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It was pink and terrible in there, shag rug and mildew, but Hollis clung to the privacy like a lifeline.

Walt was crying too hard to talk, and Hollis melted, curling his legs up to his chest. He laid his cheek on his knee and put a hand into his hair, petting it the way Walt had that the first night.

“Shh, shhh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he crooned. “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

He could feel Walt flashing in and out of him. His face, his fingers, his legs, his elbows, his palms. Rattled and running through his body like a cat.

Hollis sat still, and let him. Scraping a hand over his scalp, very careful not to invoke that shivery feeling Walt was still learning to like.

“Sweetheart,” he said, the way Walt did when he was crying.

Are you all right? he asked. Are you going to be all right?

Walt wept desperately still, so Hollis let him cry. Let him cover their face in tears and sob loud enough that Annie and Yulia could probably hear them.

But he didn’t stay his hand until Walt finished.