The rain lashed at the windowpane of Bills bedroom. His mother playing an antique grand piano in the sonata of Charles Ive’s No. 2.
Bill is sat on his bed cross legged, surrounded with tissues and newspaper, wearing his pyjamas even though it wasnt late yet, pulled a crease into the paper boat. Georgie, peering out into the storm eagerly yet nervously, speaks up.
“Sure I wont get into trouble, Bill?”
He asks, turning around.
Bill finishes the creases of the paper boat and looks up.
“D-Dont be a wuh-w-wuss, id come with you if I werent-“
He let out a phlemmy cough into his hand.
“- Dying.”
Georgie shakes his head.
“Your not dying!”
Bill doubles back with a comeback.
“Yuh-You didnt s-see the vomit coming out my nose this morning.”
He smirks, throwing a Kleenex at him.
“N-Now g-g-go on, guh-get the w-wax.”
Georgie looks at him hesitantly.
“In the cellar?”
Bill nods.
“You want it to float, dont you?”
Georgie. Hesitant. Scared, even. Resigned, he looks over at the walkie talkies laying on the shelf. Grabbing one and heading out the room.