Clue stick

He's had a day to stew and he's still back and forth, even more so. Beating or no beating. Maybe just letting it go. Maybe he doesn't even have any legitimate reason to be this pissed off. Maybe he should just take a few breaths.

Maybe this isn't even what he's really pissed off about.

He's never liked psychology.

And he also feels faintly ridiculous, sitting on the bed with a light evening shower drumming on the roof, waiting. Waiting like he's some kind of jilted housewife with a burned dinner in the oven. Maybe the whole thing is just hopelessly ridiculous.

Maybe that's the problem.

Whatever. He sighs and tugs aside the strip of cloth that serves as a curtain for the little window cut into the wall. Too late to change much. He can hear someone coming.