Lbr, he'd already been chainsmoking at Destiny's. He figured the greyish-blue tinge in the air didn't make much of a difference when the whole trailer already stank like sulphur and death. There hadn't been yellow police tape up but the ring of coarse salt felt like it was there to serve the same purpose; there was a creeping sensation that prickled up the back of Billy's neck and made the pit of his belly drop down to his ankles. Whatever she'd been up to was bad fucking news, he could have told anyone that from the first step into her trailer, but still. To know it and to taste the acrid burn of lingering magic at the back of his throat, to feel like he was about to puke his guts up through a column of sharded glass, they were two different things entirely.
So he was smoking, cigarette clenched between his teeth when he cut across the caravan circle to the green bus, wetting his Converse against dewy blades of grass so that they turned grey. He was smoking and he was pacing, sort of unable to cut out the heavy weight of anxiety in his limbs because, hey, this was what it was like to be on the opposite end of a missing sibling and it fucking sucked.