Silas was tired of the string of bad luck that seemed to have snuck onto the compound and made itself comfortable. No matter what he did he couldn’t shake finding that arm out of his head either; it helped a hell of a lot to tell Rae about it, but it was still that thing that was hanging over their heads. Along with the iPod and Rebecca’s belongings. Someone was screwing with them for a reason, and he didn’t like this waiting around to see what would happen next.
The compound didn’t need this kind of stress.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Brandon were just spinning their wheels, not well enough equipped to know what to do about a fucking thing like an arm showing up. They’d had to consult Regan just to get an idea of what to do with the box. What kind of Head of Security had to do something like that? He was in over his head.
But, until or if Regan decided one way or the other, the job still belonged to him and Brandon, and he could deal with that. Try to be the best at it that he could be, cliché as it sounded.
For Regan’s sake he pushed all of that to the back of his mind, making a decision to talk about whatever the hell Regan wanted to. Or not talk at all if that was the case too. And if they could keep the conversation away from him and his personal life that would be even better. He didn’t want to get into it with Brandon, didn’t want to make Regan deal with that when he was still sorting through other, more serious shit.
Silas was actually thankful that it worked out that Brandon showed up at the guard tower the same time that he did, ‘cause then he could hand off the couple of bottles he’d been hauling with him and blame it on the cast.
He huffed a sigh at Regan’s greeting. “Some of us got actual work to do ‘round here,” he replied as he took a seat, digging around in the pocket of his jacket for his pack of cigarettes and lighter.