Everywhere. That's what the answer was. A few minutes of furious, finger-scribbled signatures later, Thea rests back against her chair. "So we're done?"

Joel flips his tablet around and swipes through the contract, nodding at each signature. "Uh-huh, yeah, uhm-hmm." He looks back up with a smile. A genuine, honest smile. "Alright, miss Aalberg! Everything's in order! Before I go, would you like a way to contact us? Just in case you change your mind."

Using the nail on one hand, she scrabbles against a cuticle on the other. "A-am I a-allowed to say no?"

"Miss Aalberg, we've already got what we need from you. The offer is pure courtesy."

"Well, no, then?"

"Very well!" He tucks the tablet against his chest and whirls about. "Mister Hersh: it's time to go."

At the announcement, both Hersh and Waylon shamble near. Toward the sedan. Subtle warping of shadows betray the revolver in Waylon's coat pocket. Though, only to those that know to look.

Fear churns about Thea's chest. A hot, empty uncertainty, like wind in sweltering heat. Sweat stains her pits and drenches her back. What about him? She thinks, watching on.

Hersch pulls open the backdoor to the sedan and offers a curt bow, putting his widow's peak on full display. Joel climbs in and scoots to the far side, just as awkward as his first appearance.

Thea stares at the back of Waylon's head. His ponytail is unraveling — drooping and struggling against its elastic band.

Is he going to be okay?

He doesn't spare her a glance. He slides in and — as Hersh eases the door shut — he disappears. There's a finality to it, like a weight being lifting from her shoulders. Relief?. Regardless, that fear is still there. Churning. She picks a piece of cuticle away. So I can relax, now? They're done with me. It's over. It's...

Hersh straightens his scarecrow figure and preens at his suit jacket. Turning to Thea and Frank, he bows once more. His voice comes thick, syrupy, and droll. "My condolences for the lost time." He says. "Do try to enjoy your evening, despite our intrusion."

He, too, disappears into the sedan. Its engine hums to life a few moments later. Taillights blaze a steady red. Gravel begins to crackle underneath tires and the car rolls forward. In seconds, they kerchunk off the lot's raised curb, onto the road, and zip away.

There's a twinge amidst the fear — a prick at the center of her heart. She stares at where the sedan turned, disappearing past a defunct laundromat. "I could have said something."

Frank leans over and rests a firm hand on her knee. "To who? About what? What'd it change? You don't know the kind of life those people lead, Thea. Make one wrong—"

Everything feels distant. "I don't care." She says.

"You should. There are people that care about you—"

Without time for thought, she swipes his hand away and jolts to her feet. "*I don't care. I don't care, Frank."

The words are their own. Not hers. A reflex she doesn't understand.

Frank appears in front of her. Out of focus and warped, as if opposite a glass of water. He settles warm hands on each of her shoulders. "Are you okay?"

The entire encounter replays in her mind. Waylon, Joel, Hersh. All the fear; the panic; the uncertainty. In the moment to moment, they were mere shadows. Sheer momentum a light to keep them at bay.

No longer.

Emotions rip through her body. Her hands tremble, her legs wobble, and her heart drums against her ears. She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth and bites down. "I was scared, Frank. S-so s-scared." She says, voice warbling.

He pulls her in and wraps his arms around her. "I know."

Ear pressed to his chest, she tries to parse his heart beat from hers. It's not hard. His is slow; deliberate. Hers, the opposite. She sniffs. "He was going to shoot y-you."

"I know."

"M-my fault. Sorry."

He weaves a hand into her hair. "Yeah. A little, sounds like."

It's too much. Her heart pounds against her rib cage, desperate to break free; her lungs refuse to draw breath. She thrashes within Frank's embrace. Pushing, elbowing, twisting. Anything to get far away. Anything if it means she can hide. Frank's arms hold fast for but a second, though it feels longer. Thea staggers back.

Free.

She whirls; she runs; she stumbles. In a flurry of motion, the gravel rushes to meet her. She juts out her hands. Thud. Sharp rock digs into her knees, her palms.

"Shit." Frank says. With a shuffle of gravel, he drops to one knee and rests a hand against her back. "You okay?"

Thea clutches at her heart. "I— huu— I—"

Every attempt to speak fizzles and ends in an airy retch. Struggling, she manages a single breath and forces it into words. "Why did I just sit here? Why couldn't I do something?"

He leans his face near hers. His voices comes deep; deliberate. "Look at me. Focus on your breathing, Thea. Just your breathing."

She retches again. "I— I can't. I don't— don't— deserve."

"Yes you can. Should I count?"

No.

Immediate, to the point. Wrong. She knows it. By god, she knows. But, she doesn't believe it. Can't believe it. Not between the beating of her heart, the sweat pooling in her cassock, and her trembling hands.

She darts her eyes to him. He stares back. His features are not stark like she'd expect; no hint of fear nor anger. Something else. Something kind. It swims behind his eyes — behind brown irises, speckled by stars' reflection.

Between gasps, she jerks her head in a nod.

So he counts and they breathe. Her, sharp and shallow. Him, the opposite. Over time her breathing eases and her heart slows. Sweat stays, heavy within her cassock's fabric. As do the trembles in her hands.

He rubs his palm over her back. "Better?"

She curls against him and cries, her words an airy whisper. "No."

Pulling her close, he cradles her. He sways and hums. No tune in particular, but something calm. Pleasant.

Time passes; her cheeks grow raw; tears run dry. "I had all these thoughts." She says. "H-How I'd stop standing by and letting things happen around me. How I'd take control. Didn't m-make it an h-hour."

Frank doesn't say anything for a while. He just squeezes and sways — left, right. Left. Right. Then it stops.

He brushes fingers through her hair, like a comb with bratwurst for bristles. "You can't control everything, Thea."

His fingers catch; she winces.

"Sorry." He says, wrestling his fingers out from the frizz. "Sorry. But — I was saying — there are reasons people choose the path that Waylon walks tonight. Words won't fix those reasons. Whatever he does probably won't either, but it's his choice. Standing by might be the best thing you could have done for him."

"What if it wasn't?"

"You forget or live with it."

"And how do I forget?"

He sighs. "You don't; never do, things like this."