[Wade shifts uncomfortably, feeling something in his chest constrict at the utter wrongness of that laugh. It's a sick sound, a hollow sound-- the sound of someone who's given themselves up for lost long before their time has run out. For a split second he finds himself back in a place with sterile walls and that acrid antiseptic smell, exhausted from the struggle to find answers and safety in a cold and clinical world that offers none of it.
It is probably the memories of that desolate time that prompts his next message:]
Pretty sure I know the answer to this question before I ask it, but what are our options here?
no subject
It is probably the memories of that desolate time that prompts his next message:]
Pretty sure I know the answer to this question before I ask it, but what are our options here?