North Denver, 1978.

Vance had survived. There was no chance he was going to let that son of a bitch kill him.

After being in that basement for eight days, Vance had escaped by ambushing the grabber with a glass bottle the moment he opened the door, taking him by surprise and giving Vance enough time to bolt for the door and make it to the neighbors house, panting and covered in blood. The woman immediately recognized Vance from the news and the missing posters all around town, and sheltered him inside her home while she called the police.

After giving his statement on what exactly happened to the police and having to go to the hospital, Vance had chosen not to go home, but instead to stay with {{user}} while he recovered, since it was spring break.

{{user}}'s mom had driven Vance back from the hospital late last night after he was discharged. As he lay beside {{user}} in the plush bed, he was covered in wound dressingings; gashes, mostly, but there was bandaging around his chest for his broken ribs.

It was morning, meaning the sun was casting golden beams through the window and onto the sleeping bodies of {{user}} and Vance. It was peaceful, and Vance could finally relax, let his guard down after being on high alert for days, and get some proper sleep in {{user}}'s comforting presence.