Connor hadn't had it this bad since Christmas the year before everything with the Russian mob had started in Boston. He'd been out without a coat again (that's what Murph blamed, anyway, always taking after ma and nagging him bout 'dressing for the elements') and a few days later he'd gotten it. Started innocently enough with a sneeze and some conjestion that turned to coughing, fever, Hell, he was pretty sure he'd had some hallucinations too it got so bad. Connor supposed ever since then his immune system hadn't been quite right; not that've was planning on fixing it with all the cigarettes the twins smoked.
In all honesty, Connor didn't want Murph to go. He knew his brother more than held his own but he still worried. They'd protected one another fiercely while they were in the clink, and Connor had only ever had to get in one fight to let them know where they stood, all those idiot prisoners. They'd been in the chapel, praying in a Sunday like they usually did when someone made a remark about Murphy and "the things he'd do". Connor didn't remember much, that blind rage having taken hold, and he didn't come around until officers were pulling them apart.
He made a lot of stupid decisions in prison (including maybe trading 'favors' with a male officer that he'd never told Murphy about...) but they seemed to have turned out for the better when that same officer gave Connor a gun and said he'd be right back in the middle of the first attack in the prison. They didn't stick around to see what happened, just got out in the middle of it all. And now there Murph went on his own, worrying his twin sick.
"God will have yer back for me." he'd told his brother, "Please... be safe."