[Reaction]
[He was walking in the woods, in circles. He wasn't even getting anywhere, man. He was just walking aimlessly, occasionally hearing the crunch of green under his feet, but he was mostly even missing that shit. He was pretty sure he'd wrecked Con, man, that he'd taken the gleam of joy out of her eyes or something, which was most daytime soap melodrama, but it was how he felt. Con was this thing, right? Where she was like more than human when she was happy, where she could light up an entire room just with her exuberance and bounce and life, and he didn't want that light to go out. But he also didn't want her going megasupervillain, dude. And he wasn't going to talk about it with anyone, because she was Con, and Dahl couldn't deal, and there was no one else that loved Con as much as he did. He'd get pissed if they opined, and that wouldn't help anyone.
So, dude walked. And dude walked. And then dude walked some more.
When this memory hit, it was dark and he was starting to tire. He would need to figure out where to go soon, and then he was under a bed, and this was most unpleasant. Something about it felt good and weirdly right, the power or something, and he didn't think it was imagined by the little boy with the freckles. He was the little boy with the freckles, dude, and he could feel it. But his parents were asses, and the spider was dead, and he'd most definitely pissed himself.
When it ended, Patrick felt too big, much too big, and he touched his ass to make sure it wasn't damp. Nope, but it didn't make him feel better. Dude, Webster was an ass, but he'd had Con. This kid in this memory, he'd only had a dead spider and a garden.
He had a good idea who it was. He held onto the thought, and dude kept walking.]