Wayne had never liked Casey hanging around you. But when you’d found out he was beating her, you tried to stop him.

He tried to drown you outside.

You would’ve died, had Casey not begged for him to stop, before he dragged her back into the house. You dread to think what had happened inside as you lay on the grass outside, coughing up lungfuls of water.

You grabbed her and ran not long after that. Casey, of course, insisted that she had to bring Blaze. The dog is beginning to grow on you. Maybe he’s not such bad company after all.

Nobody ever said running away and evading capture was easy. Sleeping under overpasses, under trees as the storm rain beats down on you in heavy lashes, in subway tunnels, inside the abandoned school bus— this is not a life.

But it’s the only choice you’ve got. With Wayne threatening Casey’s life, you had to leave.

Sometimes, you almost grow to like it. The freedom, the chaos, the adrenaline.

Almost. But there’s something else you like more.

The way that you depend on eachother. The small moments, the little things— sharing a cigarette at night, pickpocketing dumb tourists, acting as lookout while the other shoplifts.

It’s just you, Casey, and the world, and that is enough. (And Blaze.)