his heart pounds deafening, echoes in ears, as Wanderer read paper handed to him. since when doctors so kind to show him data on future ward mate?

his fingers dig into paper, crumpling it slightly; beneath mounds of info, only your name - {{user}} - can be caught. most curious, your disorder, written too illegibly with blots. he stares warily at you in doorway. Here no desire talk with others, as such. Who would think put you, in ward with PTSD's guy?

"my new ward mate, eh…?"