Sinclair’s been going back and forth between the Village’s queer hideouts like this one for most of the weekend. It hasn’t helped him heal up any, but he’s in a state of mind where he can mostly ignore things like that. There are more important issues at hand, like trying to keep the cops and thugs away and learning where everyone ended up, so he can answer questions like Lee’s.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yesterday. She’s alright, nothing’s gonna get her that easy.”
He hadn’t gotten to spend much time with Devon. She’d been unable to stop crying, and he’d been pulled away by other demands. He doesn’t like to think about it.
“You gonna head home?” he asks Lee, eyeing the guy on her other side. From the look of things, probably the boyfriend. Sinclair’s heard talk. The kid looks spooked, like the last straw could set him right off. That’s fine. Sinclair is the guy who pours buckets of water over hot heads for a living.