And truth be told, Ollie probably should have been a lot more shaken up about how things had turned out. Maybe when he was able to walk in a straight line without tripping over his own two feet, he would be, but for now, he was completely satisfied just to laugh about the whole incident and semi-stumble his way back to Federal Hall. He checked his backpack for the thousandth time, the half-empty bottle of Cognac laying unobtrusively on the bottom, his camp light above it and on top, the smooth, silken scarf he'd snagged for Allie on the way home. Good. He'd just needed to be sure.
He hated leaving on bad terms with his sister. After all, he knew that no matter what else happened, she had his back and he would have hers even if he did disagree with her now and then, so he'd felt the need to raid one of the specialty stores on the route home… just to pick something nice up for her. She meant well. He knew she did. But Ollie had more than proven that he could take care of himself. He'd survived this long (and luck only had a small amount to do with it), and he'd continue surviving.
It wasn't until he'd passed by one of the remaining mirrors in the hall that he realized exactly how bruised and scratched he'd been by the crumbling fire escape. The scrape on his cheek and the bruise on his forearm were plainly visible. Allie… would not be pleased. Or maybe she would. She'd always loved being right. Chuckling a short chuckle, Ollie shook his head and sighed, pushing the door to the room open.
"Back, Als," he called to his sister, a huge grin on his face. "No worse for wear!"