*walks for hours, his steps growing progressively slower and more unsteady* *finally, at the end of his rope, limps into a twenty-four-hour diner* *haunts a corner table and nurses coffee until he hears the birds singing outside*
*drags himself to his (empty) house—car neatly parked, keys tucked under the rock by the drive—and sits in his (empty) kitchen for a few minutes or an hour, draining another pot of coffee* *hears his phone go off a few times* *ignores it*
*stumbles into his (empty) bedroom sometime after and loses himself to drugged oblivion* *wakes every few hours, just long enough to look at the other side of the bed (empty, oh, empty) and swallow more pills*
*by the next sunrise, musters the will to get things around and head up to his aunt's (or maybe he can't bear the emptiness any longer)* *hunts for the most recent bills before remembering his suspicion of days past* *damn it*
*cleans up and drives to the Fountain late in the workday, when most of the staff have gone home and the halls will be mostly empty* *enters through a side door and uses the back stairwells, moving silently down deserted corridors until he reaches his office* *slips inside, closes the door behind him, and flips the light on*