He's not looking at anything. There's nothing to see. Still, there's a pressure against his chest, pins and needles across his shoulders, trailing down the wings that he didn't realize he'd tucked so tightly against his sides. He's not sure what to call it, but the first word that comes to mind is, inexplicably, guilt.

"Y--yeah," he mumbles, feeling like his head's trailing six feet behind the rest of him. "Me too."

He brought his camera. He brought his bag. He brought his flashlight, even if he's not using it. He told his parents he'd be at a friend's house after the game, and that he wouldn't be long, really. He made time. He may not get another chance for a while.

But he's not supposed to be here.

It's too cold.