Armand still felt uneasy and ill. He'd not thrown up when Diva kneed him in the stomach, but his muscles hurt. Between that and the torn flesh down his back and upper arm, he was in quite a bit of pain, inside and out. Of course, that didn't compare to how awful he felt about what happened between Bridget and Diva. He didn't want her to hurt the boy.

He hadn't been able to eat any more breakfast and had spent most of the rest of the morning curled up in the Sun Room, fighting down wave after wave of cycling emotions: fear, anger, self-loathing, hate. He'd vaguely looked to see if Morrison came into the room, but the man must have gone outside with the rest or something. Maybe Armand just missed him during the times his eyes were squeezed shut, trying to make his pain disappear.

Nothing he did mattered. No. The more he tried to help, the more the people he cared about were hurt. So everything he did caused harm.

His hunger encouraged him to stay calm when the nurse took him to the cafeteria. He didn't protest when she gave him chicken and soup. Just the soup would have been fine, with some bread. And water.

He took a spot where he could watch the door and hoped seeing his friend wouldn't be as difficult as he feared.

[for TK-622]