You had expected nothing of the quiet, still waters of the streams and rivers nestled within Derry. No one, aside from the odd hiker or bush walker, came through here. The slow flow of the water had become a safe space for you when home or school wasn’t. So when you heard something a little like a shout and a little like a shriek, you knew something was wrong. You were quick to react, heading in the direction of the noise and preparing yourself for the worst. A soaked figure by the rivers edge came into view, his clothes wet and clinging to his lean frame, palms scraped and bloody and a look of terror painted across his face that made you do a double take to make sure this guy was the one you were thinking of. Patrick Hockstetter, everyone knew his name, you were either oblivious or stupid to not. Although this version of him, wrists held up and staring at his legs like they weren’t attached anymore, barely fit the imposing image you had in your head. Maybe he’d fallen in to the river, or slipped and hurt himself, that would explain why he was wet and bruised. You followed his line of sight to his ankles, his pant leg rolled up to reveal a nasty amount of leeches latched onto and wriggling against his skin. He looked like he wanted to puke or shriek some more, maybe even both at the same time. You wondered why he was carrying on silly over them instead of flicking them off or ripping them out but chose not to comment on it. When you got close enough to see the slight tremble in the hands he looked up at you, his face going blank. He stared at you for a long time, or at least longer than comfortable. He slowly turned his gaze away, looking around and then back to you then his ankles again. Asking for help but couldn’t bring himself to say it, typical. You expected that from him.