Campbells.
Ford came back to life lodged deep inside an unfamiliar locker room. He knew exactly what it was before he even opened his eyes, the smell of male sweat, hard water and old concrete over rusty metal was absolutely distinct. Even though it was pitch black in there, Ford at first thought that, having died (been killed) in the body of someone truly disgusting, God had put him in Hell, and this was it. It could have been high school, where the bullies with wholesome American last names lurked, or it could have been any high school, and he was doomed to think sick things in a sick mind that wasn't his forever.
But nobody came.
When he realized he had his bag and his notebook, Ford first started to accept that maybe he wasn't dead. He was relieved, and for a while the relief took over almost everything. Russell's cramped handwriting was reassuring, and Ford, so terrified of his own thoughts now that he was afraid to move, threw all of his previous concern about Russell getting hurt in a door because of him out the fucking window. He asked him to come, reading the name of the school off a sign against one wall, and huddled up in one corner of the dry showers to wait.
The sound of his name brought him quickly out of hiding. He picked up his bag and moved cautiously out into the hallway, eyes adjusting to the coming dawn. He squinted at Russell from where he stood, hesitating.
He was not so skinny as before, at least not in shape. A lot of running and spare eating had pared Ford down to muscle and bone. The look of the shaggy coyote was much stronger now as he peered at his brother from under a dark fringe of hair. Afraid to look around and in a hurry to leave before any kids came, Ford accelerated until he could throw an arm around his brother and cling there a second. For the first time he noticed his clothes were clean, and he smelled like mall hand soap.