The sound, brief as it is, tugs at him. He's not sure what he's supposed to do about it, except blink back the moisture gathering at the rims of his own eyes. Keep it together. It's just the end of the trail, just a slight easing in the pressure against his temples. Nothing worth crying over.
(They almost died, and it's nothing worth crying over. Granted, nothing's supposed to be worth crying over, except maybe somebody actually dying. Like, family, or a wife, or something, not just anybody. You don't just cry because you feel like it; if that were the case, it wouldn't be so weird to hear Tim.)
(Besides, if this footage goes up online, nobody's gonna want to hear that. That would be the first thing they'd comment on. He'd never live it down.)
Still, he picks up the pace, coming up alongside Tim. He's not sure how to respond, but he feels like he's supposed to be at least there.
They break the treeline.
Jay blinks. It's all fading: the throbbing at the back of his skull and the pressure across his chest, the tension pulling his shoulders tight and his wings off-balance, the film across his eyes. He's still got a vicious headache, though, and he winces in the piercing glare of the headlights.
The cab's pulled into a parking space at the edge of the lot, a few yards from the woods, and there's an older man, a barred owl, leaning against the driver's side door. His face is drawn, barely illuminated by the glow of his phone.
"Christ, there you are." He looks up from the phone, and the glow fades, leaving him an indistinct silhouette backlit by the dim streetlights lining the lot. "Hospital?"
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The sound, brief as it is, tugs at him. He's not sure what he's supposed to do about it, except blink back the moisture gathering at the rims of his own eyes. Keep it together. It's just the end of the trail, just a slight easing in the pressure against his temples. Nothing worth crying over.
(They almost died, and it's nothing worth crying over. Granted, nothing's supposed to be worth crying over, except maybe somebody actually dying. Like, family, or a wife, or something, not just anybody. You don't just cry because you feel like it; if that were the case, it wouldn't be so weird to hear Tim.)
(Besides, if this footage goes up online, nobody's gonna want to hear that. That would be the first thing they'd comment on. He'd never live it down.)
Still, he picks up the pace, coming up alongside Tim. He's not sure how to respond, but he feels like he's supposed to be at least there.
They break the treeline.
Jay blinks. It's all fading: the throbbing at the back of his skull and the pressure across his chest, the tension pulling his shoulders tight and his wings off-balance, the film across his eyes. He's still got a vicious headache, though, and he winces in the piercing glare of the headlights.
The cab's pulled into a parking space at the edge of the lot, a few yards from the woods, and there's an older man, a barred owl, leaning against the driver's side door. His face is drawn, barely illuminated by the glow of his phone.
"Christ, there you are." He looks up from the phone, and the glow fades, leaving him an indistinct silhouette backlit by the dim streetlights lining the lot. "Hospital?"