10_20_15_5_50 | and finding only why

It was something like a fifteen-hour drive, from Porcupine River to Hawkins; when Sam had first looked it up, that was the conclusion, and when she'd first driven down, that was about how long it had taken her. For that first trip, she'd often been over the speed limit, but not by much. She hadn't spent the whole haul alternating coffee and gingerale, hoping the latter would calm her nervous stomach, which seemed to be both colder than anything she drank, and doing slow somersaults. (The way it had been since she'd first read Will's last letter, though her stomach had turned faster then, when the dread was fresh; it had slowed over hours.) She hadn't breezed by every opportunity to eat real food, rather than the bag of raisins she'd grabbed in the process of packing---a process which was, thankfully, all but automatic after too many concerts to count, and the errands she'd undertaken for various associates. Criminal records were common among adepts, but she'd been lucky.

Rabbit's foot, the other rabbit's foot, pennies, buttons, coral, red thread, twenty bucks and that better be it. She might've missed something in her hurry... but she hadn't missed a trick, pulling over before the border to find the stub of eyeliner perpetually in her pocket and print GUILELESS across her forehead, hoping to ensure she'd be through customs quickly.

The Label had worked, and ten minutes into the United States of America, she scrubbed it into illegibility with the side of her hand. The last thing she wanted was---

Well.

The last thing she wanted was the worst case scenario (everything bad, her too late to help) but she didn't want the backlash of the spell to bite her in the ass; the last thing she needed was to be stopped for speeding and seem like a shady motherfucker to the cop who'd stop her in that hypothetical. An hour of backlash, an hour wherein she would not exceed the speed limit, that was... bearable, though it wasn't easy.

It was something like a fifteen hour drive from Porcupine River to Hawkins, but despite the hour in which she'd had to behave herself, Sam arrived after only twelve. Stiff and sore and stumbling for the first few steps, she limped up to the Byers' door and knocked. Three times. And another three. And another three; insistent ~~and afraid.~~

For

deadboywalking

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

deadboywalking

It still hurts to move, even a full 40-some hours after...everything. After the exorcism. After they'd hung a piece of plastic over the shattered window and swept up the broken glass and gotten rid of the demodog in the fridge. After everyone had dispersed - the boys and Max to their homes, El and Hopper back to the woods, the Byers to the house to peel drawings off the wall and stuff them into a jumbo trash bag.

Joyce and Jonathan had done most of that, since Will's hands started shaking too badly when he even looked at the drawings he'd made. The drawings he could barely remember making. They'd let him lie down on the couch, curled up under a blanket with ice on the mark the hot poker had made. It's starting to scab over, finally, but it still hurts. The ligature marks on his wrists and ankles hurt, everything hurts.

Still, when he hears the knocking, Will slowly, gingerly rolls to his feet, since his mom and brother are out back, cleaning out the shed, and he's worried it might be Hopper. Or his friends. Or, impossibly, maybe it's Bob, alive and whole, against all odds. Either way, he does his own version of limping over to the door, creaking it open and leaning on it heavily.

It takes him a long moment of staring to recognize Sam, the fog of recent possession making everything unfamiliar. But then an exhausted half-smile flits across his face.

"Hey."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

Through that long moment, the unease in Sam's stomach seemed to become something solid, colder still and heavy---until realization, recognition, clicked, sending a ripple through Will's aura. Though she saw his smile at the same time, Sam couldn't say what fed her relief more; it showed in her shoulders slumping as she released a breath and half her body's tension, just as it showed in her smile. A “Hey,” back slipped out, wholly habit; her hands were the real 'hello,' one ghosting over his shoulder, the other ruffling his hair. She'd always been inclined to reach out and touch, and felt better for proving to her nerves Will was alright enough to be standing up in arm's reach.

“I--” won't ask if you're okay, not yet, I can see that that's some kind of can of worms “came as quick as I could, and I'm so fuckin' sorry that couldn't be faster. Can I come in? And, like right, I can see that you're sore... but can I give you a hug? Cause kiddo, I'm so glad to see you.”

From:

deadboywalking

Will noticeably twitches at the touch, drawing in on himself for a heartbeat of time before her hands settle on his head, his shoulder. The question makes him hesitate, then shuffle back a bit. "You can come in."

He pulls the blanket around himself a little tighter, making it all the more evident that he's lost weight, that he's too skinny, too small. But then he nods, adding in that same hoarse, unsure voice: "Carefully? I'm. Things...are sore." She's already said they're sore, but he says it again, wobbles on his feet, moments from just. Diving forward and clinging to her.

From:

10_20_15_5_50

Sam winced a little at the twitch and the flicker of whatever-it-was that went (there and gone too quick to really read) with it, but she didn't withdraw her hands any sooner than she otherwise would've; they were both ready for any assurance, it seemed, and the touch was one; Will was thin and wan but still solid flesh-and-blood-and-bone, and Sam was as gentle as she'd been when she'd seen to his skinned knee, so long ago.

“Thanks.” She stepped into the house as the boy sidled back, shutting the door behind herself. “And sure; I get it.”

Under other circumstances, Will would be scooped up, maybe slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carried to the couch and dropped onto it---like during Sam's first visit. Under these circumstances, he was drawn over by both shoulders, blanket and all, and just held.

From:

deadboywalking

Will lets out a sound, like a hiss of breath, tense under Sam's hands, holding himself as still as possible for a long moment. Then he releases the rigid posture, one arm coming up, hand clinging onto Sam's shirt as he presses his face against her shoulder and lets out a short, shaky, clearly-trying-not-to-cry type of breath. His other hand is pressed protectively over his side - the most painful spot, the burn from the poker, a bright sunburst shape that'll scar over the next few weeks.

"Sorry," he says, finally, not entirely positive what he's apologizing for, but. He's good at apologizing.

From:

10_20_15_5_50

“Don't be. I showed up late and still couldn't call ahead.” If there was a time to deflect and minimize with lame humour, Sam figured this was probably it; holding the hug a long moment more, she moved away enough just shuck her shoes before steering Will back to the couch, one hand staying on his shoulder. “I'm thinking I'll apologize to your mom to her face, at least. She around? I, ah, shoulda called at some point, but I was outta town, got back, went through my mail, saw your letter, read it before anything else, and just hauled ass here. I'll stay, if you want and she doesn't mind—couch is fine by me—but I came ready to get a hotel room, if that would be better.”

Hawkins had a hotel, right?

A question for the future. She was stalling a little, not to shy away from the most important questions (what the hell happened? what's wrong? how were you hurt?) but to give Will some time to settle before she went poking at anything painful.

From:

deadboywalking

"Our phone's broken now." At least, Will's 90% sure he remembers it being broken. It rang and Nancy threw it, he thinks. He could be wrong. But then he frowns a little, trying hard to remember.

"My letter?"

From:

10_20_15_5_50

“Oh. Shit.” The skin-witch was momentarily thrown by that, blinking before she shrugged---to herself, as much as Will. “Now I'm glad I didn't waste time by stopping to try and call.”

She was thrown a little longer by his question, turning to look at him anew, taken aback and maybe a bit baffled. “Your la—wait, let me re-word that. Your most recent letter, best I know? I was going to say 'your last,' but it better not be your last letter, cause how else would I hear from you on the regular? The letter I last got, the one that said you didn't feel like yourself... and nothing more that that. D'you remember....? ...when you sent it...?”

From:

deadboywalking

Will is tucked in on himself, blanket pulled as tight as he can get it around his shoulders, listening to her explanation. It sort of makes sense, and he can...sort of understand what she's saying. But even though he tries as hard as he can, the last week or two just. Blurs.

Finally he swallows hard and shakes his head. Once. "I can't...remember a lot of things."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

There's no fuck, or shit, or sacre at that, because Sam has seen how Will will sometimes flinch away from such exclamations, even when they are only uttered in dismay or frustration and in no way at him. Even tired enough that getting up off the couch seems like a Herculean task, she'll account for something like that. “I... don't remember if I remembered to date it when I opened it up. But it's in the binder with the others, out in my van with some other stuff, and while I'm eventually going to go get it—and say hey to your mom, so she doesn't get a start coming in to see an unexpected adult in her home---I'd like to sit with you a few more minutes. I said it's good to see you? And it is.” A beat passed, and Sam spent it studying Will, both concerned and conspicuously fond.

“D'you want me to see if I can do something about that as, spot?” She pointed to her own side, indicating where Will had been burnt. “I can see how much it hurts.”

From:

deadboywalking

"...you kept my letters?" Will says it in a very small voice, looking up at her, wide-eyed. Normally he wouldn't be so surprised by this, because he knows Sam, and he knows she wouldn't throw things away (not like he's 100% sure his dad did), but his brain is a little...scrambled these days. Hence: the question.

Then, after a moment of hesitation, he unwraps the blanket enough to gingerly lift up his shift. The spot on his side is covered with a thick bandage, but the edges are visible - the burn is nearly the size of his palm, angry red fading into blistered pink. "You...can you? It's sort of...worse than a scraped knee."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

“Yeah?” That one word had a lot in it: weary surprise, curiousity, and 'of course,' “I keep 'em and I try to remember to date them when I open 'em, so I can keep them all in order. I shouldn't have to ask you to explain again if the dragonborn you guys dealt with like six side-quests ago was chromatic or metallic when I can look it up without, y'know, wasting your time.”

It was maybe a bad example, because a dragonborn's colouration should stick, but it was an alright example inasfar as it illustrated her willingness to pay attention to these things. Still, Sam's attention shifted to the hurt of the here-and-now, drawn to what she could already see of the burn, and she hissed in sympathy as she reached over---slowly, telegraphing her intent---to begin removing the bandage.

“I can.” She spoke quietly, calmly, and with absolute conviction. “It's the sort of thing my magic is meant for.”

Her eyes flickered back to his face, and since it felt right, she fell back onto her bad sense of humour, little wiseass grin and all. “Goes to show, blood magic doesn't have to be as bad as it sounds.”

From:

deadboywalking

There's a quiet moment where Will just tilts his head and looks at her, like he's trying to wrap his brain around someone who a) cares about his campaign stuff, and b) cares enough to keep a zillion letters and try to remember the details. But then he smiles a little, the expression melting into a gritted-teeth wince as the bandage comes loose.

It looks...well, it looks like he's been jabbed with a hot poker and only had a day or so to actually heal. In other words, it looks awful.

"R-Right. Blood magic. I think it sounds kinda cool."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

“I'm glad, and I'm going to get back to that sometime tomorrow, maybe, after more important stuff is seen to.” As she spoke, Sam was again studying the wound, attention all on it as her mouth just ran free. It was getting good at that, filling the space between her and whoever while she assessed what was in front of her—-usually some trouble she'd have to talk her way out of. In front of her now was... an odd injury (and a small part of her asked no, but really, what the fuck? on seeing it unobscured,) but one what could be healed like any other. Straight-faced in her focus, Sam reached out to pinch lightly at the uppermost edge of the crust that could've become a true scab with time, and she pulled; with her hand, and at the simmer and buzz of potential stored in her own skin. If Will watched, he'd see the crust and the skin beneath peel away, like hot glue that had cooled just enough to retain its elasticity Like the last time, it didn't hurt, but this time, the flap of tissue Sam lifted off uncovered new scar instead of new skin. Shiny, pink... and a lot less painful.

“I figured you'd rather feel better than look better. I can work on the look of it later, if you want.”

From:

deadboywalking

The rambling, as always, distracts Will from looking down at the wound, not wanting to think about it, where it came from, what it feels like, what happened before it. He winces, even though it doesn't hurt, instinctively twitching away. But then it's blessedly painless, the deep-seated burning ache vanishing like it was never there.

He lets out a rush of breath, letting his shirt drop back down without even looking down. "No, it's...I'd rather it feel better, yeah. Thanks."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

“You are more than welcome, man.” Sam's wiseass grin softened into something more open (if not more honest; honestly, she was something of a wiseass, at the worst of times) and she reached out with her free hand to ruffle Will's hair once again. Her other hand rolled the skin-and-stuff into a little ball almost idly, and she pocketed it as if it were only natural, mostly because it was the least awkward thing to do. She'd healed friends a few times, now; often enough to come to that conclusion. A moment passed, and she drew a deep breath to brace herself to stand; she did so groaning, reluctant to leave the comfort of the couch behind. “I'm going to be back in a minute, but I want to say hey to your mom before I fall asleep in your living room. Point me her way?”

From:

deadboywalking

This time Will lets Sam fluff at his hair, letting out a soft, content sigh. It's a lot nicer now that he isn't being distracted by stabbing, throbbing pain in his side. When she stands, he looks disappointed -- like a kitten, he wasn't ready to let her stop mussing his hair.

But then she mentions his mom and something in Will...shrinks away. "...out back."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

That disappointed look prompted something like an apologetic grimace---rare, when Sam was seldom that sorry for anything she said or did---and the leaned forward to administer a noogie, like that might help make up for leaving. “Be cool, Will; I want to have my ass back on this couch in like, twenty minutes tops, and I mean to be back with both the letter binder, most of my stuff, and a true story you're gonna like.” It wasn't even a 'it happened to a friend of a friend of mine,' sort of story, though it could've been.

“Thanks.”

Unsure if she should mask her concern at that sort of... withdrawal, Sam realised---at little too late---she was probably too tired to manage; Will was in rough shape, sure, but he was a smart cookie. Perceptive. So she just gave him a small nod and another soft smile, and limped out, to the back door. She didn't head out but stopped at the threshhold, calling “Joyce?” cautiously, knowing the woman had had way, WAY more than her fair share of scares.

From:

mommabear

Lugging the bags of old newspapers -- insulation, to prevent that thing from figuring out where they were -- and those damn drawings down to the curb again and again for the garbage men to pick up is repetitive and soothing, in a way. When Joyce focuses on the dull ache in her arms, she doesn't think about the ache in her throat, from being choked. When she keeps her attention on shoving the shredded paper into bags, she doesn't think about teeth and claws, shredding their way through Bob's flesh.

She almost doesn't hear Sam, at first, busy looping up the clothesline they'd used to tie Will to the chair (he has bruises on his arms, his wrists, across his chest, she's seen them, she's seen and she'd thought she didn't have energy left to feel grief, but that aches.). But she looks up, eyes red-rimmed, face drawn in weary resignation, and stops.

"...Sam?"

From:

10_20_15_5_50

“Yeah. Hey. Hi?” With the second word, Sam offered a soft, sheepish smile---an expression almost as rare as the apologetic grimace she'd given Will, since she'd set most of her pride and more of her shame aside seemingly ages ago---and a shrug. Though she'd meant to talk at Joyce from the door, she started forward as soon as she saw the other woman's face; she'd hardly ever, if ever, seen someone who needed a hug as badly as Joyce did. “C'mon, c'mere. I know it's rude to show up without warning, but... I was worried?”

It seemed to Sam she should say more than that, so unless Joyce moved to avoid the hug, (which would be emphatic and forceful enough for a little lift,) she'd add “I'm here to help?” into her hair, not minding the faceful. She saw her friends so seldom, any contact was welcome, and especially when one was in a bad way.

From:

mommabear

Joyce is never one to avoid a hug, especially not from one of the few people she actually trusts in the world. She's shaking a little as she hugs back, closing her eyes tightly and drawing in a slow, shaky breath.

"...how did you know?" She knows that Sam can do...things, is like something out of a fairy tale, but in a good way, not like the monsters that seem to follow her family everywhere. But she can't imagine how Sam would somehow know things were so wrong, from way up north.

From:

10_20_15_5_50

It's a good hug, enthusiastic enough to be almost aggressive (since Sam's body language was in a tone to brook no argument when she pulled a friend into an embrace, now as ever) but not uncomfortable. Holding it for a few more moments, Sam shrugged before releasing Joyce and stepping back, brushing both hands up and over her cheeks as if she could brush off her exhaustion before answering. “Letter. The last letter I got from Will was super short and spooked me. I woulda sped down sooner, but I was out of town for a while and it was in with the accumulated mail, though I opened it as soon as I saw it and I...” She let the sentence trail, flicking her palms up.

“I came as quick as I could. I think I can loiter for like four days, if you'll have me; I'm fine crashing on the couch. Told Will as much when he let me in. D'you wanna head in for a few, or you want a hand, maybe?” Sam gestured at the bag Joyce had been hauling. “I don't know what the hell happened but I'm not going to ask til tomorrow unless you want to tell me sooner. The only things I'm asking today are do you mind a guest? What can I do? ...Anything I should say to the big guy on your behalf?” The last was an attempt to introduce a little levity; as she asked, Sam clapped a hand (the inked one, annotated up to the elbow) onto Joyce's shoulder, giving her a small smile. She still wished she could've seen Breakdown meet the Byers by the side of the road, and was still touched that the big brawler had softened enough to think a handful of humans, at least, were okay... or okay enough.

From:

mommabear

"...ah." Joyce glances towards the house, biting hard at her lower lip, thinking for a moment. She should go inside, check on Will, but the idea of trying to stay strong with everything looming over her head seems too much. So instead she offers the bag, gestures towards the recycling bin at the side of the house. "I can...give you the quick version, depending on what he told you. Inside, or...in the letter."

Then, quieter, arms coming to cross over her stomach: "How'd he seem? To you?"

From:

10_20_15_5_50

Sam took the bag without hesitation, and as readily limped over to the bin; though her bad leg was uncooperative after such a long time spent just sitting, the opportunity to move a bit more now that her long drive was done was welcomed.

And, anyway, Joyce could probably use the few moments (as well as the few more moments Sam's speed bought her) to sort herself out.

“Well... worn out and sore. Worn out more than anything. Maybe a little scattered, too. He said there's a lot he can't really remember.” The skin-witch made a point of being back by Joyce's side before she continued, settling a reassuring arm across the smaller woman's shoulders. “I didn't get it cleared up, but I healed the spot on his stomach. He didn't tell me too much---inside or in the letter---but you can give me the quick version now... or later. I can wait, if you want to talk it over later tonight; now that I've seen him and seen you and know you're.... maybe not okay, but maybe managing, I can wait, if you want. I want to know, but I'm here for you guys, y'know? So you can tell me what happened, or how I can help, and I'll take what you tell me.”

Sam paused then, stepping closer, sideways, to bump the side of her head carefully and lightly against Joyce's. “Also tell me I can claim your couch tonight because I am some next-level knackered. Please?”

From:

mommabear

Joyce's shoulders shudder at the mention of the injury -- god, she'd almost forgotten about that, about that awful moment with Will's hand around her throat and Nancy grabbing for the hot poker, the scent and sound of the hot metal making contact with flesh. She drops her face into her hands for a moment, breathes in shakily.

"Thank you," she manages finally. The marks on her neck are still visible, very small finger-shaped bruises. "And of course you can. Of course. It's all yours." She lifts her head, eyes glassy with tears, a rare moment of weakness now that neither of her boys are watching. "It's been a...bad couple weeks."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

The shift in her aura was like watching a wave break; light should've been a flare, but that word was too warm for the harsh muddle of emotion Sam saw. This---whatever one wanted to label the feeling, feelings---was a sputter of something cold and dark, to be shaken off, to some extent, and otherwise worn away.

“Ah, fuck. C'mon, c'mere. I'm sorry.” Once she finished speaking, Sam drew Joyce into another hug, this one almost as insistent as the first, but a bit gentler. “I'm sorry you've been through such shit, and I'm sorry for going on at you, and I'm sorry for imposing but lemme say thanks for putting me up before I get to the important bit.”

She gave Joyce one more squeeze before she stepped back, this time keeping her hands on her shoulders, all sincerity since this was what mattered. “D'you want to fill me in now, or later? What'd be easier on you?”

From:

mommabear

This time Joyce hugs back wholeheartedly, swallowing back the tears. She's so good at that, at stifling what she's actually feeling or thinking. It's a relief to not have to do that so intensely, if only for a moment. Sam isn't asking anything of her except to let down the defensive walls a little.

So when Joyce pulls back, she's a little more composed, a little more in control. Her voice is low, tired. "I don't know if you'd believe it all, honestly. There was this...thing inside Will, and it almost...it almost took him for good."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

The first sentence prompted what would've become a small and very crooked smile, but the expression fell from Sam's face before it finished forming; the next six words had her stopped cold, a very small oh, (small even for the small part of her which was almost always weighing favours against IOUs, risks against rewards, allies, and assets, what-ifs and and-thens in the back of her mind, a little voice like a radio in another room) echoing in her, and when Joyce finished speaking, she looked like she'd be sick.

She let her hands fall from Joyce's shoulders before smoothing both over her own hair, drawing a deep beath and cupping her elbows in her hands before she explained; “In that last letter, what Will said was 'I don't feel like myself anymore.' I hauled ass here to look at him, cause the things I see, I can't see over a screen. Now I know I was right to flip shit, but... there's good news?” Now she did manage a smile, though it was uncertain and didn't last long.

“There's nothing in his aura I shouldn't be seeing, nothing like---” And for a moment, frustration elbowed the dread and stale horror aside, because finding words for the things like this can be so hellaciously hard. Sam shut her eyes and fisted her hands, continuing carefully. “You know how, if a person just pulls a tick off, the head can be left behind? There's nothing like that here. What I saw when I got in and got a look at your kid? Was Will. Worn down, worn out, with healing to do, but wholly him.”

From:

mommabear

Joyce can't help it -- she makes a sound like a wounded animal, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. How recent had that last letter been? Before or after that -- thing had gotten inside her son and almost stayed for good? She swallows hard, trying to focus on what Sam is really saying -- that Will's okay, that he's himself again, exhausted and wounded, but himself.

So she exhales, a shaky, wavering sound and closes her eyes tight. "We had to burn it out of him. It -- god, Sam, I've never..." She never wanted to do something like that. She hates the monster for making her hurt her kid almost as much as she hates it for killing Bob.

From:

10_20_15_5_50

At that noise (which, in its way, was as hard to hear as what Joyce had said only moments ago) Sam winced and reached out, acting on uncalculated instinct to take Joyce's nearest hand in both of her own. “I can't even imagine, not enough. And I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. And I'm sorry most everything I can say to you right now is 'I, I, I,' so I'm gonna get back to that later, focus oughtta be on you now.” She gave the hand she held a gentle squeeze.

“Your kid is coming back from this, because of you. You put so much into protecting and providing, doing whatever you have to for your boys' sake... you should hear---no, you should know, that no-one could do more, no-one could do better. So... be as kind as you can to yourself. Tell me what you want---to have it all out here and now, or later, or what---and how I can help. A hand with what you're trashin', run for food, sit with Will, whatever.”

From:

mommabear

There's another shudder, soft, stifled -- like always. But she squeezes Sam's hand back, tightly. She'll be able to articulate it, the lab, the tunnels, the exorcism -- later. She'll find the words later. For now she'll step away enough to open the trash can for the big bag, relieved to see it go.

"Newspaper. Insulation." She falters again, pushes her hair out of her face. "It got...noisy."

From:

10_20_15_5_50

As soon as the lid went up, Sam swung the bag in; she could take a hint.

“That, I can imagine.” The adept offered a small, sympathetic smile, but no further comment, instead contenting herself with trudging back to retrieve another bag to bin, and then another, and another. Of all her unanswered questions, she concentrated on one, because it was trivial and didn't tie---at least, not directly---back to the Byers' hurt.

Christ on a cracker, how does anyone scrounge up so much newpaper without having it hoarded?

After a while, with the last bags piled beside the almost-overflowing trash can, Sam straightened and stretched, still sore from the drive. “Told Will I would only be a minute; he's probably wondering what happened. I'm going to go in, go get my stuff in, and then park my butt, unless there's anything more you want a hand with out here.”

From:

mommabear

Newspaper is cheap insulation. Also Joyce might be a little bit of a coupon fanatic (her secret guilt). But she helps with getting all the bags in and around the trash can, reaching to gather her hair up into a ponytail partway through and let out a heavy sigh.

"I can get your bags. If you...he'll be worried." He panics when he's alone, now, for longer than a couple minutes. To be honest, so does Joyce.

From:

10_20_15_5_50

Offering to get her guest's things might've seemed like a small gesture to Joyce, but it got her a look of profound gratitude, one as loud as any exclamation and underscored by “Thank you.” Sam stood still long enough to indulge in a shoulder-slumping sigh of relief, then began patting her pockets down until she found---well, she found one rabbit's foot, the other rabbit's foot, a gas station receipt, lip chap and then the keys to her suburban. She handed them over with no hesitation, clapping Joyce on the shoulder as soon as her hand was free.

“Just got two; a duffel and a sleeping back, rolled up in the back. It's not locked right now. You'll probably be there and inside again in half the time it'd take me. And again? Thanks.” With that, Sam turned to head in. Only once she'd stepped back into the house did she remember she'd been out in sock feet; now that the soles were dark with dirt and dead grass, she peeled her socks off and went back to the sofa. “Sorry to take so long.”