slowing its unsteady beat. It had only four, and in those long moments, the beast had come back to her side. She felt herself being pulled from her nightmare, his dead eyes watching as the monster pulled her into his side. Was he in hell, even now, watching as another man lead her away from him? Was he seething?

Was he ******* suffering?

When she was upright, her eyes finally torn from his corpse, the battle came to an end. The victor had been declared, and as she collapsed into the passenger seat, her lips curved into a cruel smile. “It was his favorite, you know,” she whispered, voice strained. The blood still coursed through her veins, and she felt empowered, even as her body shut down. Dropping her head against the rest, she closed her eyes, long lashes dusting skeletal cheeks. She was small, her stomach sunken in, skin stretched tight against her bones. As the car took off, causing her stomach to jolt with the need to vomit, she turned towards the window and released a weak laugh.

“He fucked Olivia in it once. She made him take me to the hospital, but she still rode his dick while I was bleeding out in the backseat.” In truth, she didn’t know why she had told him that or why it had been that particular memory that had come to her mind as she slid further into the seat. The leather embraced her like a second skin, the familiarity of it causing her to tremble. She wanted no more memory of him; she wanted to bathe herself until she no longer tasted him. Turning back towards the sound of his voice, she forced her eyes open, even as her body felt as if she’d been doused in flames. Studying his profile, she lifted a hand to her hair, the bloodied strands caked to her skull. Forcing them behind her ear, she parted her lips to say something – and vomited on the console.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse felt no need to respond to Raegan’s memory, as sordid and twisted as it was. Strangely, though it tugged the corners of his mouth into a frown, he could imagine he and Clover doing something like that. Except their victim wouldn’t be taken to the hospital. Their victim would eventually be fully drained, then cut up and either minced or burned to a crisp. Or both. The flesh would crisp and make Jesse’s mouth water for the meat he could no longer eat. He could never imagine doing such a thing to Clover, however.

There were questions. Why would that dead body back there, previously douchebag #1, do that to someone he was in a relationship with? Was it a power thing? Issues with his mother? Wasn’t that what they always said about sociopaths? It always came back to the mother, and how they were treated as children. Jesse certainly blamed his past, and it was a wonder his own mother was not dead yet…

So, the guy was a sociopath. That explained the why. But then why would this girl, Raegan, why would she stay with him? What did he hold over her to make her stay? Surely it couldn’t have been love, right? Who was it that Jesse was choosing to save? If she hadn’t the strength to get out from under douchebag #1’s thumb, then would she be strong enough to survive this week of torture?

Of course he’d felt it, when he’d helped her into the car—he’d felt her bones so frail beneath her skin, like a bird with a broken wing who’d refused to eat, as if being as light as possible would help her to fly again. Here was a girl who had issues, and he was taking her home. Why? And…

Of course. Of course there would be vomit. Yes, Jesse was expecting that but all over the console? The warm acrid splash of it hit his arm, the fingers that curled around the steering wheel. He let go of the wheel and wiped his hand on his jeans. ”That’s not the last time you’re going to do that…” he muttered. Glancing down, he found the electric controls to all the windows on the driver’s door. An electric hum accompanied the lowering of the passenger window. ”Aim that way, next time,” he said, pointing toward the window as he didn’t take his eyes off the road.

If there was a next time, he paid it no mind. He was focused on getting where they needed to be; screeching to a stop out the front of Serpentine where Laya was waiting, he left the driver’s door open as he conversed with this thrall.

”Help me get her out of the car. Give her your tome,” he said. Laya begrudgingly did as she was told, complaining about the stench of vomit as she did so. But, she was compelled. She had no choice in the matter. He might have felt sorry for her but… he didn’t. Not at all.

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

There was a next time.

It came shortly after the first, and she didn’t bother to aim for the window. The sharp pain in her stomach didn’t give a **** about his comfort, but she managed to not spew the blood on his lap. This time, she doubled over, the darkened bile finding the floor at her feet. The warmth splattered against her toes, and as she tried to pull her legs back, pain shot through her body, causing her to scream. She barely noticed when he pulled his phone free, nor did she pay his words any mind. She was too focused on keeping herself from blacking out, her eyes closed tight as her fingers clutched at her shirt. She wanted to peel the material from her body, to burn it to ash, along with every memory of him.

When the car rolled to a stop, she was a second away from tearing the cloth free. It felt too much like a prison, and as the madness seeped into her mind, she made an incoherent sound. Something was wrong. Even in the state she had been in, she shouldn’t have felt like this, as if she were on fire. Had he done something to her? Had he poisoned her? She had put her truth in a vampire, in a demon of the night, and she hadn’t thought twice about it. She had only wanted to survive, to prove to Cris that she could survive without him. Even as he bled out in the street, the life faded from his cold eyes, the only thought she had was of winning. Now, with her skin tightening over her bone, her stomach churning with another wave of nausea, she realized the mistake she had made. Oh, **** this.

The second the door opened, she thought to run. Her feet slid across the vomit soaked carpet, the warm bile soggy and thick between her toes, but she barely made it an inch. Hell, she didn’t even know if she had truly moved at all. She thought she had, she had told herself to, but when she heard his growled demand, she realized it had only been in her feverish mind. When she felt a touch different from his against her skin, she laid her head on a feminine shoulder, the scent of perfume mixing with the toxic smell of vomit and blood. It was too much for her, and even as the woman uttered a complaint about the stench and pressed something into her loose fist, she parted her lips and spewed what was left of her stomach down the front of her shirt. There was a screech, or she thought there was, and she found herself stumbling forward. Too weak to stop her descent, she welcomed it – just as she lost consciousness.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the power in having a thrall. There were times he wished he could order everyone around like he could order Laya around; now with gore-ridden vomit splattered all down her front, Laya only wanted to turn tail and run. She wanted to say **** no and refuse to do anything that Jesse asked of her. But she had no choice. As soon as he made his demands, she had to follow through. The bond demanded it of her. It was undeniable.

The thrall looked like she wanted to cry but there was a fire in her eyes. Jesse Fforde had to hope that the enthrallment never broke, or that Laya died some unfortunate death. That look in her eyes threatened to kill him a thousand times over, and he knew that, if she had the chance, she’d slaughter him where he stood. Well, she could try.

And anyway, she’d displeased Jesse. Technically, Laya had helped Reagan out of the car, but had done so only to let her fall flat on her face. There’d be gravel rash added to the numerous wounds the girl already suffered from; more for his blood to heal, slow as it worked. Eventually she would be good as new, flawless and wound free. But it wouldn’t happen overnight.

”I said HELP her, Laya, not drop her!” he bellowed. Laya was taking quick steps backward, as if she could run from the sound of his voice. Could this actually have worked had he lost his voice completely? How would he able to order his thrall around if he didn’t have a voice with which to do it? One of the good things, he supposed, about having a voice to call his own again. ”No no, you don’t get to run away. The previous command still stands, right? You get in that car and you get rid of it. I don’t care how. You take it somewhere and blow it up. Send off a bridge and into the river. Don’t let anyone see you, don’t let anyone trace it back to here. If you fail, Laya, there’ll be consequences,” he said. The words were a growl, a command not to be withstood. Laya was still human, enthralled or not, and she was still under the influence of Jesse’s other curses, too. The one particular curse he didn’t see as a bad thing. She was afraid of him. Downright terrified. She nodded, the fire fled from her eyes. Within seconds she was in the car. Jesse slammed the passenger door before crouching down to sweep the unconscious Reagan up in his arms. The car took off from behind him.

Laya had succeeded in handing over the tome, however, which was a relief. With his still firm in his pocket, Jesse whispered the words he knew off by heart. Within seconds, both he and she were standing in the middle of Limbo, warm and welcoming as he and the family had made it.

It took him about fifteen minutes to get Reagan up to the second floor, to lay her out on the bed, and then set about preparing for the week of torture she would be submitted to. The fire was prepared and lit in the corner of the room, and, outside and across the cavernous hall he filled the bathtub with scalding water. It would cool before Reagan woke up, would be the perfect temperature.

He considered calling Clover. He should call Clover. She was a woman, and Reagan might be more comfortable with a woman. But, given Clover’s proclivity for jealousy – was it really a good idea? Maybe not. He’d done this before. He could do it again. She would just have to learn to trust him.

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

DAY ONE
You should have known the price of evil and it hurts to know that you belong here…
- Avenged Sevenfold, Nightmare

Darkness had descended, and she couldn’t breathe. Something clouded her vision, held her eyes shut. She tried to peel apart her lashes, but they were cemented closed, and she couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t she breathe? Parting her lips, she started to gasp, to try and pull that sweet oxygen into her lungs, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t force her lungs to inhale, her chest to collapse. It took a moment for her to realize that there was a pressure in her stomach, a pain that she hadn’t felt before. The more she regained conscience, the more volatile the agony became. It coursed through her veins, ripped apart her heart, and twisted in her stomach. It was that same feeling she had felt in the car – what had he done to her, now? She could remember the scent of the leather, but nothing more.

There was nothing more.

She tried to croak out a plea, to scream out his name, but without the air to form the word, it was only a squeak. Reaching a hand out, she curled her bloodstained fingers into the bedding, and she pulled. She pulled with whatever strength she had left, and she yanked it until it was off of her and on the floor. When the cool air brushed across her damp skin, she finally found a breath. She pulled that oxygen in; she tilted her head back, gulped at it like a fish out of water. It wasn’t so bad, then. She would be okay. She could make it out of this; she would survive him again, as she always did. It was going to be ---

Thirty minutes later:

When she woke this time, she was frozen. She could breathe, but she couldn’t move. It was as though her limbs had been turned to ice, leaving her curled in the fetal position in the middle of the bed. A bed that was too soft to be something that he would have offered her, and it smelled wrong. It was the wrong cologne, the wrong detergent. It was too spicy, too rich. He preferred more subtle, calm fragrances. What was he up to? What game was he playing – and why the **** couldn’t she move?

Running her tongue along her parched lips, she tried to uncurl her fingers. There was a movie once, one that she had watched reluctantly, about a captured woman. She had been beaten, tortured, and bound. She had thought herself paralyzed, because when she woke in the trunk of a speeding car, she couldn’t move. Through perseverance, she had finally been able to wiggle her toes and tap her fingers. It had all been in her mind, and that was what she was betting on. It was all in her mind – it always was. He played these fucked up games with her, twisted her thoughts, and made her believe she was broken.

If she could move her tongue, work her jaw, than she wasn’t frozen – she just had to keep trying.

After a few seconds, she felt her fingers move, t he ache shooting through her muscles until her entire body was alight with the pain once more. This time, she welcomed it – she even used it. Rolling onto her stomach, she shimmied to the edge of the bed, where she stretched her arm out to reach for the blanket. When her fingers just barely touched the edge, she realized her mistake. The ground began to swim, the darkness edging in on her vision, until she was once again spiraling out of control. She needed something, her mind told her, even as her body revolted. Instead of grabbing the blanket, she felt the darkness pulse around her, felt that pain in her stomach, that vile, toxic burn – and she started to choke. At first, she was able to control it, to control her reflux – but then she was taken over by spasms.

Unable to contain whatever it was that was clawing its way out of her body, she forced her mouth open, but instead of words, toxic bile coated the comforter and splattered across the floor. Her hair, soaked with sweat – and now vomit – clung to her pale, clammy face, and she knew she had to look a mess. She could feel the mascara smeared on her cheeks, taste the chemicals in the day old lipstick on her tongue as it mixed with the bile she had just gifted the floor with. Pressing her hand to the mattress, she tried to lift herself up, but she was too weak, too unsteady. She barely moved before she was falling back into the welcoming embrace of the mattress, sunken cheek pressed to the edge as her eyes stared sightless at the mess she had made before she gave up the fight, and succumbed to the darkness once again.

[Jesse Fforde]

A text was sent to Clover, eventually – not days after the fact but only an hour or two. He didn’t request help, just kept her informed. He’d picked up another stray; she was going through a week of torture in Cerberus. It didn’t tell her to come, nor did it tell her to stay away. If Clover was curious there was nothing to stop her from coming to visit. Jesse might even encourage it, even though he sometimes felt that introducing Clover to other women was like introducing a lone cat to another cat and telling it that it now had another cat to deal with. Sometimes there was hissing and spitting. Other times just avid curiosity. One could never predict.

Like a quiet, stealthy worker bee, Jesse did what was necessary to care for the stray – though when he returned to the room to find acrid bile all over the floor and the comforter that had been tossed to said floor, he knew he was too late with the bucket. Normally the bucket was just left in the room, but for some reason it had strayed and had ended up back in the laundry. The bucket played a vital part in this week of illness, when all unneeded human liquid was expunged from the body. The comforter was whisked away and dumped in the laundry to be dealt with later, and another retrieved from the linen closet. He tossed it over Reagan’s prone body and tucked it in a little at the edges, before he went and got a different bucket, a clean bucket, one that had never been used to house anyone’s vomit. This one he filled with warm water and, he used a washcloth to clean the vomit from Reagan’s hair. He then did his best to tie her hair up on top of her head to keep it out of the way should she hurl a second (or third or fourth) time.

The haphazard pile would no doubt knot; he was no hairdresser and had no idea how to style. But this wasn’t about style. It was about practicality. And anyway, as soon as the blood did its job and she was transformed into a brand new, fresh-faced vampire fledgling, that hair would be smooth as silk and the knots ought to all just drop out.

It was something he had noticed. A strange thing to notice, but he had.

And while he did all this he wasn’t walking on eggshells. He wasn’t trying not to disturb the sleeping woman. Because eventually she’d have to wake up. She’d have to see him, and acknowledge him. She’d have to remember him, and she’d have to take more blood. Every single night she had to have more blood otherwise the whole experiment would be a failure.

Jesse had only to imagine a single drop of blood and his canines lengthened, sharp as scalpels. These he used to gouge a line along the vein of his wrist, which he then held over Reagan’s mouth. Asleep or not, as soon as she got a taste he assumed she would wake. Her body would either crave what it knew would save it, or it would reject what it could not understand. Jesse waited – the former would be easier. If the latter, he’d just have to feed her by force.

[Raegan (DELETED 9663)]

DAY TWO

It wasn’t the dip in the mattress that woke her, or the press of chilled fingers to her burning skin. It wasn’t the soft sound of clothing rustling against her bedding, or the pain in her stomach. It was the sudden pressure of skin against her lips, the sharp taste of copper on her tongue. Her first thought was to shove the arm away, to fight the man that held her pinned to the bed. She could feel his body holding her down, his weight too much for her fading strength. He cocooned her within the sheets, his breath warm and sweet against her face – and then she twisted. The first to move was her leg, the slender limb kicking at the blanket that held her in place, the cotton wrapping around her thigh. Next, came her arm, the shaking, bruised skin peeking from beneath the pillow, frail fingers finding their way to his bicep.

He wasn’t holding her down.
He was… feeding her.

Finding in him the strength she didn’t possess, she forced her eyes to open, the crust falling from her lashes as dull blue eyes sought the shadowed figure hunched over her weakened form. He was the antidote to her disease, the cure to her ailment. Even as the dark hid his features, she knew that the beast had returned for her, though his growls were as silent as his heart. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, she needed to push at him, to force him away from her – but, she remained still as the memories crashed into her mind and threatened to overrun her senses. He was all she had in that moment, the final piece to her puzzle, the only thing left in the world to make her whole.

It wasn’t a romantic notion. There wasn’t a single part of her that could look upon his face and see anything other than the monster that had sought her out, had turned her into prey. Yet, she couldn’t see herself turning away from him and rejecting the power that he had offered her. She had demanded that he help her remain strong, hadn’t she? She had wanted to survive, to prove to the world that she wasn’t prey, that she was more than a woman scorned, a woman abused. She was chaos. Slowly, she began to part her lips, to accept the curse that he offered, to allow the blood to fall on her tongue. Quietly, she moved her hand down his arm, fingers curling around his wrist, as if to hold him there. She knew without a doubt that he could fight her – even at her strongest, he would win.

She wanted that power.
She craved that certainty.

Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes as she felt the blood warm her veins. The power eased the agony, but she knew it was going to be short-lived. Before she had a chance to even utter a single word, her body was suddenly arching off the bed, a scream tearing from her throat, the force sending the blood that had once been on her tongue splattering across her face and the sheets. Dropping her hand from his wrist, she clutched at the bed as her body went through the motions of rejecting him. Seconds passed, then minutes, and finally she collapsed back to the mattress, her skin pale and damp, her chest heaving with every breath she fought to force into her dying lungs. For a second, her eyes opened and locked on him, her voice a quiet whisper before the darkness took its hold once more.

“When… will it end?”

[Jesse Fforde]

At first it seemed like she was going to struggle, and Jesse was prepared to do what he needed to do. If she continued to struggle, then he would have to let her go. It would not have been the first time, nor did he think it would be the last—the turn wasn’t meant for some people. But, after the initial reaction, she clung to his arm like it was a rope attached to an anchor, and she would have to climb said anchor to reach the surface and breathe again. She took what she needed to take, and Jesse hummed his satisfaction. No matter how often he did this, he would never get over the sensation—and he wouldn’t tell anyone how much he enjoyed it. He took pleasure in it. It wasn’t sexual pleasure, no. No, perhaps he would talk to Clover about it, and probably had mentioned in the past, hadn’t he? But she was the only one. It might make things awkward, otherwise.

He thought it was going well until she screamed; until she made another mess that Jesse would have to clean up. This was the way it would go. There’d be nights he thought it wasn’t going to work, and nights that he would be certain that it would. Had she absorbed any of the blood at all? If it was going to work, she would need to.

The question was asked and, before he had the chance to answer she was gone again, passed out while her body changed, while it raged with fevers and illness. Jesse sighed and stood up; he got clean water, a clean cloth, and cleaned the blood from Raegan’s face. He found fresh sheets and lifted her out of the old ones, laying her in the nearby armchair while he remade the bed. He was an expert by now at making beds. Who’d have thought he’d ever be able to add ‘bed maker’ to his resume?

Raegan was then carried back to the bed, the bucket placed beside it in case she needed to use it again. The blankets were tucked up over her shoulders, the pillows fluffed before her head had a chance to hit them. The fire continued to crackle in the corner – not too hot, just a few small dancing flames licking at the kindle.

Jesse then attended to his own business. He left, did what he needed to do to keep himself fed and healthy, like he would have to do every night – though it was hardly an obligation. It was something that he enjoyed. He went to find Clover, to talk to her rather than communicate only via text. He checked emails, made sure everything was fine at the Gardens and at Serpentine, and came back. The day was spent hanging around Cerberus; when he’d had issues with nightmares Jesse had taught himself to stay awake. The sun still harmed him if he went outside, but he could at least stay awake. He felt like a zombie doing it; hungover, like he needed caffeine that he couldn’t drink. But he could do it, and easily.

He eventually found himself in the same armchair he’d previously placed Raegan, his feet up; a mistake, because he didn’t stay awake as he sat there, staring at the fire. He eventually zonked out, head back, arms dangling.