David lost his father.

Blood still coats his hands, and he knows it is not his own. It is sticky and thick, and no matter how long or how hard he scrubs his hands with warm water and soap, the feeling won't disappear.

He stares blankly at the wall, bouncing his leg and desperately trying to shove the grief to the back of his mind. He can't cry. He's not a weak, irresponsible child— he's never been.

His head spins when you call his name; he barely acknowledges you as you appear beside him.