Re: [No. 22 -> No. 8: Hunter R & Cris M]
Hunter wasn't much in a condition to enjoy the attention, which was too bad, really, because this might be as intimate as he was likely to get. Instead he was in that middle place he sometimes went when hell broke loose, when he was hurt or overwhelmed or just didn't want to be in his own body. It wasn't really a place, just sort of an in-between, where he was only dimly aware of what was going on. He'd done it recently, when the nightmares had been abruptly rampant, like living things parading through the neighborhood, so he slipped easily back there. It was something he'd learned a long time ago, and it worked better for him than anger or aggression, which some of the other kids did in the same situation. It felt... cold, kind of empty. There was no reassurance, no visualization of safety and warmth. Hunter just walled off and waited for the bad stuff to be done.
He avoided trying to process why the hell someone would want to scare the fuck out of him like this, or how the sinkhole and the fences got there, and he didn't have room to care about Cris or the other man's condition. He just went cold and waited it out.
The table came back into view, and the parking lot off to one side. Most of the crowd had gone on to their happy hunting. The lines of the town in the flat distance filled out, and the murmur of crickets began to repeat. The place went quiet, which to Hunter's instincts was generally a good thing. He squirmed ever so slightly, and had the disorienting impression that he was lying down, and couldn't rise. "Lemme up."