“Compassion is not a luxury. It is a necessity for the survival of humanity.” -The Dalai Lama-

Alanna felt a great deal more free than she had at the start of the month.

She’d had what a lot of people probably would have killed for; a fresh start. But unlike most people, she hadn’t actually asked for it - or if she did she didn’t remember - and also her fresh start had occured in Florida.

As a woman of, she presumed, culture, Alanna had a general bias against Florida. Living in it hadn’t done much to fix that.

Her life since waking up had been a series of weeks in the hospital, followed by shitty part time jobs and struggling to make rent on the shared apartments that she found herself crashing in. She hadn’t really made any friends. At best she had made what could charitably be called ‘contacts’. She felt like an outsider.

And being able to walk off a gunshot kinda cemented that feeling.

The thing was, she didn’t really know what to *do*. She had a total of zero clues about who, what, or how she was. No one had come forward to claim her as friend or family. The doctors found her to be a curiosity, but not in any immediate danger, and in an era when the state’s hospitals were overflowing with the sick and dying, a curiosity without insurance wasn’t worth keeping around. So she’d just sort of been plodding through her life, waiting for something to happen.

She knew she should be doing something, but in a weird, detached way. Alanna remembered that she had opinions, but she didn’t remember why they’d formed. What had she been through to make her think that it was okay, for example, to get in a fight with the police? Why did she prioritize human life so highly? Why did she know how to use a gun if she hated them? She *knew* she hated guns. But her hands could do things with them that she didn’t want to think about too hard.

It was how in math class, a teacher would tell you to show your work. Alanna had the answer, but no work. How had she gotten there without understanding the process?

So she’d been languishing. Trapped. She took part time work and did odd jobs, some of them for people who were very obviously criminals. She paid for a place to sleep, accumulated some spare furniture, and spent a lot of time trying to google solutions to amnesia. She didn’t really talk to anyone that much. It was hard to connect with people when Alanna didn’t have a background that could be drawn on. And yet, she could instantly understand what other people were feeling. Just another skipped step, an answer with no process.

And then, another fight. Not the first one she’d been in, but possibly the stupidest. Two of the local boys in blue, laid out by a single girl. *And* she’d taken their guns. It had seemed fair. But it also meant it was probably time for her to leave.

Because the guns weren’t the only thing she’d gotten from them. She had a *lead* now. A single flash of a memory, maybe no more than a fantasy, maybe just her brain playing tricks on her. But it felt so real, and it wasn’t like Alanna had anything else to be doing anyway.

That thought had been what had pushed her out of her stagnate loop. She *didn’t have anything better to do*. What was she *doing* with her days? Saving up to afford a phone with internet access? Taking jobs that paid out half in cash, half in pot? Fucking around wandering the town like a lost puppy, waiting for someone to recognize her?

Alanna didn’t *belong* here. And now, while she didn’t know where exactly she *was* supposed to be, she knew it wasn’t here. Wasn’t Florida, wasn’t Safety Harbor, wasn’t this shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood with shitty people who kept trying to steal her weed when she wasn’t home.

She’d traded the guns, and everything else she owned, to a man names Channy who was missing as many scruples as he was teeth. In exchange, she’d gotten a ‘92 Honda CRV that had been in two accidents, was missing any sign of ever having had a back seat, smelled like old dirt on the inside, and usually took three tries to start.

It was perfect, it was her glorious chariot that would lead her north, and it had instantly required the rest of her savings to get the leak in the gas tank fixed. Not to mention bargaining and scraping up a few coins to hit up a thrift store to grab a backpack, and a pillow and couple blankets to pad out the back. But *after that* it was perfect, and without saying a single goodbye, she’d hit the road north.

She was free.

Freedom wasn’t the car, or the case of granola bars she’d liberated from the shipping dock of the grocery store she’d worked at for a couple weeks, or even her bulletproof skin. To be free was to realize that she owned herself. That her mistakes and her victories were her own. To have a goal, however foolish, to strive for. To know that she could leave when she wanted, do what she wanted, be beholden to no one but herself and her own honor.

Honor. What a strange word, that showed up so often in her thoughts. She didn’t know what had happened to her to make it the forefront of so many of her obfuscated opinions, but it must have been something powerful. Alanna had something more than just opinions, she had *convictions*. And even though she didn’t fully understand the why of them, she knew who she was through them.

She’d work with criminals, she’d rob a company blind, she’d literally fight the law. But she’d never hurt anyone who didn’t ask for it. She’d never be less than her best when she tried.

Now, driving away from where she’d felt so trapped, the gears in her head clicked into place. And she understood that, fully.

All or nothing. Something so familiar there. A spicy sweet touch on the edge of her thoughts.

Her foot hit the gas a little harder, and she winced as the car made a *noise*. But then the rumbling passed, and the acceleration kicked in, and she was flying, and free.

_____

“Hey!” El’s voice cut into the stale air of the ranch home. “Mom? I’m… hoooome!” The last word cut off abruptly, and with an indignant squawk from El, as her mother barreled into her from the side, wrapping thick arms around her errant daughter.

El was not tall. At about 5’2” and change, she’d never been one to tower over anyone she met. And yet, she still dwarfed her mom, standing head and shoulders over the smaller woman who’d raised her. And for all that, she *still* couldn’t stop herself being crushed and lifted almost off her feet by her excitable matriarch.

“Oh, sweetheart! You’re back!” Her mother squeezed her hard enough that Eleanor felt like her ribs were going to crack. “I was so worried! Are you hurt? Are you alright? Are you in any trouble?”

The questions came in a barrage of concerned words. El’s mom had had her when she was pretty young, but even still, it always caught El off guard when her mom had more youthful energy than she did. “I’m fine mom.” She sighed, kicking her shoes off while fending off any further assault and trying not to get the melting snow on her socks. “I just… aw, hell. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

El’s mom stepped back, framed up El with outstretched hands, and took a look at her daughter. She’d cut her hair short again, was currently sporting the remains of a black eye, and continued to wear clothing that was probably very fashionable with the kids these days. She nodded once. “Good!” She exclaimed. And then, without further preamble, started punching El in the arm. “You didn’t call! You didn’t leave a note! You dropped out of college?! What were you *thinking*!?”

“Ow! Mom, ow! Stop!” El recoiled from the assault, struggling to defend herself from someone she was absolutely unwilling to hit back at. “I’m sorry! Ow, fuck! Mom!”

“Months! You have been gone *months!” Her mom shouted at her. How such a small woman could produce a noise that would frighten away dragons, El wasn’t sure, and she wasn’t about to find out. “I thought you were dead! I thought…” Her mom’s voice broke down, and soon, she was hugging El instead of punching her. “I though…”

“I’m sorry, mom. Really.” El said, returning the hug, albeit with an aching shoulder. “I thought I was… ah, I dunno. I’m just sorry.”

“Well. You can explain it over dinner.” Her mom said, eventually relenting from the embrace. “I’m making fritters! And in the meantime, girl, you need a shower! Have you been living out of your car?”

“Uh… yes?” El winced. “Well, not my car. I mean, it *is* my car, but it’s a different car…”

“Go, go! Clean up! I didn’t rent out your room, even though I was *sorely tempted*, believe you me!” Her mother shooed her off. “You can tell me all about your little adventure afterward.”

Hoo boy.

How, exactly, was she supposed to explain *anything* to her mom?

El’s life had taken a frighteningly bizarre trajectory a little over a year ago. First, she’d found the road that wasn’t real. Then she’d started earning its magic, turning her life around bit by bit as she’d found the motivation to claw her way into college, started doing art again, and stopped hanging out with the people who’d mostly just been augmenting her misery. Her life had been… not *great*, exactly? But she’d had a job, and had two hobbies that actually mattered that her shitty job helped her prop up.

Then James and Alanna had strolled into her life, scared the shit out of her by impersonating government agents, and set her on a nation spanning road trip to try to keep her family and sole remaining friend safe.

The deep irony that she’d landed on their doorstep three thousand miles of road away was not lost on her. But that had happened.

And then, *then*, things got weird.

Her road wasn’t the only stupid scary weird place, full of monsters and treasures. They had their own, and they’d… just…. invited her in. Treated her like a long lost friend. *Apologized*. Eleanor had almost felt that same connection back at them, by the time she’d left.

But she had left. Because she’d met their enemies. And killed their enemies, alongside them. And no matter what kind of glorious adventures they’d shared before that, the smell of blood and gunpowder wasn’t so easy to wash out.

So she’d left. She’d taken the car she’d picked up on the trip - sadly nonmagical - and the gifts they’d given her as she’d tried to sneak out, and El had made a beeline for home.

And taken a few months to get here. Because, as it turned out, you didn’t need dungeons and magic to have adventures.

El stood in the shower, scalding hot water stripping away the sweat and dust and whatever the hell was in the slushy rain that was currently pouring down and pretending to be snow. It wasn’t like she *hadn’t showered* the whole time. But… it was nice to have her own bathroom back. Not a motel, or somewhere she was staying after helping someone out. Home. A place to relax, and finally take stock of herself.

Holy shit, she’d gotten into so much trouble winding her way back.

Not, like, life or death trouble. Not usually. Just… meeting people. El had found herself feeling a lot more social than she ever was before, a lot more longing for even small bits of personal contact. So, when she rolled into a new small town, she… talked to people.

Gas station attendants, overnight clerks at motels, random people at coffee shops or parks. Just, you know, people. It had come easily to her; the old anxiety of talking to other humans was kind of dwarfed by the sort of live or die fights she’d gotten into.

But it turned out, people had problems. And while some of those problems seemed pretty banal to El…

Well, she was *there*, right? No harm in helping out.

Sure, she could give someone a ride to the hospital. She could help you move while your abusive ex was at work. She could absolutely get your shitty boss in trouble. She could talk to anyone for you, if you needed a neutral voice, or listen, if you needed an indifferent ear. The retirement home was robbing its residents? Oh, that would not stand. You needed to make some kind of stupidly over the top romantic gesture to the guy you wanted to take to prom? Well that one would just be *fun*.

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By her reckoning, El had become the quirky side character in roughly fifty separate coming of age novels.

She’d gotten a lot of thankful nights on a couch, free meals, and two marriage proposals.

But she had never stuck around.

El got out of the shower, not bothering to hide how stiff her movements were here behind the doors of the bathroom. From the bag she’d brought with her, she brought out fresh bandages to change the ones over her wounds.

Okay, there had been a *few* more serious problems.

But she’d only been shot once! And the doctor had said the stitches would dissolve on their own as the wound healed, so that one was mostly okay as long as she kept it clean. It barely hurt anymore. It was the stab wound on her arm that really ached; that one had gotten a lot of dirt and gravel in it before she’d gotten help. But at least the gash between her breasts was nothing more than angry pink scar tissue now. That one almost looked cool, if you were into scars.

El… *wasn’t* into scars. Especially not *having* scars. But it did make her look kinda cool.

She blamed James.

Blaming James had become a hobby of hers, really. It was possible that it was going to replace ‘going into highway hell’ on her list of top tier hobbies. She wasn’t sure if she was ever going to feel the drive - pun vaguely intended - to head back to that place again. But blaming James for the changes she’d gone through? Oh, yeah, that had a certain *satisfaction* to it.

She didn’t *want* to be like him and his people. She didn’t want to put others first, give altruistically, and be irritatingly optimistic all the fuckin time. She wanted to relax, not pay for her meals, and get back into spray paint as a medium.

*And yet*.

Here she was. Injured in a dozen ways from trying to do the right thing. Because, it turned out, it wasn’t that fucking hard to do the right thing. But it was really hard to walk away, once you saw it. And once you knew how to ask, and where to look, there were a million little problems that needed to be solved.

Fucking *James*. And Momo, too. Momo was the one who was really at fault here. If she’d just not helped out the soaking wet, exhausted, mystery girl standing outside their secret clubhouse, then all of this moral questioning could have been avoided.

El sighed, finished drying off, and got dressed. The worst part? The absolutely insufferable truth of all of this?

She was fucking happy. And she knew it was their fault, too.

El groaned to herself as she rifled through her old room, trying to find any of her sweatpants that had survived the last two years. Well. The easy part was over. She’d made it home, she’d improved as a person, and she had a second car. If her original car hadn’t been stolen, she’d be shocked, but if not, then her mom could have this one, and not need to worry about bus schedules anymore.

Her room was easy to ransack, because despite being both an artist and an amateur mechanic, El loved keeping things clean. Organized, at least. Her pants were where they were supposed to be, just like her brushes, stack of spare canvases, and the semi-contained piles of a dozen different projects sitting on her desk. The whole place was still comfortably familiar. No matter how long she’d been on the road, or staying in the dorm for college, this place still felt like home to her. It made it easy to unwind, to let her guard down, and to see how she actually felt inside.

And she knew, of course, she *knew in her bones* that she’d be getting back on the outside highway. Hell, she’d probably even call up Momo and Spire-Cast-Behind and ask if they wanted to take a road trip with her. The less easy part, working through the trauma of taking part in an actual war, was still in progress. But… now that she was home? El didn’t feel like it was impossible to just call, and ask, anymore.

Now, of course, the hard part.

Explaining literally any of this to her mother. Who was currently cheerfully singing and burning something in the kitchen.

Hell, even deciding how much to explain was a question she had to answer to herself. The Order was pretty clear that secrecy wasn’t a mandate, but… how did you even start to tell someone that you could do magic? That you had friends that weren’t human?

It was going to be a weird dinner.

_____

It was a cold evening, the long nights of winter still bringing the sun down before anyone could really enjoy the sunset. Combined the almost abrupt descent into darkness, and the fact that it was a weekend, it meant there was almost no one out on the streets and sidewalks. Especially not in the area around here, where the closest thing to destinations were the Burgerville and the gas station down the block.

This made it the perfect weather for taking a walk.

Morgan and Color-Of-Dawn moved at a fairly leisurely pace. The human didn’t really go on walks that often, usually his method of transportation was ‘someone else’s car’ or ‘running’. Similarly, the camraconda didn’t go on walks very often, because being an unknown nonhuman wandering the streets of a modern suburb just wasn’t a great idea in general.

So they were sort of feeling out their shared pace and route. They weren’t really *going* anywhere, in particular. Just walking. Or slithering. Anywhere and nowhere. ‘Around’, as it were.

They’d both wanted to get out of the Lair for a while.

As kind as everyone had been to him, Morgan still felt like an outsider. He basically lived there now, having permanently occupied one of the basement bedrooms. But it felt separate from him; not even like a hotel, but like a guest room, full of someone else’s furniture and someone else’s small touches. He could leave whenever he wanted, he wasn’t a prisoner or anything, but he still had a lot of nervous energy about just hanging around the building, getting in people’s way.

Also, the camracondas. He still didn’t know how to reconcile the feeling in his chest that they *expected* something of him, with the polite way they kept their distance when he asked. Sometimes, he just needed actual distance.

On the other side of the sidewalk, Color-Of-Dawn had a lot of similar feelings, for different reasons.

The Lair was as close to home as home could be. It *did* belong there, in a strange way. But that didn’t stop them feeling like an outsider twice over.

The other camracondas were trying to build their own culture. They had continued learning their style of art, their expressions of relationship and religion. But none of those things spoke to Color-Of-Dawn; especially not the faith they cultivated. So Color-Of-Dawn didn’t fully belong with them, even though actual rejection never happened.

And then there were the humans. They came in a riot of plumages and personalities, flitting from project to project with the energy of one of the great sheet swarms. Every one of them treated Color-Of-Dawn with kindness, compassion, and empathy. And yet, at the end of the day, it didn’t feel as though any of them actually understood. Or perhaps it was Color-Of-Dawn that didn’t understand. Either way, there was a barrier there.

Participating in two cultures, and the third that formed where they met, but a true member of none of them.

Morgan and Color-Of-Dawn were friends. Largely because they didn’t have to say much to *get* where the other was coming from. Too much kindness made them nervous. Too much introspection did too.

So they were out roaming the dark streets, blowing off some energy, and being alone together for a while.

There was no rule that said that camracondas had to stay at the Lair. It was just that most were - perhaps correctly - nervous about going out. But with a human chaperone, it didn’t feel so threatening out here.

Which was how the two of them found themselves making their way through the rapidly cooling night, occasionally making small talk.

“I’m thinking of trying to get James to let me do a podcast or something.” Morgan idly commented. “Wanna help?”

“Where do you cast it to?”

“What?”

“The pods.” Color-Of-Dawn’s reply was in the same mechanical tone all its words were. And yet, somehow, Morgan instinctively knew he was being messed with.

Rolling his eyes, he replied past the dry joke. “I’m just bored. I figured we could just take the stuff that happens around here normally, and turn it into a story somehow? I dunno, I’m not very creative. But I want to do something, and this could be fun.”

The camraconda tilted in a questioning way. “Is this not already? Sarah creates it.”

“I’ve seen Sarah’s thing. It’s news.” Morgan said. “I mean more… fiction. Making stuff up, changing names. Just telling stories.”

Color-Of-Dawn hummed in a low electric tone. “Considering.” It said.

That was all for that little exchange. They meandered on, falling quiet again.

The thing was, they didn’t actually have a lot in common. They ‘got’ each other, but didn’t watch the same movies or read the same books. Didn’t come from the same worlds. Literally.

When they did talk, it was either light chats, or impossibly heavy discussions. Morgan had told Color-Of-Dawn about his mom. Color-Of-Dawn had talked about its own fears for the future. Then they’d both been drafted into a pickup basketball game, and the next thing they’d talked about had been Morgan furiously googling what eggs were to satisfy the camraconda’s curiosity.

It was an unusual foundation for a friendship. But it was strangely comfortable, and real.

“What this?” Color-Of-Dawn asked eventually, jerking its snout toward a piece of what looked like cardboard that was held in place off in the dirt by their walking path.

“Uh… looks like a sign for a real estate thing.” Morgan glanced at it, and answered with a shrug.

The camraconda nodded, before following up. “Real estate?”

“Oh! Right. They’re people who buy and sell property, to make a profit. Uh… because to use a property, you have to own it, or get permission from whoever does. And the value of property changes sometimes? So they… wait, maybe they also sell houses for other people? I’m not actually sure.” He sighed. Talking to a camraconda was a surefire way to end up questioning what you thought was normal.

“Not important then.” Color-Of-Dawn decided, and they moved on.

It was when they were moving single file down cracked concrete on an overgrown side street that Color-Of-Dawn spoke again, breaking their mutual quiet. “Speaking with James today.”

“You were? Or you will be?”

“Have been.” Color-Of-Dawn clarified. Tenses were difficult to get down for someone who had lived a long time in a sort of timeless existence. “Worries for you.”

“Me? Why?” Morgan kinda knew that was the case. But he hadn’t had time to talk to James for a while. The dude was just busy all the time; hell, he couldn’t even make time for a haircut.

Color-Of-Dawn ducked under the thorny remnants of a raspberry bush, displaying the bizarre camraconda agility that let them glide along the ground in a lot of weird positions. “Thinking you are ignoring your mom.” It said to Morgan. “You denying by staying away.”

“He thinks I’m in denial.” Morgan had meant the words to come out as a question. Halfway through, he’d decided on angry remark instead. But by the end of the sentence, he was just resigned. Because… well, why hadn’t he gone to see his mom? To see her body, anyway. He didn’t have a good reason. “I… I dunno.” He said instead of any of that. “I don’t feel like I’m ready. I dunno when I’ll ever be ready.” The words came out feeling small, like the weakest possible defense.

“Should speaking to someone.” Color-Of-Dawn suggested.

“What, like James?” Morgan snorted. “He won’t understand.”

“He has lost also.” The camraconda reminded him. “But no. Lua. Marcy. Spire-Cast-Behind. Trained to hear.”

“The therapists? They’re… busy, though.” Morgan feebly countered. “I can deal with this myself.”

“Oh? Do so.” His walking partner instantly challenged his words.

Morgan’s face flushed red as he sputtered for a response. Right. Camracondas didn’t have anything like ‘politeness’ either; that or shame, really. And as soon as Morgan remembered that, the embarrassment lost a lot of its sting.

If you want to be confronted with questions of what you think is normal…

At the end of the day, he knew the words weren’t hostile. Color-Of-Dawn was the closest thing to a friend Morgan had. The challenge wasn’t meant to damage his social standing - which didn’t exist - or make him feel like an idiot - which he did anyway. It was meant exactly as it was said.

Put your money where your mouth is. You say you can handle it. Why aren’t you handling it? Either do it, or get help.

Sometimes, it was infuriating. But sometimes? Having that little honest, well meaning push was exactly what a person needed.

“Okay.” Morgan said, stopping suddenly, fists clenched, nerves on a painful edge of disaster. “Okay. But… only if you come with me.”

Color-Of-Dawn had cleared a third of the block before noticing that Morgan wasn’t following. The camraconda twisted around to look back at the statement, eye widening in mild alarm. “What.”

“Yeah. Let’s go. Right now! It’s not like there won’t be someone there, right?” Morgan declared. “But… can you come with me?” That part came out quieter, with a worried desperation in his tone. “Please?”

“I… not…” It was strange; Morgan had never heard a camraconda lose their focus mid sentence before. And yet, here it was happening. “Am not deserving…” Color-Of-Dawn trailed off, turning and starting to slither farther down the broken sidewalk.

“Oh fuck off.” Morgan called after the retreating serpent form. “You… you don’t get to say that!” He yelled at the camraconda. “We’ve *talked* about her!” About his mom. Who was dead. “She would have loved you! You’re not ‘undeserving’ or whatever you think you are!”

Morgan wasn’t thinking about what he was saying. Just trying desperately to slap words onto his feelings and fire them off.

“You would not know!” Color-Of-Dawn retorted, turning finally and moving back toward Morgan, but still keeping distance. “You do not decide!”

“Yes I do! She was *my* mom!” Morgan snapped back. “Who else is supposed to decide?!”

Color-Of-Dawn *hissed* at him. “Our belief!” It declared. “Our choice!”

“You don’t believe in *her*!” Morgan reminded the snake. They were getting into a touchy ecclesiastical territory; but of every human in the Lair, Morgan was pretty sure he understood the camraconda’s religion better than anyone else. “You believe in *you*! And you don’t get to just decide what she would… would have wanted.” Morgan’s shoulders slumped, his energy for the argument draining away rapidly. With a resigned motion, he dropped down to the pavement and settled in to sit on the curb. “She was my mom for my whole life.” He quietly said, glancing over at Color-Of-Dawn, who was worriedly approaching in the street.

“Me too.” Color-Of-Dawn had turned its volume down, no longer ‘shouting’. “Us, she made, too. Remember.”

Morgan suddenly found himself *angry*. Really, actually, angry. The kind of irresponsible red burning when you knew you were on the edge of saying something you couldn’t take back. “Then why the fuck don’t you just do what the rest of you do, and leave me alone like James asked?!” He demanded.

Color-Of-Dawn recoiled slightly, aperture of its single eye narrowing into a point. “Am not like them.” Its voice crackled static as it responded.

“Why not?!” Morgan yelled at his friend.

“*Because I killed her*!” The words came out as loud as the camraconda could make them, distortion playing around the edges of its synthesized voice.

Morgan’s eyes went wide. A split second later, he lunged forward off the curb, rough concrete scraping against cold flesh as he reached for Color-Of-Dawn with outstretched arms.

He froze in midair, two feet away from the camraconda. Color-Of-Dawn stared at him, eye wide with fear. Morgan, unable to move, regarded the camraconda back. He wanted to feel hurt, wanted to feel his blood boil or his heart pound, but even that was on hold right now.

He didn’t know what he was feeling. And in these few seconds, he was given a golden opportunity to *think*.

Then, Morgan watched as Color-Of-Dawn shuddered slightly. The camraconda’s artificial muscles tensing up, as if to run or to strike or to move in some way. But before Morgan could actually worry about that, Color-Of-Dawn dipped its head. Eye closed, it broke contact, and let Morgan go, and just slumped forward to point its snout toward the ground.

When Morgan was thirteen, his supposedly best friend had ruined one of his favorite comic books. It had been an accident, obviously, but Morgan had taken it hard. He’d snapped, yelled, even tried to punch the other teen. They’d never sat down and hashed out how their dynamic was changing, but it changed all the same, into silent resentment in the halls at school, and no more afternoons hanging out.

Morgan’s mom had noticed, despite working ten hour days. She’d sat him down, and asked him if he thought he could do better than he had. Not questioning what knew what he did wrong, not an order to go apologize, just asking if he could do better. And by that point, of course, Morgan had run over what he *could* say a million times in his head. So of course he did. He’d known the whole time, he’d just been too angry or scared to approach his not-friend-anymore and say it.

By the time he’d worked up the courage to try, though, it was too late. His friend had changed schools, and they just never intersected again. He spent too long being mad, and then when he wasn’t mad anymore, being embarrassed for making a stupid mistake.

In the moment when he found himself locked in place, he remembered that stupid fight, and that stupider loss.

Then Morgan crashed into the asphalt with both knees, feeling the rocky surface cut through his jeans. His arms were still out in front of him, hands extended in grasping claws. Color-Of-Dawn was right there within his reach. Unmoving, devoid of any kind of resistance or reaction.

And almost without thinking about it, his arms reached out to wrap around the shuddering camraconda.

Morgan pulled his friend into a hug.

“I don’t care.” He said.

“But I did.” Color-Of-Dawn spoke at a volume that was almost inaudible. “I did. I am…”

“I don’t care.” Morgan whispered again, burying his face in the crook of the camraconda’s coils. He remembered, vividly, painfully, something his mom always used to say. Something that he never really believed or understood how she could be so stupid as to think it. He remembered her telling it to him when they had to move, twice. When his parents both got fired. When his best friend moved. When his next best friend died. Every time he found himself crying in his room, his mom would find him, and tell him those words, like they were some kind of magic spell. And, as stupid as he thought they were… Morgan knew now why she thought they were important. And he said them, now, to his friend. “It’ll be alright.” He whispered to the sobbing camraconda. “We’ll get through this.”

And in that moment of forgiveness, and support, he felt his own strength. And he knew what his mom had seen, every time she’d said it to him.

It would be alright, together.